The 24th Letter

SEVENTY-THREE

The trainer and Hamilton followed him. O’Brien lifted up part of the flag from the floor. Two large gray metal doors were behind it. He started to enter. The doors were locked. “Open it!”

The trainer finished his drink. “Not without a warrant.”

Hamilton said, “Don’t need a search warrant at a crime scene.”

“This is not a crime scene.”

“Sure it is,” said Hamilton. “And it’s also a Sunday. Usually it’s a slow news day. One call and the media will be all over this place. We’ll slap some crime scene tape in front of your door and this gym will carry a nasty stigma for years.”

The trainer looked toward the front of the gym floor a second and said, “It’s nothing but a warehouse for storage.”

“Then open it,” said O’Brien.

The trainer sighed, fished for a key in his pocket and unlocked the door. They entered. There was no ring. No seating for a crowd. No video cameras. Nothing but metal chairs stacked in one corner, lots of old heavy bags and broken weights, a dismantled ring, ropes, posts, canvas, old fight posters and risers stacked in one corner.

O’Brien would have laughed had his face not hurt so badly. “How’d you do it?”

“Do what?” asked the trainer, deadpanned face.

“How did you take this apart, store it, sweep the place up and make it look like no one’s been in here.”

“Maybe it’s because nobody has been in here in weeks.”

“Open that canvas!”

“What?”

“Take the rolled up mat out of the corner and unroll it on the floor.”

The trainer laughed, shook his head, kicked the canvas down with one of his massive legs and unrolled it. The mat was old and worn, but no signs of fresh stains.

“Where’s the one you used last night?”

“This canvas hasn’t been used since Foreman trained on it. Look, pal, all this stuff is like a graveyard of old boxing junk…outdated…not much more than a novelty. We got some stuff in here that goes back to when Ali was training over at 5th Street with Dundee. We got stuff in here that goes back way before Ali. Look at that fight poster of the Raging Bull, the Bronc Bull, ol’ Jake LaMotta. They tell me he ran a club here in Miami Beach after his retirement. But that was before me time.”

O’Brien reached behind his back and pulled out the Glock, pointing it at the trainer’s chest. He said, “Before me time? LaMotta was said to have a granite chin. How about you, asshole?”

“Get this crazy fucker away from me!” shouted the trainer to Hamilton.

“Sorry, he’s an independent contractor. Doesn’t answer to me”

The trainer’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “I’ll sue!”

O’Brien said, “No you won’t! You carried me out of here. Tossed me out with the garbage. You, or one of your grunts, snuffed Salazar and dumped his body near me to make it look like I killed him.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Yes! Yes I am. Wanna see how crazy? Who’re you working for?”

Hamilton’s cell rang, the rings sounding far away in the warehouse. He answered it. Hamilton listened, holding a hand in the air to get O’Brien’s attention. Hamilton cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and made timeout sign with his hands. He said, “I’ll need that statement in writing. Your attorney can bring an affidavit or contact the state attorney and give it to him in writing. This applies to Sergio Conti, too.” Hamilton grunted and hung up. He said to O’Brien. “Sean, let’s talk.”

O’Brien lowered the Glock. The trainer grinned. O’Brien said, “Stay right there!”

O’Brien and Hamilton walked to the opposite side of the small warehouse. Hamilton said, “You’re not gonna believe who called-”

“Russo.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because with Salazar dead, the last living witness to Russo’s connection with Charlie Williams is gone. I become a moot point.”

“Now we have another murder on our hands. This one is the death of a hit man.”

“And I’d bet you a day’s receipts from Russo’s drug operation that the big leprechaun here in the corner is nothing more than a real con. I’m sure he works for Russo. And probably snapped Salazar’s neck as soon as they tossed me in the trash.”

Something caught O’Brien’s eye. A reflection. A small object lying next to a stack of cardboard boxes. He stepped to the boxes, knelt down, and picked up the item. O’Brien held it to the light.

“What’s that?” asked Hamilton. “Looks like an eye.”

“This is a black onyx earring. Last night our Irish host was wearing it. I saw it fall off his ear when he tossed me over his shoulder.”

“So much for no one in here in weeks. This place is a boxing museum in boxes, for God sakes. Looks like we stepped into a twilight zone time warp, a place where Joe Louis and the Rock are on faded posters. A killer is dead. Somebody snapped his neck. He was breathing when you left the ring. This fight didn’t exist. In the alley, you got rats, roaches and a body found a hundred yards from you. So what?”

“What are you saying, Ron?”

“I’m saying you have two days to save Charlie Williams’ life. You’re off the hook. We’ll see if we can find something tangible to tie steroids over there to Salazar’s slip on the banana peel. You’ll have a better chance to toss Williams a life ring, now that Tucker Houston’s on board. When’s he meeting with Judge Davidson?”

O’Brien looked at his watch. “If church is out at noon, five minutes.”

“In five minutes Charlie Williams may have something to cling to.”

As they walked past the trainer, O’Brien said, “You swept up well. But you missed something.” O’Brien tossed the earring to him and said, “Something always slips through the cracks. I would have thought that earring was onyx. But it’s only polished blarney. Gottcha, mate.”