The Pallbearers

"RICOCHET" O'SHEA
VS.

There were posters showing pictures of other gym celebrities-Raymond "Stingray" Jackson was a big black guy with a shaved head, Gary "The Great" White was aptly named. A huge glowering blond guy with a Mohawk named Dane Vanderheiden called himself "The Striking Viking." Never heard of any of them, but I don't follow ultimate fighting so that didn't mean anything.

All of them looked like they'd be serious competition in a brawl.

I moved behind a power rack, out of sight of the two fighters on the weight machine, and tried to spot where Rick O'Shea had gone, but he'd disappeared into the back somewhere.

"Whatta ya want?" a pissed-off voice behind me said. I swung around and found myself facing a six-foot-three pile of pale white gristle with a serious V-taper. He had sixty-inch shoulders and a monstrous set of lats that sloped clown from his armpits to a thirtv-two-inch waist. He was wearing a loose-fitting, low-cut sweatshirt that said NHB on the front. Under that were words that defined the letters: NO HOLDS BARRED. He had a shaved, torpedo-shaped head to go with his scowl.

"I was thinking maybe I'd get into MMA," I said, smiling. "You got a program I could join? A trainer who could work me out, show me some striking and ground-fighting techniques?"

"Private gym," he said. "We only train club professionals. No cardio bunnies. Take it down the street."

I pointed at the posters on the wall. "These the guys you train? Pretty impressive."

He gave me nothing. No expression. No personal connection. He just stood with massive bowling-pin forearms crossed, looking like an ad for a toilet-bowl product. A facial muscle high on his cheek began to twitch.

"And you are?" I asked.

"Getting angry," he answered.

"I really like this place," I persisted. "It's near where I work in the financial district. I'd only come in on lunch breaks two or three times a week for an hour. I'm really serious about this. I can pay whatever it takes."

"How many times I gotta tell you we're a private gym? We don't deal with the public."

"Tell you what, let me write clown my number so you can call me if you change your mind."

"Get the fuck outta here," he growled.

Just then, Rick O'Shea came out of the back.

"Hey, Chris, you seen the shot kit? I left it in the lockup, but Brian's been in there cleaning up again. Everything's moved."

"In my desk," Chris answered. I pulled my ball cap lower, trying to keep my face turned away so I wouldn't get recognized. O'Shea had only seen me for a moment in Diamond Peterson's office, and that was two days ago. I was pretty sure, in my hot disguise, he wouldn't make me.

"Do I know you?" Rick said, immediately busting that hope. He moved closer to get a better look.

"Don't think so."

"You look familiar."

"I got one of those familiar-type faces."

I started toward the door, but he was moving along with me as I went.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're the guy. With Diamond. From the home."

"Sorry I bothered you," I said to Chris. I had my hand on the door, but Rick O'Shea managed to get between me and the threshold, pushing my hand off the release bar. He suddenly snatched the ball cap off my head.

"What the fuck is this?" he said angrily. "You following me or something?"

I started to open the door again, but Rick slammed it shut. Turned the bolt.

I was armed and just seconds from giving this idiot a gun-sight tonsillectomy when some instinct told me I should hold on and trv to BS my way out. Bad decision.

Without warning, Rick O'Shea hit me square in the forehead. I could feel my skin tear as a nasty cut opened up. I've been hit by some pretty good punchers, but this one rocked me, dimmed my lights, and sagged my knees. I went down, bowing before them.

"Get his wallet," Rick said. Chris grabbed my wallet from my pocket.

He was about to open it and find my badge when the plate-glass window of the gym suddenly exploded inward, raining glass shards all over us. It was followed an instant later by the entire front end of my car. Then Sabas Vargas was out of the driver's seat, swinging a tire iron, which I guess he'd gotten from the back of my SUV.

It happened so fast nobody had much time to react. Vargas bounced the metal bar off O'Shea's head, sending him to the floor. Then he dropped the iron and ripped a body shot at Chris's midsection, following it with an impressive uppercut. The big heavyweight was just turning toward him and didn't see it coming. He doubled over with the first blow, flew backward with the second. Both men were now spitting out blood and chipped teeth.

"Did you have something else you wanted to do or can we get the fuck out of here?" Sabas said.

I stumbled to my feet and started to get in the passenger seat of mv idling car, which was parked over some workout mats halfway through the window.

I suddenly came to my senses and went back, pried my wallet out of Chris's hand, and relieved both of them of their wallets while Sabas got behind the wheel of my Acura. I half-limped, half-ran back to the passenger side of the car and tumbled in.

Sabas already had it in reverse and we squealed backward out of the gym. He smoked a U-turn in the parking lot, hitting the classic old Indian chopper that was parked out front, knocking it over on its side. Seconds later we were flying down Broadway, heading out of downtown.