Vampire Games (9 page)

“
Right,” I said. “Dr. Sculler also let it be known that he was by no means an expert in boxing-related brain trauma and could not, therefore, give me a true expert’s opinion.”

“
So, a non-expert declared that Caesar’s death was boxing related?”

“
That’s about the extent of it.”

“
Man, that shit ain’t right.” He turned away, swearing under his breath. He looked back at me. “I didn’t kill him, Sam. Caesar and I were amateurs together. We practiced a few times, sparred together in the early days. That guy could take a punch. That last fight...we were only feeling each other out. I landed maybe one solid punch. One. And even that wasn’t my best shot. Caesar could take dozens of those, maybe more.”

And that was the crux. How much could one man take before his brain finally gave? How much was too much before a guy collapsed in the ring, dead?

“
There’s one other thing worth pointing out,” I said. “The doctor does not dispute that Caesar suffered an injury that could cause death.”

“
Just that he didn’t think I caused it in the ring.”

“
Right,” I said.

“
So, if I didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him...”

“
Then someone else did.”

Chapter Twenty

I was on my way to L.A.

With me was a list of names provided by Russell Baker. On the list were three names: Caesar Marquez’s trainer, cut-man and manager, all three of which would have been in Caesar’s locker room prior to the fight. And
prior
was key here.

After all, something had happened to Caesar before the fight, something that had directly led to his death. What it was remained to be seen.

As I followed behind an endless sea of red brake lights, my cell rang for perhaps the dozenth time that day. And for the dozenth time that day, I saw that it was Kingsley Fulcrum. This time, as the phone rang, a text message appeared. Virtually simultaneously. I guess the big oaf could multi-task.

The text message read:
Sam, please pick up.

I thought about ignoring him again, until I realized the hairy bastard would just keep calling me...and since I wasn’t in any kind of mood to see him face to face, I thought I might as well hear what he had to say.

The phone rang again and, when it was about to go to voicemail, I picked up.

“
It’s your dime,” I said flippantly.

“
Oh, Sam! I was just about to hang up.”

“
That was valuable information to have. Thank you for sharing.”

“
Don’t be this way, Sam.”

“
What way?” I asked. “Hurt? Betrayed? How would you suggest I be instead, Kingsley? Ecstatic that a man I was falling in love with fucked another woman?”

“
Sam, we need to talk.”

“
Then talk.”

“
Not like this. Not over the phone.”

“
Perhaps in your bed where you fucked her?”

“
Sam...”

I waited. I had broken out in a sweat. Many of my human functions had stopped altogether, but sweating was not one of them. I sweated with the best of them, especially in a warm minivan on a long drive to L.A., and dealing with
this
.

Again.

I shook my head, swearing silently. Kingsley and I had been dating over eight months now. I had just started feeling the love again. Had just started letting him in, had just started getting over the pain of my cheating ex.

“
Sam,” he tried again. “How did you know?”

“
Does it matter?”

He must have thought hard about that because he paused good and long. “No. I guess not.”

But I knew it was eating at him. Good.

We were silent some more. Traffic on the 5 Freeway was sick. It was midday and I had already made plans for Mary Lou to pick up the kids. I had made special plans to be with Tammy tonight. So had Mary Lou. We were going to have a girl’s night out, so to speak. No boys allowed.

“
Who was she?” I asked.

“
I don’t honestly know.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
She just...appeared in the office. Wanted to make an appointment. Flirted with me endlessly. Caught me as I was leaving work for the day. Walked with me out to my car. Laughed at everything I said. Touched me, asked me questions. Then asked if I wanted to get a drink with her.”

“
And you said yes.”

“
Yes,” said Kingsley. “I did.”

“
You didn’t have to say yes.”

“
I know, Sam.”

“
But you did.”

“
Yes.”

“
Why?”

There was a lot of silence on his end. I could hear him breathing, each breath pouring over the receiver as if he were in a sporadic windstorm.

“
I don’t know why, Sam.”

“
Yes you do. Why?”

“
She gave me a lot of attention.”

“
Lots of women give you attention.”

“
She was different.”

“
Prettier.”

“
Yeah, maybe.”

“
Prettier than me.”

“
I didn’t say that.”

“
You didn’t have to. So at what point did you fuck her?”

“
Sam, how do you know this? Did you plant her?”

And that’s when I hung up on him, nearly crushing my cell phone in the process. He cheats on me...and turns it around? The fucker. The piece of shit.

And as I drove into the afternoon sun, feeling eternally exhausted and too hurt for tears, I realized that Kingsley had been partially right.

He
had
been set up. Just not by me.

Chapter Twenty-one

Caesar Marquez was trained by his brother at the family gym in downtown Los Angeles, which is where I found myself now.

His brother’s name was Romero and he and I were walking through the gym together. The gym was not unlike Jacky’s gym in Fullerton. The difference, though, was that Jacky catered to teaching women to defend themselves. The Marquez Gym catered to extremely muscular young men who seemed to take delight in punching the crap out of each other.

“
We’ve produced eleven number-one fighters,” said Romero. Sounding remarkably like Jacky, he paused to tell a young Hispanic kid, who was working a heavy bag, to keep his gloves up. I thought trainers everywhere were entirely too concerned about gloves being up. Then again, what did I know?

I said, “Must be good for business.”

He nodded and we continued on, weaving slowly through the gym. I was, I noted, the only female here. Once or twice I spotted a set of eyes watching me, but mostly, the young fighters kept their heads down and their gloves up.

As we circled a ring where a black guy and a white guy, both wearing head gear, were trading jabs, Romero said, “Caesar would have been the twelfth.”

I said, “I’m sorry to hear about Caesar.”

Romero nodded again and we watched the two fighters above us. Both fighters were slugging it out. Fists flew, sweat slung. Some of the sweat landed on my forearm.
Eew.

“
My family,” began Romero, as I discreetly wiped the sweat off on my jeans, “are all fighters. I was good, but it turns out, I’m a better trainer than a fighter. Caesar, well, he was something else. He was on his way up. Moving fast, too. He was already ranked in the top ten in his weight class. Top ten and moving up.”

“
How many brothers do you have?”

“
Three living, now one dead.”

I blinked, astonished. “There were five of you?”

“
Yes. Four now. All boxers. Caesar was the youngest and probably the best. Our father started things off by boxing in a few amateur fights back in the day. He was okay but didn’t love it enough to pursue it. My oldest brother, Eduard, loved it. Passionately. He was good. That’s him over there.” He pointed to a stockier version of himself, a guy who was maybe in his mid-forties and was working closely with a young black guy. They were practicing bobbing and weaving drills. I’d done a few of those with Jacky. “Anyway, his passion drove all of us. Especially Caesar.”

Romero’s voice was steady, his eyes dry. That he was discussing a brother who had passed not even three weeks ago, one would never guess. Then again, his voice was too steady, and he blinked too much. He was doing what he could to control himself. I suspected this was a very macho culture, and brothers who ran a world-class boxing gym were perhaps the most macho of all.

We continued through the gym and, without thinking, I threw a punch at an empty heavy bag. It was still daylight and so, I couldn’t put much into the punch, but I think Jacky would have been proud. It had been a straight shot and I had gotten most of my weight behind my punch.

Romero, who had been leading me into his office, just about stumbled over himself. He looked at the bag moving violently back and forth, creaking along its chains. Then he looked at me.

“
Do that again,” he said.

“
Lucky punch,” I said, realizing my mistake. I really, really hated drawing attention to myself. What possessed me to punch the bag, I don’t know.

Or, maybe a part of me envisioned it being Kingsley.

Or Ishmael.

“
Humor me,” he said in his thick Spanish accent. “Please.”

I gave the punch a half-assed jab.

“
No,
chica
. Hit it again. Like you did before. Please.”

Screw it,
I thought. The cat was already out of the bag, so to speak, and Jacky himself had been secretly spreading the word that he had on his hands a woman who could beat most men. Perhaps even Romero had heard about me through the boxing grapevine.

So, I took a breath, focused on the bag in front of me, bounced on my feet a little, positioned my shoulders the way Jacky had taught me, and punched the bag with all my strength, which, of course, was diminished, due to the time of day. And this time I really did think of Kingsley’s face...and this time, the heavy bag did much more than swing and creak on the chain.

It flew forward and up—so hard and fast that it dislodged itself from the hook it was hanging on. Now it was tumbling end over end, to finally come to a rest halfway across the gym. A few boxers had jumped out of the way.

“
¡Ay Dios mio!
”
said Romero and he made the sign of the cross.

Many others had turned to watch me. All looked startled. Or, in the very least, confused. Then they all went back to working out and keeping their hands up.

Romero continued to stare at me.

“
Oops,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-two

We were in his office, which had a view of most of the gym. Presently, two men were hoisting the heavy bag and repositioning it on the hook. They were using a stepladder and were sweating with effort.

Romero had yet to say anything. He was in his late thirties, extremely fit, and would have been good-looking if not for the fact that he seemed to have a permanent case of cauliflower ear. That was the condition many fighters got when the ear swelled up.

Ah, screw it, I decided. He was still damn good-looking, cauliflower ear and all.

He was leaning back in his office chair, lightly tapping the tips of his fingers together over his chest. The words on his tank top said:
Marquez Gym - Elite Training
.

“
You gonna say something,” I said, “or just sit there and look at me like I’m a freak.”

“
I’m sorry,
señorita
,” he said, literally shaking his head. “I’m trying to understand what happened out there.”

“
Sometimes, there are no easy answers.”

“
I suppose not,” he said, then his eyes sort of glazed over a little. I think he was re-living the moment, especially as he began voicing his thoughts. “Good form, good stance, a good punch. A straight shot.”

He rubbed his face and looked at me.

I smiled sweetly. “What can I say,” I said. “A lucky shot.”