Now, this is a gym. That was Hannibal’s first thought when he walked into Farley’s Gymnasium in Atlantic City. You could tell by the smell of sweat and leather. He could name a dozen health clubs and fitness centers in the Washington area, but real gyms were becoming rare. He was really more comfortable here, among the heavy bags and speed bags, jump ropes and sparring rings.
Funny how this scene brought him back to the inner city, the real neighborhoods. Not at all the scene he associated with previous visits to Atlantic City. Leaving the boardwalk was like stepping behind the set of a western movie and discovering that the buildings have no back wall. Two blocks away from the shore, bright lights gave way to deep shadows, and ultramodern casinos and shops were replaced by sagging, rundown, dirty buildings on dingy, cluttered streets.
This was no situation for suit, gloves and glasses. But he fit right in wearing gray sweats and sneakers. A quick scan of the busy area led his eyes to a short, dumpy man dressed as he was. He was the kind of beefy athletes become when they stop working out. Standing beside the ring at the center of the room, he was shouting to one of the boxers inside. A trainer, Hannibal thought. Good place to start.
“Hey, Pop, got a minute?” he asked.
The older man looked at Hannibal, reacted quietly to his eyes, scanned down his six-foot frame, and turned back to the ring. “Okay, Roberto, that’s it. Hit the showers.” Then he turned back to Hannibal. “Roberto’s fighting tomorrow night. Think he’s ready?”
“Drops his right too much after the combination,” Hannibal said. “First good counter puncher who survives that right cross is going to tear him up.”
The trainer smiled and offered his hand. “Been telling him that for two weeks. I’m Connie Allen. You looking for a sparring partner?”
“Hank Jones, and actually I’m looking to book some fights,” Hannibal said. “Got into kick boxing while I was stationed in Korea. Now I’m out of the Army, I thought I’d try it for money.”
Connie crossed his arms, tilting his head to one side. “So you’ll need a trainer, is that it? Well, let’s see what you got under the sweat suit.”
Hannibal peeled off his outer layer. Bare chested in boxing shorts, he felt like a slave on the block as Connie walked slowly around him, mumbling as he went.
“Good muscle. Abs. Shoulders. Legs. Pretty good definition. What do you go, around one eighty? Kind of light for a heavyweight. Have to lose a few, fight you as a light heavyweight. Hold out that arm. Umhum, good reach. Show me a jab. Again. All right, quick enough. Yeah, I think I could do something with you if you’re willing to work.”
“Great,” Hannibal said. “I heard this was the place to start from a guy I knew years ago down in Baltimore. Name’s Sloan Lerner. We called him Slo back then. Know him?”
Connie rubbed the sagging skin of his jaw. “Lerner? That name does kind of ring a bell. He a fighter?”
Was he? All Hannibal knew for sure about Slo Lerner was his appearance. He mentally flipped a coin. “No, I don’t think so. He said he worked for a guy named Zack King.”
“Don’t know if I know him,” Connie said. “Why don’t you check with some of the guys in the locker room?”
Hannibal thanked Connie, gathered up his sweats and headed for the back of the gym. As he passed shadow boxers and one fighter checking his footwork in a full length mirror, he remembered how close he came to making a career out of getting beaten up. Police work had turned out to be more satisfying than boxing could ever be, but once in a while he felt the drive to prove himself in the ring against another warrior.
Hannibal signed for a lock and a towel at the door. The locker room was small, with columns of lockers pushed so close together they barely left enough space for the rows of obligatory benches. He chose one in a far corner. After tossing his sweats in, he sat on the bench to consider his next move. If nobody knew Lerner, or would admit to it, he figured he would play out the masquerade, maybe do some sparring. He could at least get a decent workout.
“You the guy looking for Slo?” It was Roberto, the heavyweight who was sparring when Hannibal walked in. He stood to face the Latin boxer.
“That’s me. You seen him?”
“No,” Roberto said, “I just wanted to make sure I had the right guy.” The straight left came out of nowhere, spinning Hannibal’s head and dropping him to the floor, his back against the wall. Blue floaters clouded the space in front of his eyes. Roberto stood behind them, his fists raised.
“You must have a hard head, hombre. That shot should have put you out.”
Hannibal eased to his feet, his own hands raised. “What the hell did I do to you?”
“Nothing personal, Chico, but it’s fifty bucks to bring in anybody asking about Slo.”
“Really?” Hannibal said, before digging his left into Roberto’s stomach and adding a right uppercut. Roberto landed flat on the bench behind him. “Well, you’re going to have to earn it.”
Roberto was up faster than Hannibal expected and two other boxers appeared behind him, cutting off any hope of escape. Roberto floated in closer and Hannibal, his back to the wall, raised his guard. Roberto served up a blistering one-two which nearly, but not quite, knocked Hannibal down. His arms were already sore from deflecting two hard punches. Roberto moved in again, his left smashing into Hannibal’s eyebrow, his right glancing off Hannibal’s forearms. And with the last punch he dropped his left.
Hannibal drove his own right cross through Roberto’s guard and across his jaw. He followed with a jarring left uppercut. His fist screamed and he wondered if he broke a knuckle, but Roberto spilled onto the concrete floor and did not rise. The two fighters who had joined him moved forward. Hannibal spun to deliver a stamp kick to the knee of the man on his left. The man on the right blocked Hannibal’s overhand right but had no defense for the stamp kick which smashed into his chest. He flew backward, but three more boxers joined them, all looking unhappy to interrupt their training. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, Hannibal decided to change the location of the fight. He jumped to his right, high enough to grasp the top of the lockers. His momentum was enough to spill the column over into the next aisle. It landed with a loud hollow clatter, with him on top of it. With a little luck, he could escape the locker room and from there get to his car.
Stomping across the gray sheet metal of the lockers, Hannibal made it to the end of his aisle before another fist swooped at him. He dodged, then snapped a foot into the fighter’s groin. But even as one man groaned and went down, another swung in from Hannibal’s left. A hard fist bounced off his head, sending him staggering. He blocked the next punch and dodged another, but a third caught him in the mouth. This guy was directly in front of Hannibal, but he went down under a sweeping roundhouse kick.
Hannibal ran as hard as he could but a rough shoulder check shoved him into the shower stalls. He slipped on the tiles trying to get out, and a vicious right hook smashed his ribs hard enough to push him back into a steel control lever. It stabbed painfully into his back, and started a rush of cold water down on his shoulders.
The cold burst cleared the cobwebs from his mind as it cleared the sweaty locker room smell from his nostrils. He tasted blood and wondered if any teeth were loosened. Fire fighters rushed toward him, their footsteps echoing in the narrow shower area. He certainly couldn’t beat them all. So he picked out the biggest one and swung a wide crescent kick to the side of his head. The boxer’s head made a hollow sound against the wall when he fell, but then the crowd was too close to swing in. Two men managed to gather Hannibal’s arms behind him while another went to work on his face and body until his mind stopped accepting the pain messages and then his mind simply stopped.
After a long internal debate about the wisdom of taking any action at all, Hannibal finally opened his eyes a crack. Incoming light from an overhead fixture set off a series of explosions in his brain, building to a throbbing pain which threatened to burst his skull before easing down to a dull ache. Raising a hand, he found a small bandage over his right eye but no moistness from blood. His nose was intact and his jaw, while sore, worked normally. A deep breath brought him the pain of muscle soreness but not the sharp stab of a broken rib.
“They must have stopped soon after I passed out,” he mumbled to himself. Then, to check his brain function, he decided to go over the five W’s. He knew who he was, a good sign. And he remembered what happened. A quick check of his watch told him when. It was still Thursday. He was only out for three hours. He could not know where he was beyond the fact that he was on top of the covers on a single bed with worn springs. As to why, he would have to investigate to find out. Then a familiar voice cut through his headache.
“Tell the boss Sleeping Beauty is awake.”
“I know that voice,” Hannibal said, pushing himself into a seated position. He was in an office of some sort, on a bed at the opposite end from the big oak desk. The man behind the desk stood up, revealing a sling supporting his right arm. The hand hanging from it bore the faint mark of an old, horseshoe-shaped tattoo. He stood a couple of inches taller than Hannibal, and he was much wider. He wore an ill fitted, cheap brown suit.
“I know you,” Hannibal repeated, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re Sloan Lerner, aren’t you? You killed Paton. Then you stole my car when I tried to help you.”
“Sorry about that,” the big man said. “I kind of had to get away. The cops were after me. And I don’t know no Paton.”
Hannibal looked more closely. The resemblance to his brother was there, but the mouse-like features were morphed by the shift in proportions usually associated with slow wittedness. His eyes were too close together, his brow too low. And in place of his brother’s low cunning, a blank look covered his face. His movements and words were not childish, but rather childlike. A very real difference, it seemed to Hannibal.
He swung his feet to the bare wooden floor and was about to stand when the door opened. A short, round, well dressed man with an old world Jewish face and slicked back hair strolled in with an air of control. A huge, six-dollar cigar poked out of the right corner of his mouth. He was followed by three white men whose shoulders barely fit through the door. He stopped facing Hannibal, his three followers moving in so he was cloaked in their shadows. He drew on his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew a long tube of smoke before he spoke.
“Don’t stand up,” the short man said in a low, smooth voice. “These guys get nervous.”
Hannibal put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the wall. He lifted his left ankle to his right knee. “Zack King, right?” he asked.
“That would be me. And you are in fact Hannibal Jones, yes?” Hannibal nodded. “You help people in trouble, get involved in other peoples’ problems. Admirable. Don’t always help the cops. Even more admirable.”
“Glad you approve,” Hannibal said, wrinkling his nose at the smoke. “Mind telling me why I’m here?”
“Slo’s on the run. I put the word out I wanted to see anybody who came looking for him. Now your turn. Why are you looking for him?”
“Handful of reasons,” Hannibal said. “For one, he banged my head and stole my car. Can’t let people go around doing things like that in my business.”
Zack looked around at Slo Lerner and puffed on his cigar again. “Yeah, he told me about that. He might not have gotten away if you hadn’t come along. He damage the car much?”
“Insurance will cover that,” Hannibal said, “except for the deductible of course.” The mundane nature of the conversation disturbed him a little.
“Good. Now, tell me about this murder thing. You put that story in the street?”
“Your boy was running from the crime scene,” Hannibal said. “Apparently he shot Ike Paton in the head.”
Slo moved over to Zack, his face twisted in confusion. “I don’t know no Ike Paton, Mister King.”
“You know him as Patrick Louis,” Hannibal told Zack. “He used to work for you. Look, I don’t care much about that. The guy was a low-life. Much like yourself. I just want to know why you had him killed. Did it have to do with something he did years ago? Did he kill Jake Mortimer?”
Zack was staring at Slo sternly, as a teacher who caught her star pupil cheating might. For all his bulk, Slo was cowed by the icy stare. Zack finally removed his cigar again and pointed with it. He spoke slowly and quietly.
“You kill Pat Louis, Slo?”
“I swear, Zack,” Slo said, pleading with his good hand. “I went to get the money, just like you said. He must have thought that lawyer’s house was a good hiding place. He was sure surprised to see me again, I’ll tell you. And he must have thought I was after him or something because he just went crazy. He threatened me and, I don’t know, I guess it turned into a fight. I don’t mind a good fight. But when he started losing, he pulled a knife on me. After he cut me, I clocked him. I clocked him good, knocked him out. But I didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him.”
“He was shot in the head,” Hannibal said, putting both feet on the floor and watching Slo squirm.
“Shut up,” Zack told Hannibal.
“I didn’t shoot nobody,” Slo told Zack. Then he actually started to pout. “I didn’t shoot nobody,” he said again.
Slo wandered back to the desk and sat down. The room was very quiet for a minute. Then Zack released a bored sigh and shoved a pudgy hand into his pocket. His hand came out wrapped around a roll of hundred dollar bills. He talked to the bills as he flipped them upright, one at a time.
“Okay. One, two, three, four, five. That ought to cover the deductible for the damaged Volvo. Two hundred for the lumps you got from Slo. Couple more for the little punch up at the gym. And let’s say one more to keep quiet and get off my back. See, I believe Slo. He’s never lied to me before, and I don’t think he could anyway. So you and me, we’re square, right?”
Hannibal slowly leaned forward so his elbows rested on his thighs and dropped his chin onto his fists. He was not sure what was most offensive. Being handled so casually? His bruises and lumps being reduced to money? Or Zack thinking his silence could be bought so cheaply. It was degrading to be brushed aside this way. He felt the anger beginning to boil in his belly again. He must learn to control that. Perspective, he told himself. Aloud, all he said was, “I thought you knew me. You found out some, but you missed some important points.”
Zack had a big laugh, and it bubbled up from deep inside him like tar from the LaBrea Pits. “What, like you can’t be bought? Face it, little man, everybody has a price. Only difference is, when you get to be where I am, you set the price.” Grinning arrogantly, Zack flipped the stack of bills into Hannibal’s face.
Hannibal did not move until all the bills had fluttered to the floor. Then he dropped his hands to his legs and turned his face slowly downward and to one side. Perspective, he told himself. There was that anger again, like a knot pulled tight in his stomach. He must learn to control that. Someday.
He uncoiled like a steel spring, his right fist flying upward to smash into Zack’s jaw with all the strength of his arm, stomach, back, legs and heart. The impact was loud as a shot in the small room. Zack lifted off the floor, flew backward a few feet, and crashed down on his desk. And like the Dallas Cowboys’ front line, Zack’s three followers guaranteed Hannibal would not gain one more inch.