24

It was rainy again this April. I worked out at the Harbor Health Club, and when I got through I went into Henry Cimoli’s office and drank some coffee with him, and watched the gray rain make circular patterns on the gray ocean through Henry’s big picture window.

“Got some donuts,” Henry said. “Cinnamon. Want one?”

“How many you got,” I said.

Henry opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a box and looked in.

“Ten,” he said.

“You’re not having any?” I said.

“I was hoping we could share,” Henry said.

I took a donut.

“Like the view?” Henry said.

“Better than the blank wall that used to be there,” I said. “With the torn boxing poster of you.”

Henry grinned and leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. His sneakers were silver and black. He was wearing white sweats and a white sleeveless jacket with the collar turned up, and a gold chain around his neck.

“Bought this place ’cause it was a dump and it was cheap, and the clientele I was serving were guys like you and Hawk, and you wasn’t afraid to come down to the waterfront to work out,” Henry said. “People think I am really smart to have jumped in ahead of the next big real estate trend.”

“You had no idea,” I said.

“None,” he said. “And about five years after I bought the place, the waterfront went sky-high fucking yuppie.”

“As did you,” I said.

“You like my outfit?” he said.

“You look like a very short Elvis impersonator,” I said.

“Hey, it’s a costume. I put one like it on every day. We don’t have spit buckets in the corners anymore. Health-club business is aimed at women. They think it’s adorable to belong to a swishy club on the waterfront run by an actual live former boxer.”

He grinned and flexed his arms.

“With visible biceps,” he said.

“Cute,” I said.

“Why I like Z working out here. He looks like every housewife’s dream: dark, big, muscular, sort of dangerous. Hot damn,” Henry said. “An orgasm waiting to happen. Some of them would jump him in the boxing room if they wasn’t afraid I’d yank their membership.”

“Which you wouldn’t,” I said.

“Course I wouldn’t.”

“Z says you been working with him,” I said.

“Since he moved in here,” Henry said.

“How’s that going?” I said.

“Fine. I got a couple rooms here I keep, case I need to stay late, or whatever.”

“You’re too old for whatever,” I said.

“Depends how often whatever comes my way,” Henry said. “Lately I’ve been trying to cut back to one a day.”

“Successfully, I’ll bet.”

“Sure,” Henry said. “Anyway, Z’s got a lot of potential. And it looks cool to the ladies for me to be boxing with the Big O.”

“I like his potential, too,” I said.

“He’s quick,” Henry said. “He’s very strong. And he’s a real good athlete, you know? He picks everything up quick. Got a woman here, teaches martial arts, she’s been showing him a few moves. He doesn’t mind learning from a woman. He gets it at once, and... he’s amazing.”

“And he’s tough,” I said.

“Absolutely. He’ll work himself until he gets sick.”

“He wants it,” I said.

“Whatever it is,” Henry said.

I picked up another donut.

“You know what it is,” I said. “You used to want it, too.”

Henry smiled.

“I got it,” he said. “He juiced?”

“He was,” I said.

“Has the look,” Henry said. “He needs to get off them.”

“I’ll make the suggestion,” I said.

Zebulon Sixkill VII


The club was in Hollywood, and the haul back and forth from Garden Grove was long. So when his month of grace ran out, Z got a one-room apartment on Franklin Avenue, from which he could walk to work.

The club had a fancy front façade with a scary-looking black guy named Deevo working the door. He had a Mohawk, and a scar on his jawline. Z worked inside, where there was a long bar, a lot of waitresses in short skirts, and a small stage upon which nude women danced and did stand-up comedy. The crowd was largely male. But there were always some couples there that got heated up by the naked performers. Many of the people who came were regulars, including a famous movie comedian named Jumbo Nelson, who was there several nights a week, usually with young women, and a tall bodyguard in a black suit who used to lean on the bar near Z and watch Jumbo.

Z had been working the club for six months when, on a crowded Friday night, with a heavy rain coming down outside, Jumbo Nelson slid his hand up the dress of a dark-haired woman sitting at the next table with a male companion.

“Hey,” the woman said, and slapped at his hand. “You see what he done, Ray?”

“I seen,” Ray said.

He stood and walked to Jumbo and grabbed him by the collar. Z started over, but the bodyguard got there first.

The bodyguard said, “Ease off, pal.”

Ray picked up a beer bottle from Jumbo’s table and swung it against the bodyguard’s forehead. The bottle broke and the blood began to run down the bodyguard’s face. Z arrived and gave Ray the same kind of forearm that he had used to ward off tacklers. It put Ray down. Deevo arrived, and he and Z got Ray on his feet and walked him out with the wronged woman behind them screaming that they wanted their fucking money back. Deevo stayed outside and put them in a cab. Z came back in and put a folded Kleenex over the cut on the bodyguard’s face. He taped it in place.

The bodyguard said he’d get it stitched later, after he drove Jumbo home. Later, on his way out, Jumbo gave Deevo and Z each a one-hundred-dollar bill. He also gave Z a business card.

“I like your style, Tonto,” Jumbo said. “Gimme a call, might hire you.”

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