The Pallbearers

Chapter 23

O'Shea parked in a lot south of Broadway, six blocks from the financial center in a slum neighborhood full of discount clothing stores and run-down secondhand shops.

I pulled in, took a ticket, and parked a few lanes over. Sabas and I watched as he yanked his monogrammcd gym bag out of the passenger seat and made his way across the cracked asphalt to a medium-sized brick storefront that faced the parking lot. It had a dirty, plate-glass, floor-to-ceiling window with alarm tape and small gold letters that said:

"Wait here," I told Sabas, then got out of the Acura, went to the trunk, rummaged around, and found a Dodgers baseball cap. I pulled it out and put it on. Disguise. I crossed back to the passenger window and looked in at Vargas.

"Stay in the car, I'll be right back." I fished in my pocket for dark glasses.

"Whatta you gonna do?"

"Don't know yet. Keep an eye on my back."

I walked across the pavement toward the storefront, past a beautiful, modified red and white Indian motorcycle that had fancy leather saddlebags and was parked in a spot reserved for the manager of NHB. As I walked past the chopper, I wondered what I would find behind the grimy plate-glass window.

I pulled the baseball hat lower, put on my darks, opened the door, and walked inside.

It was a small gym, or more correctly, a fight-training center. Kxcept for the plate glass in front there were no other windows. Most of the light came from old-style wire-enclosed ceiling fixtures. There was almost no concession to decor. The benches and workout machines were mismatched. What paint there was had chipped long ago. An octagon for cage fighting stood in the center of the room. Heavy bags and workout equipment dominated the perimeter. The smell of sweat lingered. It was very old school.

One or two experiments in chemistry were taking turns lifting the bar on a Smith machine over in one corner. The Smith was a weight-lifting apparatus also known as a hat rack because it has a rack that guides and supports the plates. We have a few in the police gym where I sometimes work out, but I'm a free-weight guy so I've never actually used one.

There were several poster-sized pictures of past mixed martial arts events hanging on the paint-peeled brick walls. I spotted one that showed Rick "Ricochet" O'Shea advertising something called "The Fall Brawl." In the shot, he was pushing his flat nose at an equally intimidating opponent. Underneath it read: