by G. K. Parks
Phoning Sylvia Britt at the real estate agency, I spoke formally, not bothering to mention I was the same woman who had claimed an interest in that particular office space, and asked if she had any dealings with Christianson. The name didn’t ring any bells, and I had no reason to think she was lying. However, that didn’t keep me from sending a couple of probationary agents to show her the photo and ask a few innocent questions.
Once that was done, I updated Mark on my helpfulness and ducked into the elevator. I didn’t need to hang around and step on Lucca’s toes. He thought he knew what he was doing, so he should go ahead and do it. Personally, I would have gotten a search warrant for Christianson’s apartment in order to find the clothing worn by the assailant on the security feeds or ammunition that went with the rifle, but supposedly, I was out of practice and had no idea how to do this job. My gut said one of us didn’t know how to do the job, and we’d find out soon enough who the incompetent agent was. But there was no reason why I had to stick around and wait.
Double-checking the gym address where Fletcher was supposed to leave the fifty thousand dollar bribe, I parked a few blocks away, concealed my gun and credentials inside my purse, and stuffed my empty shoulder holster into the glove box. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I went down the street and wandered into the gym.
The interior contained battered equipment. The heavy bags were duct taped around the middle. The ring was stained with sweat, dirt, and blood, and the only people present were trainers and fighters. This wasn’t a swanky gym with a fancy juice bar and color coordinated workout gear. This was something out of Rocky, or it would have been if there were hanging hunks of meat that needed tenderizing.
“What can I do you for?” a short, older guy asked. He wore faded grey sweats and snapped his chewing gum. “I don’t let any of my fighters have their girls here.” He assessed me for a moment. “Unless you’re looking to train.” I hadn’t even said a word, but he circled me. “We have a few lady fighters. Kickboxing mostly. Some of them are into that MMA shit. Whatever floats your boat, darling. I don’t judge. Kicking ass and getting your ass kicked. That’s what it’s about.”
“So where do I sign up?” I asked.
“No,” he shook his head, “it doesn’t work like that. You meet the coaches. If they like you, then they sign you up. Not the other way around. If you think this is some get in shape thing, go check out the equal rights place down the street with the plastic front and sauna.” He jerked his head toward the door. “The only people who come here and stay here are serious about the sport and serious about competing.” The corner of his eyes crinkled in a silent laugh. “Real fighting will ruin that pretty face of yours, so think about it, cookie.”
“Did you escape from some 1920s gangster flick? Because I’m not anyone’s cookie, sweetie, or doll. I want to fight.” Okay, where the hell did that come from? I was supposed to be asking questions, not volunteering to have my jaw and nose broken. “I’m looking to make some cash. You have paid fights, right? I found this place mentioned online. It’s part of the circuit. Recruiters, agents, shit like that?”
“How old are you? Most of our fighters are kids, and you’re past your prime.”
“Thirty-ish.”
“A bit old-ish,” he mocked. “You might not have that many good years left.” But before he could reject me, another man stepped up behind him.
“Let’s see what she’s got before you turn her away, Tim.” This new guy held out his hand. He wore basketball shorts and a ripped tank top. His muscles bunched and moved. He was stocky with thick thighs from too much weightlifting. He was about twenty pounds away from bodybuilder status. “I’m Ron.” We shook, and he gave my hand a light squeeze, probably afraid that if he didn’t take it easy, he’d crush my bones.
“Alex.”
“Nice to meet you.” He noted my lack of gym bag. “Our female fighters mostly train together. We don’t have mixed matches, aside from the occasional sparring. The girls train in the evenings from six to nine. Why don’t you come back in a few hours so I can see what you’ve got?”
“Is there a beginner’s class?”
“No.” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “People who show up at this gym and want to become fighters already know how to fight. I just hone techniques and help them focus and dedicate themselves to this path. Where do you work?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“So you sit behind a desk all day and think you have what it takes to win a fight?”
“Hey, when you constantly deal with assholes, it’s important to find a healthy outlet to release the pent-up hostility.”
“We’ll see.” He tore a flyer off the wall and handed it to me. “Before this goes any further, these are the monthly fees. Personal sessions are charged by the hour. If it’s too rich for your blood, then don’t waste your time showing up tonight because you should probably just check out the rec center instead. They offer free classes.”
“I’ll see you tonight.” I folded the paper, stuck it in my pocket, and went out the door.
On the way home, I stopped at my office and ran through the gym’s financial history, hoping to find last names for Ron and Tim. Tim was the owner, and the man responsible for the assault on Jack Fletcher. Tim Coker, fifty-one years old, arrest record for domestic abuse. The charges were dropped. He had been a fighter twenty years ago but not a very good one. He never hit it big, so he bought a gym. It was true what they say, if you can’t do, teach. After a few more searches, I couldn’t find a surname for Ron and called it quits.
Tonight would be an information gathering mission, so I didn’t need to drive myself crazy in the meantime. Returning to Martin’s, I rummaged through the kitchen, found a yogurt, and went into the guest suite to search for appropriate attire. After changing, I went downstairs, stretched, jogged an easy mile to loosen up, grabbed a few protein bars, water, and a sports drink, and drove back to the gym. Rush-hour traffic was horrendous, and I arrived twenty minutes late.
“I thought you changed your mind,” Ron said when I entered. “I figured the price sheet scared you away.”
“The fact that you don’t have a beginner’s class was more frightening,” I retorted.
“Linka,” Ron called, and a woman who looked like she should have been on American Gladiators appeared behind him, “we have some fresh meat to test out.”
Linka, last name unknown, must have been 5’10 and at least 160 pounds. We definitely wouldn’t have been in the same weight class. Frankly, I wasn’t entirely sure she was even female.
She sized me up, and I gulped. Sure, I knew how to fight. However, street fights and self-defense tactics were different from ring fights. First off, my tactics were often considered illegal inside the ring. Second, the goal wasn’t to subdue in order to apprehend; it was to stay upright longer than the other person.
“Y’know, Mr. … what’s your name?” I hoped Ron would say something useful and I could be on my way.
“Ron.” He shot a look in my direction. “Scared?”
“This isn’t exactly how I thought things would go,” I said, keeping my eyes trained on the large beast of a woman. “Maybe this is a mistake. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
Linka smiled, suddenly appearing much friendlier than before. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. The intimidation thing is just something me and Ronnie like to do.” She giggled, a sound I never expected to come from someone built like a muscular bear. “Tim’s so old school with his training. He makes this place sound like a Russian prison camp.” She frowned, making her voice deep. “Listen, cookie, this place is for real fighters. We wash the floor with your blood and drink your sweat.” She and Ron laughed again.
“That’s a pretty accurate depiction of how my encounter with him went earlier today,” I said.
“Come on, let’s see how your technique is on the bag, and if you’re up to speed, we’ll try some light sparring,” Linka insisted, heading toward an empty corner of the gym.
My eyes scanned the area, noting the other women who were jumping rope, doing sit-ups or push-ups, and taking turns holding pads. It was nothing like the way Tim and Ron made it sound. Ron must have sensed my unease because he fell into step beside me.
“Tim thinks the sweet science is a male-only sport. He tries to act like this is an equal opportunity gym, but he hopes to run off the women through intimidation and price hikes. He doesn’t understand that women are just as capable and definitely more vicious in the ring. I run the show at night after he leaves, and we have easy, laidback sessions. If you want to get on a ticket to fight, I can make it happen, but if you just want to come hang out, spar a bit, and take out some aggression on the bags, that’s cool too. The only thing you have to do is keep the act up in front of Tim. It’s his gym, and if he realized that half the training fees are paid by women who want nothing more than to keep in shape or be able to defend themselves, he’d shit himself.”
“My lips are sealed. I’m not ready yet, but at some point, I’d like to enter the ring and give the actual fight scene a try.”
“Let’s see how much work you’ll have to do first.” He stepped to the side, so he could watch as Linka held out a pair of fingerless training gloves. They were the same gloves most kickboxers and MMA fighters wore instead of the bulky all-encompassing boxing gloves. I slipped them on and tightened the Velcro around my wrists while she took a position behind the bag and instructed what combinations I should perform. By the time I worked up a sweat, Ron called a stop to the workout. “I thought you said you needed a beginner’s class.”
“I do,” I replied.
“I want to see something.” He put a pair of focus pads on his hands and made sure the area was clear. “Hit the pads. Right cross, left jab.” He bounced on the balls of his feet, and we circled around as he called out instructions. If he kept this up for another minute, I’d feel like a trained monkey.
I swung with my right, and he pulled his hand back, attempting to clock me with his other hand. Automatically, I sidestepped, negating some of the blow. “Beginner’s luck,” I muttered.
“You’ve trained before.” It wasn’t a question.
“I have a long history of self-defense classes in my past.”
He swung again and again, attacking like a windmill and continuing to back us into the corner of the gym. His blows were landing with more of an impact. My face stung from where the pad hit my cheek, and I blocked as best I could. Once I was backed against the wall, I blocked a hit and followed through with an uppercut. He stepped back for a second before coming at me again. The cushioned pads hit against my forearms and wrists as I ducked behind my arms, keeping them up and in front of my face. When he shifted downward to pummel my torso, I kicked him, forcing him away.
He rubbed his stomach. “If you want to try your luck in the ring, I can make that happen.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not a punching bag,” I snapped.
“But you don’t panic, and you can take a hit.” He nodded to Linka to take over, and he discarded the pads and went to watch a few of the other fighters spar.
“Let’s get you weighed and figure out what class you’re in,” she insisted, leading us back toward the locker room. Since Tim was a sexist relic, there was only one locker room, and tonight’s training session was proving to be rather enlightening. With the right questions, I might be able to give Fletcher a name by this evening.
Twelve
“You’re classified as a flyweight by women’s boxing standards,” Linka said, scribbling something down on a clipboard. “There aren’t that many fighters in your category that work the circuits.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Ron could probably find you a match, but it’s not one of the more popular events. So you should have a few months to train and prepare. He might talk with the other coaches about having a flyweight match as the opener for a lightweight or middleweight fight.” She moved through the rows of lockers, and I noted the location for the blackmail drop.
“I’m not ready to fight,” I insisted. “Sure, I want to step into the ring and maybe make some extra money, but I’m not up for this yet.” I stopped our progression, hoping to broach the subject of locker ownership.
“If money’s tight, how can you afford to train here?” Dammit, why did she have to apply logic to my rationale?
“I figure it’s an investment.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “Y’know, sometimes Ron and a few of the other coaches train fighters on a contingency basis. Instead of paying monthly, they take a cut of whatever you make from the ticket.”
“How does any of this work? I’ve seen fights on TV, but are these bouts really part of that giant enterprise?”
“You know how baseball has the Triple-A teams and the minors?” I nodded, so she continued. “We’re the equivalent of that. Think of us as the unofficial minors. From here, it’s possible to move up to the minors and beyond. Each fight brings in some money, and the fighters and the coaches each get a cut.”
“Where do these fights take place? Can anyone buy a ticket to watch the event?”
“Absolutely. The more, the merrier. Mostly, gyms host the matches. We utilize online and word-of-mouth advertising. Ticket sales aren’t great, but money gets collected and divided up. Somehow, it works.”
“Whatever brings in the dough, not that I have any intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth.” I turned to stare at the row of lockers. “Hey, since I’ll be hanging around, can I rent a locker or something?”
“The lockers are Tim’s domain,” she rolled her eyes, “but I’ll check the roster and see if there are any spare ones. Ron can always say one of the daytime guys wanted it.”
“You work here?” I asked, somehow missing this fact.
“Not exactly. Ron’s my husband, and we manage the female fighters together.” She smiled conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Tim.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She led us back into the gym and forced me to run through some circuit training with the other fighters. By the end of it, I despised the concept of the medicine ball in relation to inverted sit-ups. Ron gave me some pointers on weightlifting techniques and exercises, deciding that I had plenty of stamina but not enough bulk or muscle mass for a fighter. Then Linka appeared with copies of diet recommendations. While I scanned the sheet, pretending to take these suggestions to heart, she checked the locker rental forms. I leaned over her shoulder but couldn’t make heads or tails out of Tim’s writing. Somehow, she understood the chicken scratch and found an unassigned locker that I could use. Penciling in my first name, she hoped Tim wouldn’t think too hard about it, but if he did, Ron would say there was a new guy who was looking to train. Sometimes, it was helpful having a unisex name. Then they wished me a good night, insisting that they would see me tomorrow.
With a day job, I didn’t have the time or energy to devote to an in-depth investigation, but since the money was supposed to be left in the locker in less than a week, I was already on a time crunch. As I drove home, I considered Fletcher’s strange attitude toward his threat. He was being blackmailed for money, but the real leverage the blackmailer had against him was the risk of career suicide. That seemed rather unrealistic since the crime of illegal betting wasn’t that severe and never endangered any of his clients. Surely, the bar wouldn’t take action, even though Hector Santos died after one of these fights. Therefore, Fletcher wasn’t afraid of the bar; he was afraid of what his boss would do if their illicit activities turned into a police matter.
Arriving home, I went up the stairs to the master suite and took a long soak in the bathtub. Martin’s bathroom was ridiculous. The shower had at least a dozen different jets that went along with the enormous showerhead, and the bathtub, which was large enough to seat four, had a million different settings and more buttons than I knew what to do with. No wonder I favored the guestroom. It was nicer than my apartment and didn’t mock
my technological incompetence at every turn. When my fingers were appropriately shriveled, I wrapped myself in a warm towel and studied the red blotches on my face left by the focus pads. The marks were similar to carpet burns, but they’d be gone by the morning.
I found some comfortable clothes, ate dinner, and began a more thorough investigation into the gym, Tim Coker, and the fight circuit. Now that I had the venues listed, it shouldn’t take long to put two and two together. Sometime during the course of my research, Martin came home. He was on the phone and disappeared up the stairs to continue working. Thankfully, we both had trouble distancing ourselves from our addiction.
After diagramming the fight circuit, printing a list of the upcoming matches, complete with times and locations, and running a background on Tim Coker, Ron Greenwood, and Linka, I felt confident none of them were responsible for the blackmail scheme, even if Tim had no problem assaulting Fletcher or telling someone else to do it. More than likely, whoever was pushing Fletcher’s buttons was someone he was familiar with. Maybe this was just a hazing.
I called Fletcher and left a voicemail saying that I needed more information. I didn’t want to mention precisely what that was or indicate what we were working on in the event that any of this ever did get turned over to the authorities. Hopefully, he’d remember to call in the morning because I didn’t have the time to drop by the ABC law offices again.
Besides exploring his clients and associates, my investigation had hit the wall. There was nothing else I could do tonight. Straining to hear if Martin was still on the phone, I went into the living room and found him watching the business report on one of the twenty-four hour news stations. He glanced in my direction and hit mute.
“I thought you weren’t working today.” He focused on my cheek. “Did you decide you needed your own set of bruises in order to convince me to leave scratch marks on your back?”
I pressed my fingers against my cheekbone, but it didn’t hurt. “It’s nothing. I was sparring and got hit with a pad.” I sat next to him and stared at the scrolling DOW numbers at the bottom of the screen. “How was your day?”