McNamara listened, replied in monosyllables, grunted, and occasionally said a word or two. Finally, the sound of the diatribe subsided and he said, “Okay, sweetie. Love you too.”
After he hung up he turned to Wolf.
“I guess she’s forgotten about the times when she was a little whippersnapper I used to take her riding on my Harley back when we were living at Fort Bragg.” McNamara heaved a sigh. “That girl’s got a lot of her mother in her, all right.”
Wolf had never met either of Mac’s two ex-wives and was glad of it.
He made the turn into the parking lot of the strip mall where Manny’s office was.
“There it is,” McNamara said. “All safe and sound. If it wasn’t so damn hard to get in and out of, I might consider buying one someday.”
Wolf pulled up beside the Malibu. About thirty feet away the unlighted office area of Manny’s place was visible through the glass window. He shifted into park.
“Want me to drive it over to the gym?” he asked. “You can drive the War Wagon.”
McNamara shook his head as he opened the door.
“Nah, I might as well get used to it. I gotta go get them flowers while you’re doing your workout.”
Wolf grinned. “You sure you don’t want to just go for the air freshener option?”
McNamara smiled and shook his head.
“You want to sample that fine vintage,” he said. “You got to make sure you bring the right bottle opener.”
He got out, slammed the door, and walked to the Toyota.
McDonald’s
Phoenix, Arizona
Cummins poured another of those mini-cartons of syrup over the pancakes and sliced them with his plastic knife. It wasn’t the best breakfast but it was better than nothing.
Next to nothing, he thought as he stabbed one of the sliced pieces with the plastic fork and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted flat, like army food and it brought back that uncomfortable feeling of being in the officer’s mess when he’d been deployed, albeit briefly, to Iraq. The discomfort increased exponentially as he remembered Wolf in all his infantry armor waiting to escort them to the meeting where they were supposed to get the Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubian … The meeting where all this started, and where everything went wrong.
“They’re moving,” Zerbe said.
He sat across from Cummins at the table they’d sequestered in the far corner of the room. Zerbe had opened his laptop as soon as they’d arrived and tapped into the restaurant’s Wi-Fi. Now his face had a big grin on it.
A big stupid-looking grin, Cummins thought.
He still wasn’t used to this new look Zerbe had affected. Without the ubiquitous Panama hat and dark glasses he looked like some deviant actor playing a washed-up nerd on some television sitcom. No, it was more like a cable sitcom. There was something about Zerbe that suggested something unwholesome, an R-rated unsavoriness. Perhaps it was the man’s perpetual body odor.
Cummins swallowed the piece of the pancake and waited to test the state of his stomach.
So far, so good, he thought.
“Once they come to an extended stop, we’ll—” Zerbe started to say when his cell phone rang. He glanced down at the screen and smiled. “Hallo, Luan. Hoe gaan dit?”
More of that damn South African stuff, Cummins thought. He shoveled a few more pieces of the pancakes into his mouth, wishing he could understand what was being said.
He suddenly realized that he was going to be at a distinct disadvantage once this gang of muscle arrived. They could understand him and speak in a language that was totally foreign to him. What was to stop Zerbe and these freaks from taking the damn artifact and renegotiating the deal with Von Dien once they took it from Wolf? And where would that leave him? But Zerbe had to figure that with VD’s wealth, he’d hunt them to the ends of the earth if they tried to cross him. But that still left him as the odd man out.
“Hoe lank?” Zerbe said, listened, and then added, “Dis oulik. Koebaai.” He pocketed his phone. “The Lion Team’s arrived in the U.S. They’re clearing customs in Baltimore now. Should be here by this afternoon.”
“Wonderful,” Cummins said, hoping that it sounded more sincere than he felt. The pancakes were now tasting like sugar-coated mush.
He had to figure a way to figure out a way to remain in the game and safeguard his position once these new players arrived.
Mixed Martial Arts Fighting Academy
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf had always enjoyed punching a heavy bag and Reno’s place seemed to have plenty of them. McNamara had taken the loaned Malibu back to the body shop in hopes of rattling their cage so he could get the Escalade back in time to pick up Ms. Dolly and the P-Patrol at the airport. It was closing in on ten, so Wolf had driven to the gym to return the Hummer. Mac was supposed to stop by later to pick him up.
“You’ll want to change clothes before we hit the airport, won’t you?” McNamara had asked.
“You’re acting like I should rent a tuxedo, or something.”
McNamara snorted a laugh. “That’s up to you, but I’m still planning on getting them three dozen roses. What color you want for Yolanda’s?”
Wolf thought for a moment. “I know she likes yellow.”
“Good choice,” McNamara said. “I’m getting red for Ms. Dolly and pink for Brenda.”
Wolf figured that Mac had more in mind than just a quick collaborative trackdown, but that would be a welcome task as well.
The labeling on the uppermost part of the front of the building advertised itself as a FITNESS CENTER, but underneath were the words: Mixed Martial Arts, Boxing, Wrestling, Jiu Jitsu, Karate Taught Here.
And big block letters painted in red, white, and blue on the front window proclaimed:
RENO GARTH, MMA CHAMPION, TRAINS HERE.
Wolf went to the front entrance doors and pulled one open. The interior was fairly cool as opposed to the wretched heat outside, but it wasn’t overly frigid, which was good. The last thing he needed was to pull a muscle and that was easy to do in a highly air-conditioned environment. The gym area was pretty big, with an array of speed and heavy bags, free weights, weight machines, aerobics rooms, cardio machines, treadmills, a large space covered with padded floor mats, a full-sized boxing ring, and an octagonal cage like the ones used in Mixed Martial Arts. As he walked through the place looking for Reno, his entry caught the stares of several guys working out. A few of them appeared to be in pretty good shape, others not so much. Wolf saw a group of offices behind a section of half-partitions. Next to them was a pair of signs indicating the male and female locker rooms. As Wolf was scanning the expansive room he heard someone call out to him. It was Reno, who came ambling over using his cane, a grin stretched over his face.
He switched the cane to his left hand, held out his right, and Wolf shook it.
“I brought back your Hummer,” Wolf said. “All washed and topped off. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Reno said, eying the ditty bag that Wolf was holding. “You decided to take me up on that workout?”
“Actually, yeah,” Wolf said. “And there’s something else, too.” He hesitated, unsure of just how much he should divulge about his and McNamara’s financial desperation.
Reno raised an eyebrow.
Wolf debated what to say for a few more seconds and then decided to lay his cards on the table. After all, even though their association had a rough beginning, they now shared the mutual bond of having been together with their backs to the wall facing a common foe. And it had been a foe that had given no quarter.
“I don’t know about you,” Wolf said, “but we came out of that Mexican thing pretty much worse for the wear. Took a big financial hit.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. That Mexican hospital charged me a pretty penny, and I had to buy my way outta there, telling them that the banditos must’ve stolen my passport.”
“Well, you said something the other day about an MMA fight.”
Reno’s other eyebrow raised up.
“Yeah, I could probably set something up.” He pondered his next words and then said, “I also manage fighters and I got a guy with a match coming up on this Saturday. One of his regular sparring partners got hurt, so I’m looking for another one.” He eyed Wolf’s frame. “He’s a heavyweight and probably has a few pounds on you. How much you weigh?”
“About two-fifteen right now.”
Reno nodded. “Well, he’s looking to go a couple of rounds right now, if you’re interested. I’ll pay you two hundred for today’s session, and round it out to five if you can help work his corner on Saturday.”
Wolf thought about it. He knew from experience that a sparring partner was a man hired to take a beating. But he’d done a lot of ring work in Leavenworth, so how hard could this be. Plus, the money was too good to pass up.
“Sounds good,” Wolf said. “But I don’t have a cup or a mouthpiece with me.”
“Hell, I got all that stuff. I’ll even give you some mostly unused equipment.”
Wolf laughed.
Reno held up his index finger.
“Ah, look, Steve,” he said. “I know you can handle yourself, God do I know it, but this sport’s kind of rough physically. You sure you’re up to it?”
Wolf didn’t know if Reno was trying to warn him or discourage him.
“I spent a couple of years on the prison boxing team. And the fights I got into out of the ring didn’t have any rules.”
Reno’s eyes narrowed slightly and he gave a quick nod.
“All right. Come on over here and we’ll get you suited up.”
Wolf followed him toward the office area. Reno swung around the end of the wall of cubicles and motioned for Wolf to follow. Six people, four women and two men, sat at desks typing on keyboards. Reno hobbled over to a desk with a gorgeous woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Wolf thought she was the same one who’d driven Reno out to see him and Mac the day before yesterday. She looked up at them and smiled.
“Barbie,” Reno said. “This is Steve Wolf. We’re hiring him on as sparring partner for Greg Storm. Do a quick application and insurance disclaimers and such.”
The woman had blue eyes, which looked Wolf up and down.
He noticed she had a spray of freckles over her cheeks.
“Sit down, why don’t ya,” she said, indicating the chair on the other side of her desk.
As Wolf moved to the chair, Reno told him he was going to get a groin protector and mouthpiece from the equipment room.
Barbie turned toward him and smiled, sizing him up. She had on a white tank top with a lacy décolletage exposing her exquisitely tanned neck and shoulders. Wolf couldn’t help but notice the garment was so tight-fitting that the outline of her nipples showed prominently through the thin fabric.
Headlights, he thought.
“Hey,” she said. “My eyes are up here.”
He felt himself flush and quickly averted his gaze, not knowing whether to apologize or say nothing.
She giggled and made a dismissive gesture with her fingers.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We wouldn’t wear this kind of stuff if we didn’t want a guy to look. The birds and the bees.”
Wolf wondered if she knew that the male birds were the ones with the more colorful plumage but that was because, as he’d learned in biology, they didn’t have a visible penis. Barbie inhaled and leaned back to stretch and at this moment he was glad his wasn’t visible either.
Once she opened the forms on her computer monitor, she proved very expedient in taking down his information. By the time Reno had returned with a groin protector, headgear, a pair of gloves, and a mouthpiece in a box, Barbie had printed out the forms and Wolf had signed them.
“You read them first?” Reno said with a grin. “Or were you too busy checking out Barbie’s tits?”
Wolf felt himself flush again.
“He did both,” she said with a smile.
“Hell,” Reno said. “I can’t blame him for that. Grab me a cup from the coffee maker and heat up some water so we can fit this mouthpiece.”
Barbie rose from her chair and Wolf noticed that her tan slacks fit as snugly as her tank top. They both watched her move, Wolf trying to make it less obvious.
Reno shook his head and sighed.
“She’s something, ain’t she?” he said.
Wolf agreed.
“And believe it or not,” Reno said. “She’s got brains, too.”
Wolf stood and placed the groin protector around his waist, checking the fit. It seemed to do the job. Next, he slipped on the gloves. They were fingerless and had a ridge of padding over the knuckles, unlike your standard boxing glove. Wolf flexed his hand a few times.
“With MMA you got to do a lot of grabbing,” Reno said. “Chokes, arm-locks, take-downs. You familiar with any of that kind of stuff?”
Actually, Wolf was, having taken the opportunity to study much of it during his stint in South Korea. The Korean instructor he’d had, Mr. Yu, was very adept at both Tae Kwon Do and hapkido.
He nodded.
“Good,” Reno said. “Expect Storm to take you down and try to choke you out. Or maybe get a kimura on you. You know what that is?”
“I guess I’ll be finding out real soon,” Wolf said.
Reno seemed to appreciate Wolf’s insouciance.
Or maybe he’s looking forward to seeing me get my ass handed to me, Wolf thought.
Barbie brought back the cup of steaming water and Reno dropped the mouthpiece into it. After about a minute, he used a pen to fish it out and handed it to Wolf, who put it into his mouth and bit down hard. It took about thirty seconds for the impression of his teeth and bite to set into the plastic. After that, he removed the insert and stared at it.
“Let’s hope I still have all of them after this,” he said.
“The match is three five-minute rounds,” Reno said. “With a minutes rest between them.”
He went over the basic rules: no kicking or punching to the groin, the back of the head, or the kidneys, no pokes to the eyes, no fish-hooking of the lips, no kicking to the head of a downed opponent. Pretty much everything else, including punching a downed opponent, was allowed.
Wolf didn’t particularly like this last one in that it invited serious, debilitating injury, but decided the best course would be to avoid being knocked down. And even with the green light to beat a downed adversary, it was still a cakewalk compared to dealing with a hostile con in a dark, vacant hallway trying to stick a shive into you. There were no rules on the inside, and no referee either.
“I wish I could tell Greg to take it easy on you,” Reno said. “But he’s got that fight coming up and he’s gotta go hard. You sure you want to do this?”
Wolf mulled over his options: two hundred dollars for three five-minute rounds … Roughly thirteen bucks a minute. It would be almost eight hundred if he put in a full hour but the fifteen minutes was most likely going to be more than enough.
“Let’s do it,” Wolf said.
Wolf emerged from the locker room feeling a bit self-conscious in his long-legged black sweatpants, with the obtrusive, cumbersome groin protector tied around his hips.
But it beats the alternative, he thought.
He also elected to wear a black sweatshirt to conceal the residual bruise from the Lutz shooting incident. It was now a nice purple and Wolf figured it would make too tempting of a target if he were to go shirtless. His bare feet, toughened and callused by his daily runs, still felt naked and strange without any shoes, bringing back memories of running barefoot outside in the Rez when he was a child. The headgear, which he’d donned in the locker room, felt almost like his old army helmet and he wished he had some body armor to go with it.
A sparring partner’s a man who’s paid to take a beating, he reminded himself again.
But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to try and give as good as he got.
When he got t
o the door of the cage Reno was there waiting for him. A big white guy with a muscular build and wearing an outfit similar to Wolf’s stood by Reno’s side along with another older, shorter guy. This one held a towel, headgear, and a jar of Vaseline.
“Steve,” Reno said. “This is Greg Storm, one of my fighters. He’s got a match coming up on Saturday.”
Wolf extended his gloved hand and Storm gave it a fist bump. His expression was blank and he didn’t make eye contact. It was as if he’d accidentally bumped into the guy who cleaned the toilets.
Just another guy to do the nasty stuff, Wolf thought. Like stand there and take punches.
He took the opportunity to size the other man up. The guy was big—bigger than Wolf, and both ears were cauliflowered, which most likely pegged him for a wrestler. His neck was about as thick as a gallon milk jug and his nose had the look of having been broken several times. The sloping traps made his shoulders look somewhat rounded, and Wolf had no doubt the arms under the long sleeves of the sweatshirt were corded with muscle.
“And this is Nick Gill, his trainer,” Reno said.
The older guy smiled and cocked his head, but made no offer to shake hands, holding up the cluster of items he already had.
“Now remember,” Reno said, addressing both of them. “This is sparring, not all-out combat. You got to work techniques and combinations, not swing for the fences. And Greg, you can’t afford to get hurt with that match so close.”
I can’t afford it either, Wolf thought.
Storm nodded and slipped in his mouthpiece. Wolf did the same.
Reno motioned for Gill to put the headgear on his fighter. Gill slung the towel over his shoulder, stuck the Vaseline under his left arm, and lifted the headgear toward Storm.
“No headgear,” he said, glancing at Wolf. “Don’t think I’ll need it.”
“Come on, don’t be stupid,” Gill said. “You don’t want to take a chance of getting cut.”
He began lifting the helmet again and Storm shoved his hand away.
“I ain’t stupid and I said no.” He glanced at Wolf and rolled his eyes. “This is gonna be like amateur hour.”
Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2) Page 15