Hamilton leaned back in the seat and made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “Think you killed Salazar?”
“No. Wanted to. He went down, and when I stumbled out of the ring…he was still breathing.”
“Sports betting on fights to the death-like something you’d find in Malaysia or some damn place”
“Why can’t the cocaine importation capital of the world have world-class death spectator sports for its clientele?”
“Russo never called me to drop the charges against you.”
“Probably because he instructed Salazar to kill me. So with all these charges pending against me-now manslaughter charges potentially on my portfolio, and Charlie Williams facing an execution in…” O’Brien looked at his watch. “…in twenty-two hours, I guess sleep isn’t an option.”
Hamilton started to say something when his cell rang. He answered, nodded and said, “Where exactly was the body? The ME thinks it’s what?” A long pause and Hamilton said, “Thanks, Jim.” He hung up, exhaled a sigh. “We found Salazar’s body. They said he looked like he’d been beaten with an aluminum bat. Coroner’s preliminary exam at the site is that Salazar died from a broken neck.”
“Broken neck? Someone killed him after the fight. Where’d they find the body?”
“An alley at Ninth and Jasmine. Lying behind a dumpster. That’s less than a half block from where you spent the night. You have no memory of fighting him outside, in an alley?”
“No. It didn’t happen. I was dumped there. And I’m betting Salazar was, too. It takes the heat off the gym and maybe off Russo if he has an interest in what goes on there. And if I’d been spotted by a prowl car in that alley before I came to, in such close proximity to the Salazar’s body, I’d be in a holding cell now. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Sixth Street Gym.”
SEVENTY-TWO
A dozen cars were parked on the street outside Sixth Street Gym when O’Brien and Detective Ron Hamilton arrived. Going through the front door, Hamilton said, “Sunday morning, maybe the gym is like attending church for some people.”
O’Brien said, “The body’s a temple…mine’s just a little cracked.”
They walked down the hall and entered the gym, O’Brien scanning every sweaty face to see who was there from last night. He recognized no one. He stood next to a heavy bag and looked. His eyes followed a man skipping rope near the large American flag on the far wall. There was something different.
The flag moved. Just slightly at the left corner where the man fanned the rope. Yesterday, the flag was pulled tight across the door. Now it hung there, the ends next to the floor not secured.
There was a noise that sounded like a saw. O’Brien turned toward a small windowless office away from the speed bags. He said to Hamilton, “That guy, the one with the blender going…he was here last night. He’s got a thick Irish accent.”
They approached the man who was topping off the smoothie he poured from the blender into a large Styrofoam cup. He said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Here for a workout?” To O’Brien he said, “Tell me I should see the other guy.”
“I would, but he’s dead.”
The trainer sipped his drink. No reaction. Then he said, “Guess you don’t need boxing lessons.”
Lowe, Tom
The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))
“I need a straight answer. What happened to your accent?”
“Pardon me.”
“The Irish accent. You’re dropping it now. Why?”
“Sorry, mate, I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t! You’re the one who carried me out of the ring. You were then one who probably finished off Salazar.”
“Ring? Salazar?”
“The fight! Salazar attacked me in front of at least three-dozen cheering, betting witnesses. What’d you do, bus them in and then take them back to their hotels?”
“I think it’s time you two move on.”
Ron Hamilton showed his badge. “I say when it’s time to leave. We’re investigating a murder. And as far as I’m concerned, this is a crime scene. What’s your name? And show me an ID.”
“Michael Killen.”
“Where’s the ring?” asked O’Brien.
“As you can see, we have two rings.”
“Not those. You have another. Intimate seating for your morbid fans.”
The trainer sipped his drink and said, “I haven’t a clue, pal.”
“Oh, really?” said O’Brien. “I can tell you’re lying. You keep your body in shape, but you can’t control the pulse through the carotid artery in the side of your neck. It speaks volumes.” O’Brien turned to walk toward the American flag. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one.”
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.”