There was a voice inside my skull. "Boru!" it said. It was Joro's, or Jones's.
"The Man is complaining," I said to Chicago. "The Man named Jones, an uru pusher. Thinks we're not giving the customers their money's worth." I crouched and tapped him lightly on the chest.
"Bleed on the bleeding customers," he said, nudging me gently on the shoulder. "English expression."
"Boru!" the voice in my skull said again. "Barry! What has happened? Fight, man, for the honor of Urula!"
"He wants me to kill you," I told Chicago. "But maybe he can't make me." I had thought Jones was in complete control.
"Mine, too," Chicago said. "Pusher name of Robinson. He's popping his cork but I think I can stand him off." I got a light punch in the ribs and retaliated with a caress to the jaw.
"Sorry about the ear," I said.
"Forget it. Where do we go from here? We can't waltz forever."
The crowd was catching on. I'd heard boos like that in the Garden and Ebbets Field. They must have known by now that the big fight was a fake and that the boys in the ring were a couple of bums anxious to get to the showers.
The crowd might not have known exactly what was up but Chicago's manager and mine did. I could feel Jones probing around in my mind, trying to re-establish control and rekindle the blood lust. But apparently he had no power to direct my actions except when I cooperated. He could still read my mind and communicate with it. He could cajole, threaten and curse, but he couldn't make me kill Chicago.