Hook and Shoot (15 page)

“No. It's comfortable.”

“I can smell it from here.”

“That's a few years of blood and sweat. No tears, but you just got here.”

“Christ.” He took his suit coat off and looked for a healthy spot to set it. It stayed in his lap. “So I'm checking into ways to keep Shinto out of town. They won't sell, and the Yakuza coffers are basically bottomless.
My guys at the commission know it's crooked, but they can't pin anything down. It's fucking grim. Now don't get me wrong—competition is good. Like Elite Combat and Lou, bless him. Keeps me sharp. But Shinto was a farce, just a bunch of thugs and sumo dropouts slapping each other around to amuse the Yakuza syndicates. I didn't want that garbage sharing the same air as my warriors, but it looked inevitable. Then I got a call from Burch.”

“Did you know him already?”

“Shut up and I'll tell you.”

I grabbed the other glove.

“Hey, I'm spilling it here,” Eddie said. He watched me put the glove on. “All right, I'm sorry. Burch, who I'd never seen or heard of at that point, calls me and says he can help me keep Shinto and the Yakuza out of Vegas. Actually, I think he said, ‘those tosser motherfuckers.' Tells me we have to meet face-to-face if I want to hear the details. Now, we get calls all the time from assholes saying they have dirt on so-and-so or they know how we can make millions doing whatever the fuck. But I was desperate. And Burch sounded serious. Professional. We set up a meet and he was legit. Told me Vanessa comes from a billionaire family and she'd been kidnapped by the Yakuza. Her mother hired Burch to get her back; it led him to the syndicate running Shinto. The Dojin-gumi.”

“Wait, kidnapped?”

“That's what the mother said. Her husband is Tim Brandenberg.”

“Not the real estate guy from the billboards?”

“The same. And his teeth are that fucking white. Turns out he'd put Vanessa up in a game of
Oicho-Kabu
with the
oyabun
of the Dojin-gumi.”

My face made him frown.

“It's a card game,” he said. “This asshole Brandenberg was playing against the head of the syndicate, Omori, and bet his daughter.”

“You're kidding.”

“All caught up?”

I thought about the half-finished tattoo on Vanessa's back, the snake peeking out of the flowers. My stomach curdled, braced itself for worse.

“Jesus, you look like you're gonna puke. Wait'll you hear the details.”

“Don't. I'll ask if I need them.”

“Burch already got her back. What would you need them for?”

“Fuel. Tell me how this all helped you and Warrior.”

“Burch didn't know where Vanessa was being kept, but he knew she was with Omori. He asked me to set up a meet with Omori, like a sting, so while I'm talking MMA deals Burch is kicking in doors looking for Vanessa. Said if he could snatch her, Omori
would lose face and the Yakuza would take Shinto away from him.”

“And it worked?”

“You see any billboards out there for Shinto?”

“Why is Vanessa still around?”

Eddie shrugged. “We tried to shoo her away, but she feels safe. And her father's moved on to gambling with Saudi princes. When she ends up on that table, she's gone for good.”

“And Brandenberg's just letting this slide.”

“Hell no. He and his wife want her back, but what're they gonna do? Hire somebody to rescue her from the last guy she hired? They're all ex-operators. Once they find out Burch is involved, they tell Brandenberg to fuck off. But he calls Burch all the time, even tries to get to me through the Warrior office, saying he has a great deal on some hotels going under. Bullshit. Goddamn, this wears me out.” He pulled his knees up and rested his forehead on them.

I threw it all in a pile, shook it to see what settled at the bottom.

Yakuza, Dojin-gumi, Shinto, Warrior.

Omori, Brandenberg.

Burch, Vanessa, Eddie.

“So the Yakuza took Shinto away from Omori, but they wanted something for their trouble.”

Eddie's head stayed down. “Smart guy.”

“Then you stalled and promised, and when you couldn't do that anymore you gave them me against Burbank. The whole mess with Kendall.”

“Yes.”

“Which didn't work out so well. For them, anyway. And now they want to kill you. Us.”

“No. When you beat Burbank, they said they'd get paid one way or another, and they need me alive for that. That's why they're sending Zombi.”

“Ah, shit. That guy. So why are they trying to kill us?”

Eddie looked up. His eyes were flat, dead. Honest. “I don't fucking know.”

Eddie shuffled behind me into the kitchen. I got him a glass of water, and he held it with both hands, took small sips.

“We need to find out what happened,” I said. “Why this went from cash to blood.”

“I've called everybody I can think of. Same with Burch. Even the ones who know about the Shinto deal don't know why it turned into this.” Eddie twirled a finger around. I found it a casual gesture for multiple murders and continuing attempts. Toss in a throat slash, something.

“What did the Yakuza say?”

“Uh, besides we're going to kill you? Not much.”

“They said that?”

“Actions, brah. Somebody tries to choke and stab me, shoots poison torture darts at me, I get the message.”

“But you haven't talked to them directly?”

“Hold on.” He pulled his phone out. “Hello, Yakuza? Eddie. Hey, why you trying to kill me? I should go fuck myself? Okay, thanks.” He gave me a look and tossed the phone onto the island, leaned over it. “Jesus, seventeen messages. I still got a company to run, you know.”

I saw it in his face. A small animal dropped in the deep end, paddling like mad to find something to grab onto. Wearing out, starting to sink.

“Let's get some sleep.”

He laughed but didn't smile. “Know what I used to say when somebody talked about sleep? ‘I'll sleep when I'm dead.' Now that I've almost been killed a few times, sleep sounds pretty good.”

I set up a cot for Eddie while he checked his messages, called Vanessa at the penthouse, made sure she was alive, and let her know we were generally likewise. He came out of the kitchen and tipped onto the cot before I could throw a pillow down.

“She okay?”

“Yeah.” He spoke into the thin mattress. “Scared
but safe. Told her I'd get her out of there tomorrow. Maybe she should stay. Who knows.”

He was asleep by the time I'd walked to the couch to check on Burch and Denny. I heard Gil snoring in his office, probably crashed on the sofa in there. Denny sat crossed-legged on the coffee table with his eyes closed, chanting something barely above a whisper. If I had to guess, the language was monkish. He cracked an eye at me and kept chanting, tilted his head at Burch, and nodded. It seemed like a good sign, but everything about Burch denied that.

He was rolled onto his stomach with his face hanging off the edge of the couch so it could drain into a mop bucket. A thick cord of drool connected his bottom lip to the puddle at the bottom of the bucket, which was being filled by a steady stream of mucus from his nose. His back looked like a quivering slab of blue cheese. I thought about him rescuing Vanessa from whatever hell she'd been dragged into, and the only thing I hated worse than his ugly mug was the fact that I didn't want to smack it anymore.

Not much, anyway.

I flashed an okay sign at Denny with a question on my face.

He nodded and waved me toward the cots, the chant still going.

I dumped myself onto a cot and dreamt about Lou Gerrone standing next to a fountain shaped like Burch's head, bitching about the green water with a sword sticking out of his chest.

“You look fat,” Gil said.

I stopped jumping rope. “I've had a few days off.”

He squinted at my torso and sipped from his giant coffee, his eyes hidden until he brought the cup down and was still squinting. “You're two forty at least.”

“You let me finish this workout, I'll leave five pounds on the floor.”

“I'm wondering if two weeks is enough time to replace it with muscle, bulk you up a bit so you're harder to toss around. Even that goosh you have now might help.”

“You want me to put a shirt on?”

“Why?”

Eddie staggered out of the hallway at the rear of the gym, hair stuck to his forehead and clothes looking like used Kleenex.

Gil feigned terror.

Eddie frowned at us for standing up straight. “Can I have some of your coffee?”

“Help yourself.”

Eddie shuffled out of sight.

“Coffee cannot help that man,” Gil said. “I took a peek back there. Looks like Burch is still alive.”

“Kinda. Denny left a note, said he had to get more supplies. And if Burch starts sleepwalking, we're supposed to strip him naked and lock him in the bathroom.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Read it yourself.”

He glanced toward the front of the gym, the giant windows showing the parking lot and steady morning traffic. “So what should I expect today? Anybody stopping by to blow the place up? Drive-by? Darts and throwing stars when I go get the mail?”

“Man, I have no idea. There's no reason anybody should know where we are, but it's just a matter of time before they come looking for me here. It's weird, though. So far these guys haven't used guns. They're almost—I don't know—polite about killing.”

“I don't think that's the right word.”

“Honorable?”

“Better, but I'm not reassured. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I talked to Eddie last night, found out everything he knows. I'm working on a way to get us all free and clear.”

“How's that going?”

“So far I've decided to jump rope.”

Gil drained the coffee. “Well, I'm gonna make a few calls, see about getting some judo guys and catch wrestlers in here to spar with you. We don't know dick about this Zombi guy yet, but we can start with the basics.”

“Hey, about that. Eddie mentioned something about our game plans and the way I fight.”

Gil got a look on his face like he was ready for the punch line.

“He said we're wasting time with strategies. All I do is go out there and fight like my life depends on it.”

“He picked up on that, huh?”

“You agree with him?”

“Yeah, because it's true. But our strategies aren't a waste of time. They relax you before a fight, give you something to focus on.”

I twirled the jump rope around on the mat, trying to make it into a noose.

“See,” Gil said, “now you're thinking about the reasons behind it, the strings, which I didn't want. That fucker. Eddie isn't welcome to my coffee anymore.”

“No, I think it'll help. My way gets wins but at
what cost? I got more scar tissue than I do face.”

“That is a problem. But don't shut it down; there's a balance somewhere between your instincts and whatever I come up with. We'll find it. Meantime, stick with your natural strategy of hitting the other guy so hard he forgets his.”

The front door chimed and we both jumped.

I turned, expecting a horde, but it was just Roth and Terence rolling in for the morning workout.

Gil grinned. “You boys are just in time.”

“For what?” Roth said. He saw me smiling too. “Aw, fuck me.”

We did six-minute rounds with thirty seconds in between, Roth and Terence rotating in every other round to give me a fresh target. They're both smaller and faster than me, irritating when you're only going 75 percent to work on timing, slipping punches, and countering. They didn't like it when I hit them, so they worked extra hard to make sure I didn't.

Gil stood outside the cage with a notepad and mumbled about Zombi, every now and then nodding to himself and scribbling something down. “Guy is gonna attack or counter. We want him to attack. He counters, we fall into a trap.”

Roth bobbed in and flicked a jab, sprang back,
and worked his head around. I chased him with a looping hook that made me feel like a bear trying to catch salmon.

“Lucky we aren't grappling, son. I'd show you what's what.” Roth had fought two weeks earlier and won via omoplata, a leg-over-the-shoulder submission he didn't know the name of and had pulled off by accident. Since then he hadn't shut up about his ground skills.

I slapped him with a leg kick and cuffed him with a straight right that knocked his headgear askew. He pawed it back and got the crazy Australian gleam, one eye pinched shut, and ran forward with fists pumping.

I covered, slipped and leaned and sidestepped. A few got through, just pats, then one landed with weight behind it. My neck cracked, and I felt some tension back there go. I sighed. “Thanks, man.”

“Thanks?”

I dug a left hook into his ribs and he went sideways, a little scream popping out.

The ring timer buzzed.

“All right,” Gil said, “gear off. Get some water. It's a beautiful day outside, great for getting tired.”

Roth frowned.

“He's using it like a verb,” I said. “Tired. The tire.”

Dread fell across his face. “No. It's already a hundred fucking degrees out there.”

“We can go in the shade,” Gil said.

“We.” Roth spat it out with his mouthpiece, stomped down the steps. He and Terence walked toward the back hall like they were headed for a onetime appearance on the gallows.

“It's like vegetables. The more you hate it, the better it is for you.” Gil hooked my arm, walked with me to my water bottle. “I got a few catch wrestlers coming in today or tomorrow. And I found some bootleg DVDs with some of Zombi's fights. We gotta be careful, though—those fights could be fixed or just exhibitions.”