Where the dead lay

TWENTY

Behr cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the window into the darkened interior of the Francovic Training Center. A dozen heavy, Thai, uppercut, and speed bags hung dormant in the darkened space inside the brick building. There was a low wooden platform in front of a mirror for skipping rope and shadowboxing. There were free weights, benches, squat racks, dumbbells and such in a corner. A pegboard was mounted on the rear wall. A regulation octagonal cage centered several hundred square feet of mats. Factory indeed. Late on a Sunday afternoon, however, no one was there. Behr had called before driving up and had gotten no answer but had made the trip anyway on the off chance he’d run into Francovic training or doing some cleaning or maintenance.

He should have headed home to get to work on the Caro case, but he couldn’t seem to make himself leave. Instead, he hung around for half an hour, then left and cruised the Rust Belt streets of Muncie, killing time. He drove past the chain stores on McGalliard and stopped in at a Bob Evans for coffee, where he burned another half hour, and then went back to Francovic’s gym, where this time he was in business. The lights were on inside and there was movement on the mat. Behr opened the door and immediately caught a whiff of the heavy, musty sweat smell common to all the serious gyms and dojos he’d ever frequented, the kind that never had time to air out fully before the next workout, where the rank moisture built up over the years into a cloud that became another part of the challenge of attending. A small group of grapplers dressed in board shorts and rash guards were going through warm-ups, lunge walking around the mat like a line of circus elephants. At the head of the pack, leading, was the human equivalent of Jumbo. Every school or gym has its resident heavyweight, its monster. This young guy went a good six feet eight from the tips of his massive toes to the top of his blond dome and weighed three bills easy. He was one big boy.

“Let’s go, get down and deep, the way your girlfriend likes it,” Big Boy called out in a bass bellow.

Behr moved into the room but stayed well away from the mat as he was wearing street shoes. When the line made it around the corner, Big Boy saw him there.

“This isn’t a class. Team workout,” Big Boy called out. “Schedule’s on the door.”

“Not here for a class. I’m looking to talk to Dennis Francovic,” Behr said, stepping closer.

“No shoes on the mat!” Big Boy shouted.

“That’s why I’m staying off the mat,” Behr shouted back.

Big Boy broke off his lunge walks. “Keep ’em going, Tink,” he said to a middleweight who was next in line. Then Big Boy crossed to Behr. The kid sported a high and tight haircut without sideburns that made him seem like a dimwit from the Middle Ages. He already had a sheen of sweat going that made Behr wonder how deep into a fight Big Boy could take all that bulk.

“Dennis doesn’t come in on Sundays. What do you want?” the kid said. He seemed to enjoy rising up over Behr. Behr didn’t experience the sensation often-certainly not since his football days-and had to admit he didn’t much care for it. He took a glance over Big Boy’s shoulder and was struck anew by just how many tough young bastards there were out there pursuing the fight game. Here alone, on a Sunday evening, in a little corner of nowhere, were eight rugged bucks spanning the weight classes. Most of them had short, spiky hair or were shaved clean. All of them wore ink. Some sported tribal tats, or barbed-wire rings around their biceps, colorful pictures, or professionally done prison-style black Gothic lettering, like the jacked, shirtless kid on the end with “RTD” on his upper chest. And the thing about the game now was that it promised big money to those who studied the science. Most weren’t just brawlers anymore, though they were that, too. Besides striking and kicking, they also worked takedowns and takedown defense and could go to the ground and apply submissions. It was a nasty business indeed out there with the kids these days.

“When’s Francovic in?” Behr asked.

“I’m not his secretary,” Big Boy said. “What’s it about?”

“I want to talk to him personally,” Behr said, already tired of the interaction.

“Whyn’t you tell me who you are and I’ll let him know you came by,” Big Boy said, rolling his shoulders and loosening his neck.

“I’ll cover that when I see him,” Behr said, not wanting to tip Francovic to anything in advance, hoping to get a cold reaction from the man when they spoke.

“You come walking in here asking questions, and you won’t say who you are?” Big Boy said, his eyes going flat and angry.

“Pretty much,” Behr said, causing Big Boy’s eyes to flare outright this time.

“All right then, spiffy, have it your way,” Big Boy said, flipping Behr’s tie up in the air.

Now Behr felt his own eyes flicker in anger. He seethed for a moment but reined it in. “I’ll come back,” Behr said when he could unclench his jaw.

“You do that,” Big Boy said. They turned from each other to see the team watching the exchange.

“I said keep ’em going, Tink…,” Big Boy called out, turning to rejoin them. “All right, frog hops, motherfuckers.” Behr saw them begin the exercise, and then as he neared the door he heard something muttered, at his expense no doubt, and then there was laughter. Behr got outside, took a big suck of the cooling evening air, and got in his car.