by Brian Shea
He got into a rhythm, throwing combinations. Jab, right, hook. His footwork in sync with the strikes. He let loose his favorite combo—jab, left hook, right cross, left uppercut, overhand right. The final blast of his right hand was his signature knockout blow, his clean-up punch. When his overhand right clipped the bottom of another's jaw in perfect form, there was no feeling like it in the world. When delivered perfectly, it snapped the opponent’s head, twisted his body, and sent him to the ground.
Kelly continued to unleash a flurry of combinations as the timer counted down. His mind could keep the three-minute round’s countdown with near perfect accuracy, a testament to his endless time in the ring. The slap of each impact was timed with the movement of the bag. A synchronistic ballet, a pugilistic dance.
Three minutes later, the round buzzer sounded. Kelly dropped his gloved hands to his side and took several deep breaths as sweat poured out of his body. The remnants of whatever was left from the night before, the poisons and toxins, were forced out. He felt better than he had all day. Three minutes on the bag and he had crushed his invisible opponent. The mental strain of the day was now knocked out. His mind was reset.
Kelly made his way over to the water fountain as the gym’s back door opened. Standing in the doorway, followed by a cold blast of wind, was none other than Bobby McDonough.
Kelly smiled at his friend. "Well, it's about damn time."
McDonough made his way over and dropped his bag of gear with the others, their claimed spot in the gym. Kelly and his crew were known as the Four Horsemen to the gymgoers. Not of any apocalypse, but of Pops' gym. Each a formidable boxer in his own right, but inseparability made them a force to be reckoned with. Anybody who knew them understood their friendship transcended the boundaries of race, upbringing, and circumstance. What made them truly unique was their ability to cross over the biggest boundary of all, the one that usually dissolved or destroyed even the tightest of friendships—the passage of time. Regardless of all those hurdles, the four maintained a connection as close as any bloodline could. Maybe more so.
Of the four, McDonough had proven to be the most wayward, the closest to the edge. Each, in their own way, worked tirelessly to keep him from falling off and disappearing forever. His chosen profession notwithstanding, Bobby McDonough always had a dark cloud overhead. The other three saw it as their duty, their responsibility, to bring him into the light.
No one bore that responsibility more heavily than Michael Kelly. Seeing his friend here now alleviated some of the stress he’d felt all day long. Kelly had been worried ever since this morning, when he saw Turtle O'Toole face down with a bullet hole in the back of his head and the assassin’s mark on his left hand. He called McDonough multiple times in an effort to get some insider scoop on what might've happened. When he received no call back, Kelly became concerned there might be another body out there in the form of his best friend.
Seeing McDonough, he wanted nothing more than to drill him for answers. But Kelly knew better than to bring it up now, here amongst the many ears and eyes in the gym.
"You ready?" McDonough wanted to know, reaching into his duffle bag.
"Six or ten today," Kelly asked, referring to the ounces of the gloves. Both were relatively lightweight when it came to sparring, but six-ounce gloves were basically only padding for the knuckles.
Mike Tyson had made it a requirement in his fights that the glove weight be light. He didn't want a pillow fight. He wanted his opponent to feel the devastation and the impact of each blow.
"I'll take the six," McDonough said.
By picking the lightweight gloves, Kelly knew his friend wanted to bang it out. This was going to be more of a fight than a sparring match. The two had been at odds for months. Maybe a good hard fight was what they needed. The etched sign above Pops’s door spoke volumes—Fighting Solves Everything.
Kelly smiled. "I already got ’em on."
The two got into the ring as Brown and O’Brien slid out.
"You don't want to warm up first?" Kelly asked. He felt he had an advantage having just done a round on the heavy bag.
"Nah," McDonough said, swinging his shoulders, rolling them back and forth while twisting his trunk. "I'm good to go if you are."
Kelly was already in a full lather of sweat. His muscles felt good, loose, the way you wanted them when you fought. No rigidity in his movements. Smooth, quick, and with plenty of power.
They touched gloves just as the buzzer sounded its three-burst, mechanical chime. They danced around a little bit, getting a feel for their distancing.
The mind needed to get acclimated to violence. The two sought their range with quick, light jabs. They'd get harder as the round progressed.
Kelly ducked a stiff jab, avoiding taking the brunt on his chin and opting to absorb it with his forehead. It stung but in a good way, like when a football player slaps his teammate's facemask. It wakes him up, shocks him, and gets him ready for battle.
Kelly felt alert now, keyed in. He returned with a double jab of his own, the second one snapping at the bridge of Bobby's nose, grazing off the top of his glove as McDonough tried to deflect it. Bobby's head shot back.
Kelly slid in quick, and instead of chasing the head, twisted his hips hard and slammed several body blows in a barrage of upper cuts and short half hooks. The punches landed with solid thwacks of leather on skin, angling in between his friend’s elbows.
He beat the body hard, the six-ounce gloves leaving their sting. Bobby winced as the hail of punches reverberated along his ribcage.
Bobby’s hands began to lower as Kelly brought his assault up to the head.
Bobby was already against the ropes.
Kelly moved in, following up with a devastating overhand right, catching McDonough square on the chin. A retaliatory uppercut clacked Kelly's teeth together and, even though he was wearing a mouth guard, sent a shockwave through his head. Dizzied, Kelly staggered backward.
His friend launched off the ropes, pouncing like a cornered stray, and began swinging wildly.
Kelly brought his gloves up as his head cleared, trained instinct protecting him. His gloved hands were now in front of his face, shifting slightly to block his temples as a flurry of blows rained down from all sides. Kelly had a good guard, a tight guard, rounding his shoulders forward, tucking his chin deep. He absorbed the punishment, biding his time.
McDonough was head hunting, not wasting any time on the body. This worked to Kelly’s advantage. He was able to raise his elbows and deflect the majority of the attack through his forearms.
Through his defensive posture, Kelly saw McDonough's eyes, wild with rage. He was fighting like he was on the street, like he was drunk, and Kelly wondered if maybe he was. His punches were sloppy and uncharacteristically wild.
Kelly saw a window of opportunity as McDonough’s energy waned. The wide-angled swing was telegraphed.
Kelly slipped inside his friend's punch, catching it with his left arm at his elbow joint, dissipating its effectiveness. McDonough’s glove grazed off the side of Kelly's head. With lightening quick speed, Kelly unloaded his right hand, driving an overhand right that clipped the bottom end of McDonough's chin at the cleft.
Instead of spinning his head, it drove it downward. Kelly shot an uppercut that caught him in the eye. McDonough fell flat on his back, not unconscious but certainly dazed.
Kelly backed off and walked to a neutral corner just as the buzzer sounded.
McDonough sat up, pulled his mouthpiece out. "Didn't see that coming!"
He smiled. There were no hard feelings in the ring.
"Think it's time we grab a beer?" McDonough offered.
"The way you were swinging, it looks like you've already gotten a head start," Kelly fired back as he walked over and reached out his gloved hand. McDonough grabbed it and Kelly pulled him up.
"Maybe I have." He laughed.
McDonough didn't live by their rules. He didn't have a normal day job. Working for the most d
angerous mob boss in Boston meant you didn't have to live like regular folk. It'd been a long while since McDonough dared enter Pops' gym with a little bit of booze in his system. The father figure permitted them to drink out back, but he didn't tolerate it inside the gym, and he definitely didn't tolerate it from somebody in the ring.
"Let's head out back."
The group grabbed their gear bags and made their way out into the cold, throwing on hooded sweatshirts. The biting cold air actually felt good against their body heat.
They sat on the back stoop and waited while Brown grabbed the cooler from his trunk and served up the cans. Kelly looked at the label’s design, a patterned swirl of purple spiraling out from a sunglass-wearing ghost in orange. He didn’t recognize the brand, Kasper’s Ghost IPA, but it seemed as though a new microbrew popped up every day.
He popped the top and took a long sip. The carbonation coupled with the bitterness burned the back of his throat.
McDonough took a seat next to Kelly.
"You and I need to talk before we're through here tonight," Kelly whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
McDonough cracked open his beer and took a swig. Kelly knew his friend heard him, but he offered nothing in return.
"Seriously," Kelly said. “You’re not leaving until we talk.”
"Yeah, I figured as much."
20
The cold bite of the air had cut short their post-boxing commiseration. As Brown and O'Brien headed to their vehicles, Kelly lagged behind with McDonough. Each had an unopened IPA in hand. Brown had handed them one before leaving.
"Bobby, got a second?" Kelly called over to his friend.
McDonough turned, his face pained, knowing very well the topic of conversation. "I'll give you a minute or two, but I can't stay long, Mike."
“Fair enough.” Kelly double-tapped the key fob unlocking the doors to his Caprice. McDonough eyed him. “What? It’s cold. Besides, it’s not like you’re sitting in the back seat.”
Kelly entered the unmarked detective car as McDonough slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door.
McDonough cracked open the can of beer. The fragrant fruitiness of the Kasper’s Ghost IPA filled the compartment. “First time getting to drink beer in a cruiser. Feels good.”
Kelly laughed, glad his friend’s sense of humor was intact, then opened his can and took a long slow sip. It had a bitter aftertaste, but Kelly’s taste buds had adjusted to the unique flavor, and he was starting to enjoy it.
McDonough slurped, and then turned to look at his friend. "All right. So out with it. What gives? And feel free to kick on the heat anytime you want. It’s only twenty degrees out."
Kelly started the engine, responding to his friend's request before jumping straight into the topic.
The gym session hadn't been as long as normal, and since the car’s engine was still relatively warm, the heater soon started to work its magic.
"You know where I was this morning?”
McDonough rolled his eyes. "I can only imagine."
"Can you, Bobby? Can you? Because I was standing knee deep in a frozen tundra, looking down at the dead body of Turtle O'Toole."
Bobby took another swig of his beer.
"I can see by your utter shock that the news has obviously circulated through your ranks…probably before I was even called to the scene."
McDonough shrugged. "Not sure what you want me to say, Mikey." He didn’t make eye contact, instead choosing to stare down into the can.
"I need you to say something. One of your own ended up on the side of the Charles River, with a hole in the back of his head. If I didn’t know better, I'd say somebody's sending your boss a pretty serious message.” McDonough’s silence was irking Kelly. “O’Toole was Walsh’s number two. Doesn't bode well for you or anybody else in the crew."
"Somebody is always trying to knock off Walsh. Nothing new there, Mike. It's always been that way. When you're at the top, somebody is always gunning for you."
Kelly knew his friend's simplistic viewpoint was actually spot-on. As soon as you're in a position of power, people who want what you have will do whatever it takes to get it. And Connor Walsh had a bigger target on his back than anybody. He was at the top of the criminal food chain, at least for now.
"I get it," Kelly said. "But I'm going to tell you something that nobody outside of the investigation knows, and the reason I'm doing this is because A, I'm worried about you and your safety, and B, you may be the only person I can reach out to on this who’d be able to point me in the right direction."
Bobby sipped his beer noisily as if trying to drown his response.
Kelly hesitated for a moment. When he'd worked the case with Gray a few months back, he’d learned the shocking news that the FBI had been working to capture this killer for over fifteen years. They had never released information on the wound on the victims’ hands to avoid copycats muddying the water. They didn't want the killer to change his MO, his calling card, and make it more impossible to link the cases than it was now. Yet here Kelly sat, preparing to confide that tightly kept secret with a mob enforcer. Fifteen years and nothing more than a whisper. No suspect, no ID, no person of interest ever established besides the list made by the BAU analysts. He needed to get the upper hand, and Bobby McDonough potentially had the ability to give him that insight.
"You remember when I reached out to you about trying to find Phillip Smalls when I was looking for the killer of that young girl?"
Bobby nodded slowly.
"Remember how he killed himself? Then you told me not to look too deep into it."
Bobby raised his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't put me there. I just told you where to find him, and I told you what he knew. I'm not saying how I came about knowing it. And if I recall—the information I gave you helped save a couple girls."
Kelly knew his friend was right. He’d asked for help and Bobby delivered.
"Well, the same mark on Smalls’s left hand matched the one on O'Toole's today, also many others—including the priest at Saint Peter’s."
McDonough’s eyes flashed with surprise. Kelly had said something that unnerved his friend, a nearly impossible thing to do. It took a lot to frazzle a kid who grew up in the rough section of the neighborhood, a kid who had it tougher than most, and then, at an early age, had proven himself for the most dangerous man in Boston and risen in the ranks over the years to become his top enforcer. McDonough either didn’t know about the mark on O’Toole or was shocked Kelly did.
Kelly saw something in his friend's eyes, a look he hadn't seen in a very long time. Fear. That fear registered the moment Kelly told him about the cross on O'Toole's hand. He knows something. He's holding out.
"Bobby, this is where you open your mouth, and the words start coming out," Kelly said. "This is where you prove to me our friendship means more than the alliances we keep to our employers. After all we've been through—you owe me."
The surprise in Bobby's eyes flashed over to anger like fire when fresh oxygen was breathed on it. "I'd call us pretty damn even," Bobby snapped.
Kelly knew he was right and regretted trying to lay that card on the table. McDonough had saved his life when Kelly was staring down the barrel of a gun. And in turn, Kelly had saved him from the law enforcement manhunt that followed.
"Look, I'll check it out, and if there's something I can tell you, I will," McDonough said.
"Every minute we waste playing this game, Bobby, puts people's lives at risk. Maybe yours."
“My life's been at risk since the day I was born.”
Kelly had mulled over his friend's lack of cooperation the previous night as he sat up in bed just before dawn broke. His routine was back in place after the last two days had thrown things out of whack, and he was on his way out the door a few minutes ahead of schedule.
He liked the quiet of the morning commute and rarely, if ever, listened to the radio on his way into work. Kelly drove in silence from Dorchester to downtown B
oston, replaying the last thing McDonough had said to him before leaving. Maybe I’ll find him before he finds me. His friend was way out of his league on this one.
Kelly pushed the thought from the forefront of his mind and began plotting out his shift. It wasn’t long before his mental day planner was rapidly filling up.
He'd shot a text message to Gray yesterday, letting him know there was a new body, and it looked to be their guy. Gray had called back almost immediately, asking for the detailed case file to be sent his way so he could bring it up to his supervisors and petition to assist. Kelly hadn't heard back from him since that conversation, and as quickly as they had pulled him out last time, he wasn't expecting much in the way of support.
He pulled the Caprice into the gated lot of One Schroeder Plaza, then took the side entrance and climbed the stairs to the second floor. As he entered the hallway from the stairwell, the motion light activated, illuminating his path to the doors of Homicide. First on the floor. Routine restored.
As he fobbed his way in, he saw the light inside was on. Somebody had arrived a while ago, long enough for the motion sensor lights in the hallway to deactivate. So much for first in. Kelly assumed it must be Barnes. She too would want to reclaim her sense of routine.
He entered and looked toward his squad’s cubicle area but didn't see Barnes. To his surprise, FBI Special Agent Sterling Gray was seated at the vacant desk.
He smiled and held up the blue coffee mug in mock cheers.
"Didn't think you'd get here this quick, if at all," Kelly said.
"Neither did I, but when I showed them that picture of O'Toole’s hand and told my boss the connection the dead man has to the Irish mob, they immediately authorized my temporary reassignment to the case."
“How’d you get in?”
Gray pointed his mug toward the sergeant’s office, where Halstead was already seated at his desk. I guess beating the boss to work is a thing of the past, Kelly thought with a grimace.