That evening, parked under the bridge, I watched Chris Chambers and Sonia Drego walk out together, talk, part, and head to their respective vehicles. No sign of unease between them.
I followed Chambers across the bridge and onto the off-ramp. On Pacific Boulevard he sped through a lingering amber, disappearing into the stream of luxury sedans pouring out from the financial district.
I made a right on Pender, reasoning that Chambers was headed home. Traffic was heavy on Hastings, but moving. When I turned onto Skeena I began looking for Chambers’s white Lexus. It wasn’t parked in the area around his condo. No lights on inside.
As I parked, I dialed Sonia. She answered and said breathlessly, “I have two minutes before my class starts. Is it critical?”
“I lost Chambers in the corridor,” I said.
“He’s not at home?”
“No one’s there.”
“His girlfriend works the odd modeling job. He might be with her.”
“Where would that be?”
“You’re the detective,” she said.
“Misha? They’ve been together almost a year. She moved in a few months ago.”
“They seem in love.”
“They do,” Sonia said. “Nauseating, isn’t it?”
“Think she’s the source of his stress, or whatever it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ever hear of Anthony Qiu?”
“No.”
“He’s worth running through CPIC,” I said. “Loan-sharking and probably a lot more. Chambers and his girl ate in Qiu’s restaurant two nights ago.”
“Interesting.”
“What class are you taking?”
“No-gi,” she said. “Advanced combat defense. Judo and jiujitsu.”
“What do you wear for something like that?”
“Bruises,” Sonia said. “I have to go.”
I coasted back downtown, traffic lighter now. On Main Street, activists had painted slogans over the old police building across from the courts. AFFORDABLE HOUSING NOT CONDOS, GENTRIFY THIS, and the like. A crew with stepladders and buckets were busy erasing the graffiti. By tomorrow it would be washed away. Some crimes vanish.
There was a martial arts dungeon off Alexander. I headed toward it thinking Sonia probably wouldn’t be there, and when I saw her car I thought I’d just drive past. But I found myself descending the steps and slipping off my shoes, enveloped in the humid air of the studio.
Class had wrapped and half the lights were off. I watched Sonia toss a demonstration punch at a short Brazilian man with hairy wrists. With a smooth motion he caught up her arm and flung her across his body, dumping her onto the floor with sickening force. She went limp and rolled to one knee, a defensive pose.
Her instructor noticed me and waved. “We’re finished,” he said.
“Thanks, Roland,” Sonia said. She was wearing a purple sports top over drawstring yoga pants. The bruises were there, especially her back and left shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Just in the neighborhood,” I said. “You fall pretty well.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” she explained to Roland.
Her instructor nodded. “I’ll finish my paperwork,” he said, withdrawing into a back room.
The gym had posters on the walls of Gracie fighters and way-of-the-warrior type sayings. The mats and equipment had years on them. Scuffs on the floor.
“Take off your socks,” Sonia said.
I started to comply. “Any reason, other than you like the sight of my feet?”
“I need an untrained sparring partner, and like you said, you’re in the neighborhood.”
Sonia watched while I shed my coat and placed wallet and keys near my footwear. I’d boxed in my teens, working out of the old Astoria basement. As I approached her, my feet fell into the stance.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Attack me,” she said. “Like you mean it.”
I swung a lazy left near her ear. She caught it and stepped into me, mimicking her instructor’s moves. I tumbled over her and landed badly, my head smacking the wood beneath the mat.
“Don’t fuck around, I want you to really try.” Sonia held out her hand. I took it, feeling the pulse in her wrist. I stood.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“I want you to.”
“Swing at you.”
“And hold back nothing.”
I shrugged and moved in. I jabbed at her. She caught the second one and tripped me. I landed on my ass.
“You’re not trying,” she said.
I stood up. This time instead of throwing a punch I got my hands over her shoulders and shoved. It was a hard shove and she back-pedaled, taken aback but nodding. “Again.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Hit me like you would if I was Ryan asking you to.”
“You don’t want that,” I said.
“Hit me, Dave. You can’t hurt me.”
“Get someone else.”
She approached me and kicked my thigh. I backed up. She aimed another kick toward my shin. It missed but her foot stamped the floor with all her weight.
I reached out and she slapped me. I grabbed for her and she trapped my wrist, ducked, coming up behind me with my wrist trapped. I shook her off, easier than she would’ve liked.
“I know you think this is going to make you invincible,” I said. “My father would say, a good big man will always take a good small man. The whole reason they have weight classes, Sonia—”
“Shut up,” she said. “Come at me.”
I did. I swung at her and found myself on the floor. I pushed up and bulled into her, propelling her backward. She rolled and came up on my left. I was breathing heavily.
“You don’t want to lose to me,” she said. “Well, I don’t want to lose to you. Or anybody. Can you do better?”
I swung hard. The fist caught her bruised shoulder. Pain welled up in her face, her dark eyes on the verge of tears. I dropped stance.
Her kick caught me in the solar plexus and rattled my lungs. I stepped back and held out a hand to keep up distance. She seized it and began another throw. I let myself become dead weight and collapsed her knees, bringing the both of us down.
I had her wrists. She was struggling. I pinned them and sat atop her. Her legs thrashed beneath me. Her jaw locked in a grimace. She tried every movement, but I was clamped down for good. I could hear our breathing and looking down I saw her nipples erect through the fabric of her shirt. She was staring at me with raw hatred. I felt sick, like watching the throes of a small animal attempting to escape a hunter’s trap.
I let her go and rolled off. She sprang up. Wiping the hair out of her face, she said, “I shouldn’t’ve put you in that position. I’m sorry.”
I stood and rubbed my back. “Impressive moves,” I said. “If the size difference wasn’t so—”
“Yes, I understand, all right. Let’s not keep talking about it.”
I walked her out to her dust-caked Mazda. Sonia still wore her gym getup, her coat and gear bag under one arm. She dug in the bag for her keys. Teens passed us on the sidewalk, midweek revelers, leaving a contrail of dope and tobacco and fading laughter.
Sonia stored her bag in the trunk of her car. Coming around to the driver’s side, she paused and looked at me, waiting on the pavement.
“What’s Chris Chambers got on you?” I asked. “Or you on him?”
She shook her head and shrugged, eyes wide, as if scanning for extra meaning in the nearby world. “I don’t know. I don’t understand why I do some things. Like back in there. I don’t know what I wanted out of that.”
“To kick my ass?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have the worst claim in the world for it,” I said. “How long do you want me up on Chambers?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it was a stupid idea.”
Sonia got in the car. Lit by the interior light her face looked beyond physically fatigued, as if the workout had tapped into her reservoir of hope.