by Nancy Radke
"No. No. Far from it."
"Good." She lapsed into silence again.
Kyle by now was even more intrigued, because people had been pressing him to run for congress from his state. Texas. If elected, he would be a "fed."
He felt the plane lurch and looked out the window. He must be losing his touch. They were landing and he still hadn't reached any of his goals.
"You didn't say what you were down here for," he said.
"No, I didn't," she replied, and left it at that.
"Well?" he prompted her.
"What are you down here for?" She reversed the question onto him.
"I'm uh—"
"Business or pleasure?"
"I'm on a business trip," he said. After almost arguing with her about politics, he certainly wasn't going to tell her that he was Killer Kyle. Oh no. She'd probably erupt just as much or more over that as she had over the feds.
“What kind?”
“It’s just temporary work. Why don’t I give you my phone number? You can call me if you need any help while you’re here.”
“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”
The airplane alert chimed. It was time to remove seat belts. She took hers off and waited for him to stand up.
He tried once more. “I’d like to see you while you’re here. Maybe we could have coffee together.”
“I won’t have time. Thanks, anyway.”
Strike three. He couldn’t even make it to first base. He stood up, let her out, then grabbed his bag and followed her off the plane. He doubted that he’d see her again.
You’re losing your touch, champ.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stormy slammed her pen down on the table, incensed by the utter stupidity of the men she had talked to so far. Stonewalled. That's what they had done. They had stonewalled her....assuring her they would look into the problem. And yet she knew that none of them had done any more than wait until she was out of the room before completely ignoring her request.
She had been in Vegas four days so far and had been totally put off by a bunch of men who were convinced they had a hysterical woman on their hands. It hadn't helped that her mother had been adamant against boxing, and that she herself had never expressed any particular fondness for the sport...if you could call it a sport, when two people tried to bash each other to pieces. Her reputation preceded her, and didn’t help a bit.
Stormy had gone to see Jerry and her father the day after she arrived, knowing that Jerry always got up early to do his road work. She had caught them at their hotel on the outskirts of Las Vegas—on the road to Boulder City—and told her brother about the second phone call from his doctor, but he proved impossible to talk to, even when she stressed the danger he was in. He shook his head, laughing, saying that she didn't know the whole story; that he was fine.
Her insistence prompted her father to call her hysterical and tell her to go back to Idaho. Instead she had taken a room at the cheapest hotel she could find on Boulder Highway and called John Easton, the main promoter. Upon hearing her story, he said it was up to Jerry and his doctor; the tickets were sold and there was no way he himself was going to stop the fight.
That shook Stormy, but she made one more attempt, calling the sports editor at the newspaper and talking to him until she had the names and phone numbers of several members of the boxing commission. After running two of them down, they assured her that they would have Jerry re-checked before the fight.
They sounded sincere, but by now she had grown distrustful of the condescending replies. Their voices in effect patted her on the head and told her to stop making a scene over something she knew nothing about.
Fighting hard against the overwhelming negativity of their discouraging attitudes, she stared down at the list she had made of those with control over the fight, the names ticked off one by one. She had contacted everyone she could think. Everyone except The Killer.
The world's champion. Would he even give her the time of day? Probably not. Still, if she couldn't stop the fight by talking to men on Jerry's side, she would try the enemy...then start going through her list again.
She was not a quitter. She’d go see him even if he had her thrown out. But the hopelessness of her quest weighed down on her. It wasn’t helped by the fact that her money had disappeared so rapidly that she had stopped eating any other meal than breakfast, just so she could pay her hotel bill for a few more days.
Just maybe the champ would listen to her. He certainly wouldn't want to have his opponent die, would he? Even if his nickname was "Killer?"
Stormy didn't have his phone number, but there had been a news article yesterday that named the gym where he was training temporarily. Pete's Place? Harry's Place? Something like that. Pulling out the Las Vegas phone directory, she looked up the name and addresses of the local gyms.
Marty's Place. The other side of town. Just her luck.
Her finances were dwindling rapidly. The plane fare down, the hotel room, cab fares, food...all were quickly sucking the last cash out of her bank account. She had worked her way through college, but getting her masters had been expensive, forcing her to take out a student loan...which she hated, having gotten into debt once in high school and tearing up all her credit cards to get herself out.
It wasn’t a big loan, but Stormy was determined to pay it off right away, since the borrower was always under obligation to the person—or entity—handing out the money. She wouldn’t be her own person until she was debt free.
She knew some students figured it was their “right,” but Stormy knew better. There were Idaho farmers who could barely survive, much less pay their taxes. She didn’t like getting an education on their backs. Government money always came from taxes, and taxes came from people. It didn’t give her the right to take any of it.
Until she began to work, she had no capital. She might have to take a job here, temporary of course, while she tried to keep Jerry from killing himself. She had nine days left. Not long, really.
Stormy located the address to Marty’s Place on a map, figured out the closest bus route, then looked at a timetable. If she ran, she would just make the bus. The next one didn't leave for another hour.
Grabbing up her purse, Stormy left her room, hurrying down the long hotel hallway, the variations in floor levels attesting to the fact that the hotel had "grown" to its present size from several smaller buildings. It stunk, as did her room, from sources Stormy refused to consider. After the fresh air of Idaho, the stench was particularly hard to take, and she held her breath as long as possible, taking the first exit outside.
It was noon, hot as only Las Vegas in July can be. Stormy ran across the soft asphalt in the parking lot, down three blocks and across a major road to the bus stop.
Twenty minutes later she was still waiting. And waiting. She must have just missed the bus, but she refused to leave in case it was running late. Then it got too late to go search for a place to eat, so she sat there, closing her eyes against the glare.
The next one came an hour after Stormy had first reached the stop. Wilted from sitting in the heat, she climbed aboard and sunk down onto a seat, grateful for the cooler interior. She felt terribly thirsty, and realized she had only had one glass of water—with breakfast—so far today.
The gym where the champ was supposed to be training was twelve long blocks from the bus stop. Half residential, half commercial, this part of town had seen better days, and she jogged at first, passing the boarded-up buildings and run-down houses as swiftly as she could.
The sun, still hot at three-fifteen, made Stormy seek the shade of whatever tree or overhang she could find. She rested whenever possible, so that it was close to four in the afternoon before she drug her feet across the last few yards, feeling as if the heat had permanently scorched the bottoms of her feet and the top of her head.
Someone had scrawled the street number on the front steps, or she would have passed it by. Red dust marked every crevice and crack in the ancient concrete
structure, it's corners rounded-off, smoothed by years of crumbling. The name—Marty's Place—written in two-inch high caps on the wooden door, was barely discernible, the paint flaking off in tiny chips.
With a sigh of relief, Stormy climbed the three concrete steps, noting the hollows worn in each one, and tugged on the door handle. It refused to open and she tried again. Locked.
She glanced around. The few windows had heavy mesh screens over them, but they were open. She could hear activity inside.
Making a fist, she banged on the door, hard. Again. And again. She kept banging. She knew they were in there.
It finally opened—a crack—and an elderly man stuck his head out and glared at her. His face was as lined as the building, deep wrinkles crisscrossing a dark suntan. Thin white hair, crew cut, barely covered his scalp. He was at eye level with Stormy.
"What do you want?"
A tall, cold glass of lemonade, but she would settle right now for a trickle of warm water out of an old drinking fountain. Then she wanted to see the champ. "Water." She sounded like a dehydrated frog. "I'm dying of thirst."
"Get lost."
The man scowled and attempted to close the door but Stormy's foot was in the way. A small, wizened old man, he did not have the strength to close it against her. Realizing this, she thrust herself forward and halfway inside.
"Stop that! Go away!" He tried to hold the door against her, but she was stronger.
"I have to get a drink."
"Then stay outside and I'll bring you one."
She pushed harder and stepped all the way inside. It was darker in the room, cooler but not air-conditioned. From here she could see through an open doorway and into the inside of the gym. Two rings only. One occupied by two men sparring, several others watching.
"I'm already in. Just show me where the water fountain is."
"Have it your way then," he grumbled. "Over there."
He pointed to a spot just past the doorway into the gym itself and she hurried ahead of him, pausing in the doorway to let her eyes fully adjust to the dimmer light. The gym aroma of sweat and stale air struck her forcibly, making her wonder, as always, why men liked being in gyms.
Yes, it was The Killer in the dark trunks. She had watched his fights long enough now to be able to spot his style. She was only about twenty feet away from him.
The drink first. She could barely croak.
She continued over to the white porcelain fountain, turned on the flow and frowned at the small trickle of water. Better than nothing. She sucked in some of the life-saving liquid. A footstep sounded behind her, a hand on her shoulder...pulling her away.
"Out!" A young man this time, heavily built and rough. His grasp hurt her shoulder as he manhandled her away from the fountain and towards the door.
"But I need to get—"
"We only interview at the hotel," he said. Behind him the boxers were still sparring, but the other men had turned and were watching her.
"I'm not a reporter," she explained, thinking that no decent reporter would ever show up as hot and untidy as she was at the moment.
"Don't matter. Go away."
"I have to talk with The Killer."
He thrust out his lower lip. "Everyone does."
"But it's urgent."
"Everything's urgent."
"You don't understand. I'm Jerry's sister. I'll wait until the champ has finished sparring for the day. He has to hear this. It's important."
"Everything's important. Beat it." The young man spun her around and marched her ahead of him the rest of the way through the doorway, then out the entrance door. "Stay out." He slammed it behind her and locked it.
Stormy fumed. She felt like crying but didn't dare waste what little moisture she had left.
There was shade on the north side of the building, and she walked around and sat down in it. The champ had to come out sometime.
A half hour later, she noticed a car go by and in it the young man who had put her out the door. Where had he come from?
Stupid! There must be a back door. She jumped up, stood a second to overcome a sudden rush of dizziness, and hurried around the back.
There were a few cars left, parked in as much shade as they could. No ritzy car...no MG or Porsche that would have belonged to the Killer. He must have slipped out, got in his car and driven away while she was sitting waiting for him. Feeling defeated, she turned around and started the long walk back to the bus stop. She needed to rest...her head was pounding terribly by now.
She would "become" a reporter if she had to, and interview him at his hotel. Somehow.
As the guard had hustled her out, she had spotted a sign posted on the side wall. "Winners never quit...quitters never win." That would be her motto as well. She was not going to quit. She had just over a week to get this fight stopped, and she vowed to keep going until she did just that.
CHAPTER SIX
Kyle held his hands out for his trainer to untie his gloves. The others had all gone, drifting out one by one, leaving just Arne and him in the gym.
"Who was that?" he asked, motioning with his head towards the door where his security personnel, bodyguard or whatever he liked to be called, had ushered out the good-looking redhead. The woman reminded him of someone. She had been too far away to see her face well...and he had been sparring at the time. Got smacked hard in the head, twice, for the distraction.
Arne flicked up his scraggly eyebrows, his roguish eyes dancing. Once a heavyweight contender himself, he had been with Kyle since the beginning, advising, training, nurturing him along—and was closer to Kyle than anyone, even his father. He untied the first glove before answering.
"Said she was Jerry's sister."
"For a fact?"
"Yeah."
"You believe that?"
"Could be. Jerry's got an older sister."
"Huh." It was Kyle's turn to raise his brows. What would Jerry's sister be doing here? "Did she say why she came?"
"To see you. She's a looker. Marty tried to keep her out, as he didn't want you distracted. She just pushed past him, so Cam had to get rid of her."
The elderly gym owner had the right idea, Kyle thought, nodding to himself. His sparring partner had staggered him with two good blows the instant he shifted his focus onto the girl and her long legs exposed by white shorts. She was definitely a distraction.
Still...he wished she had stayed a little longer. "I just got a glimpse of red hair."
"You ought to look her up, Kyle. A dame that's been close to boxing all her life—she'd understand you."
"Oh, sure. I beat up her brother, then ask her out. She'd think I was nuts."
Well, then, ask her sooner than that. She's here in Vegas. Like I said, she asked to see you."
"Weird. Do you know why?"
"I dunno. Marty didn't say. But she may come again, when you're not getting your head knocked off."
"You noticed?"
"I could have flattened you. I'm surprised Rodriguez didn't." Arne paused, grinning as he pulled off the second glove and started to unwrap Kyle's hand. "Sound her out a little."
"Nah. She wouldn't—"
"Never know till you ask. Like I said, she's a knock-out. Probably has a lot of class. Just like you."
"Maybe. All right. I'll see."
"Do that."
Kyle would like to talk to her now, and not have to look her up. He couldn’t be bothered hunting her down, not this close to the fight when he needed to be totally focused on the job at hand.
Why had she come? He had never had that happen before. "I wished she'd have stayed."
"Cam was told to remove anyone not on the list, remember?"
"Right. I'll ask Cam to not take his duties quite so seriously."
Arne chuckled, gathering up his gear. "You need him, now and then. He was probably trying to earn his keep."
"Yeah.” Cam was helpful. He’d thrown out a nosy TV reporter the other day who didn’t understand the word “No.”
> "I'll tell Cam for you. We're going to grab a meal together, then hit some of the casinos. Want to come?"
Somewhat of a loner, Kyle preferred to have time to himself, away from the boxing crowd. They could be overwhelming, especially just before a fight. And during it. And afterwards. "No. Thanks. See you later."
He took a leisurely shower and changed into his street clothes, looking forward to relaxing during the evening. He'd have a light meal...nothing heavy this last week. Lots of protein. Maybe wander down to the Strip and take in one of the shows before he went back to his hotel. Or maybe not. His hair was cut short now, so people recognized him. Everyone thought they were a friend and were privileged to steal part of his time.
Arne had already left. Kyle waved to Marty, the old gym owner, on the way out the back door.
Twilight, but the heat still radiated off the asphalt. Kyle walked quickly across to his rental car, sat down in the bucket seat, flipped on the radio and air-conditioning, and drove off down the road.
Twelve blocks later, where the side street joined Las Vegas Boulevard South, he turned onto the main road, drove past the bus stop—and hit his brakes.
She was sitting in the bus stop. All alone. The redhead from the plane. Not only that, he realized as he hit the wipers trying to put the car in reverse, it was the same redhead who had tried to see him today. And not only that, he reminded himself, she claimed to be Jerry's sister.
Whoever she was, he wasn't going to let anybody's sister sit in a bus stop in this part of town at this time of the evening. He turned off the windshield wipers and backed up to where she sat.
He started to throw open the passenger door, realized that that might be misconstrued; so put the car in park and stepped out on his side. He walked around the back, running his hand lightly across the trunk. Why had she wanted to see him? Was she really Jerry's sister, or an enterprising reporter?
She stared up at him, her face pale with exhaustion.