I’m shakin’ over here, Jessica thought.

When she wanted to, Jessica could affect the posture and demeanor of a shrinking violet, a helpless woman who might have trouble opening a carton of orange juice without a big strong man to come to her rescue. This, Jessica hoped, was just honey for the grizzlies.

What it really meant was:

Bring it on, baby.

The first round began with what’s known in boxing parlance as the “feeling out” process. Both women jabbing lightly, stalking each other. A clinch or two. A little bit of mugging and intimidation. Jessica was a few inches taller than Sparkle, but Sparkle made up for it in girth. She looked like a Maytag in knee socks.

About midround the action started to pick up, with the crowd starting to get into it. Every time Jessica landed even a jab, the crowd, led by a contingent of cops from Jessica’s old district, went appropriately nuts.

When the bell rang at the end of the first round, Jessica stepped away clean and Sparkle threw a body shot, clearly, and deliberately, late. Jessica pushed her and the ref had to get between them. The ref for this fight was a short black guy in his late fifties. Jessica guessed that the Pennsylvania Athletic Commission thought they didn’t need a big guy for the bout because it was just a lightweight bout, and female lightweights at that.

Wrong.

Sparkle threw a shot over the ref’s head, glancing off Jessica’s shoulder; Jessica retaliated with a hard jab that caught Sparkle on the side of the jaw. Sparkle’s corner rushed in, along with Uncle Vittorio and although the crowd was cheering them on—some of the best fights in Blue Horizon history took place between rounds—they managed to separate the women.

Jessica plopped down on the stool as Uncle Vittorio stepped in front of her.

“Muckin bidge,” Jessica muttered through the mouthpiece.

“Just relax,” Vittorio said. He pulled the mouthpiece out, wiped her face. Angela grabbed one of the water bottles in the ice bucket, popped the plastic top, and held it near Jessica’s mouth.

“Yer droppin’ yer right hand every time you throw a hook,” Vittorio said. “How many times we go over this? Keep yer right hand up.” Vittorio slapped Jessica’s right glove.

Jessica nodded, rinsed her mouth, spat in the bucket.

“Seconds out,” yelled the referee from center ring.

Fastest damn sixty seconds ever, Jessica thought.

Jessica stood as Uncle Vittorio eased out of the ring—when you’re seventy-nine, you ease out of everything—and grabbed the stool out of the corner. The bell rang, and the two fighters approached each other.

For the first minute of round two, it was much the same as it was in the first round. At the midway point, however, everything changed. Sparkle worked Jessica against the ropes. Jessica took the opportunity to launch a hook and, sure enough, she dropped her right hand. Sparkle countered with a left hook of her own, one that started somewhere in the Bronx, made its way down Broadway, across the bridge, and onto I-95.

The shot caught Jessica flush on the chin, stunning her, driving her deep into the ropes. The crowd fell silent. Jessica always knew that someday she might meet her match, but, before Sparkle Munoz moved in for the kill, Jessica saw the unthinkable.

Sparkle Munoz grabbed her crotch and yelled:

“Who’s godda balls now?”

As Sparkle stepped in, preparing to throw what Jessica was certain would be the knockout blow, a montage of blurry images unspooled in her mind.

Like the time, on a drunk and disorderly call on Fitzwater Street, on her second week on the job, the wino puked into her holster.

Or the time Lisa Cefferati called her “Gio-vanni Big Fanny” on the playground of St. Paul’s.

Or the day she came home early and saw Michelle Brown’s dog-pissyellow, cheap-ass, size ten Payless-looking shoes at the foot of the stairs, right next to her husband’s boots.

At this moment the rage came from another place, a place where a young girl named Tessa Wells lived and laughed and loved. A place now silenced by the dark waters of a father’s grief. That was the picture she needed.

Jessica cranked up every one of her 130 pounds, rolled her toes into the canvas, and unleashed a right cross that caught Sparkle on the tip of her chin, turning her head for a second like a well-oiled doorknob. The sound was massive, echoing throughout the Blue Horizon, mingling with the sounds of all the other great shots ever thrown in the building. Jessica saw Sparkle’s eyes flash Tilt! and roll back into her head for a second before she collapsed to the canvas.

“Geddup!” Jessica shouted. “Geddafuggup!”

The referee ordered Jessica to a neutral corner before returning to the supine form of Sparkle Munoz and resuming his count. But the count was moot. Sparkle rolled onto her side like a beached manatee. This fight was over.

The crowd at the Blue Horizon shot to its collective feet with a roar that shook the rafters.

Jessica raised both hands in the air and did her victory dance as Angela ran into the ring and threw her arms around her.

Jessica looked around the room. She spotted Vincent in the front row of the balcony. He had attended every one of her fights when they were together, but Jessica hadn’t been sure if he’d be at this one.

A few seconds later Jessica’s father stepped into the ring, Sophie in his arms. Sophie never watched Jessica fight in the ring, of course, but she seemed to like the spotlight after a victory every bit as much as her mother. This night, Sophie wore her matching raspberry fleece separates and little Nike sweatband, looking like a toddlerweight contender herself. Jessica smiled, gave her father and daughter a wink. She was okay. Better than okay. The adrenaline hit her in a rush and she felt as if she could take on the world.

She held her cousin tighter as the crowd continued to bellow, chanting, “Balls, Balls, Balls, Balls . . .”

Over the roar, Jessica shouted into Angela’s ear. “Angie?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t ever let me fight this fuckin’ gorilla again.”

Forty minutes later, on the sidewalk in front of the Blue, Jessica signed a few autographs for a pair of twelve-year-old girls who looked at her with a mixture of admiration and idol worship. She gave them the standard stay-in-school, stay off drugs sermons and they promised they would.

Jessica was just about to head to her car when she sensed a presence nearby.

“Remind me never to get you mad at me.” The deep voice came from behind her.

Jessica’s hair was wet with sweat and heading in six directions. She smelled like Seabiscuit after a mile-and-a-quarter run and she could feel the right side of her face swelling to the approximate size, shape, and color of a ripe eggplant.