Chapter 1
Las Vegas. The Last Hurrah
Danny Cullen perched on the edge of
the press row seat closest to Julio Babbas’ corner, clenching his pen so hard
he could have snapped it. It had been a brutal war from the opening bell, and
Julio was taking the worst of it. Eleventh round, felt like the fiftieth, and
the clock was winding down in super slow motion. Julio’s face was all bruised
and bloody, his right eye completely closed. He was fighting blind on that side
and couldn’t see the brutal left hooks that were bashing in his face. The ref
should have stopped the brawl in the ninth, but Julio would’ve killed him for
that.
Cullen was supposed to be taking
notes for his post-fight report, but he’d stopped long ago. His reporter’s
objectivity was shot to shit. You don’t watch your best friend get bludgeoned
by a guy with anvils for fists and scribble a few lousy notes to fatten a
thousand-word column. The gut-wrenching reality was that nothing short of a
last-round knockout by Julio would allow him to keep his middleweight belt.
Mercifully, the bell finally rang.
The blood-thirsty crowd was still on its feet screaming and cheering as Julio
walked on wobbly legs to his corner. He glanced down at Cullen and smiled. What
the hell? How could he flash a grin at a time like this? Didn’t he know what
all the warm bodies in the MGM
Grand had already concluded? His butchered face would be down for the count as
soon as the next anvil struck him. He was going to lose his title.
Cullen leaned closer so he could
hear what trainer, Ryan McAlary, said.
“Helluva
way to make a living, isn’t it?”
Julio
nodded.
“Listen
to me!” the trainer said. “Remember the first day Danny brought you to my gym
and you were gassed after a few minutes of sparring with me? Then Danny yelled
he’d ship your ass back to Colombia
if you didn’t keep fighting, and you got so angry you found another gear and
almost knocked me down. Find that gear now!”
The bell
rang for the last round. Julio stood up. He almost lost his balance before
grabbing the ropes to help keep him up. He glanced back at Cullen with the same
crazy smile as before.
Maybe the fighter already had brain damage? Cullen didn’t
know, nor did he ask later where Julio went during those final seconds in the
corner, but whatever he found inside made him attack his opponent like a man
possessed, connecting with enough power shots to knock down a wall. It was as
savage an assault as Cullen had ever seen. Julio kept pounding his opponent
until the guy plunged face down on the mat, out cold. After the ref raised
Julio’s hand in victory, the exhausted victor dragged himself to the corner,
pointed at Cullen, and smiled. And then winked! Cullen shook his head in
disbelief. By now he was drained of feeling, unable to make sense of what he
had just witnessed. The crowd was roaring. The MGM
Grand shook. Hell, it seemed like all of Las
Vegas had felt an earthquake as Julio raised both arms
in triumph. McAlary embraced his fighter, as much hugging him as to keep him
from falling. Cullen left his seat and pushed his way near Julio and McAlary,
his two best friends.
“Don’t
know where that came from,” Julio said.
“That’s
the beauty of it, isn’t it?” McAlary replied.
***
After the
fight, Julio insisted against all logic that they go dancing at Raven, his wife
Cassandra’s favorite club. Cullen suggested that a hospital for a brain scan
would be a better destination, but Julio didn’t lose arguments any more than he
did fights. The music at the club was blasting at ear-shattering levels. Smoke
machines were pumping enough white stuff to make it seem like they were dancing
in a burning building. Out on the floor, Cullen felt like a pinball as
Ecstasy-fueled dancers bumped him around. It was worse than being back at the
Grand. At least in the arena, you were given a minute break between rounds to
gather your senses.
On the
ride to Julio’s house, the fighter put on a Colombian alternative rock group,
turned up the volume to the max, and sang along. This fight Cullen won. He popped out the CD and threatened to
throw it out the window. Julio relented and drove his Mercedes SL the rest of
the way to his Spanish-style split-level without speaking.
They
pulled up in the driveway just as a thunderstorm with bad intentions split the
sky with a dazzling bolt of lightning. Raindrops the size of quarters pelted
the windshield. The majesty of the rare desert storm seemed to Cullen a perfect
welcome home to the still-reigning king of the middleweight division. Cassandra
stepped out of the car and opened a large umbrella, then motioned for them to
get under it. Cullen did, but Julio just stood there in the rain. Then he
raised his arms and face skyward and let the water pound him about the same way
his opponent had been hitting him in the ring.
“Come
under the umbrella!” Cassandra shouted.
“I want
to feel the rain.”
“Well,
have a good time. I’m going inside.”
Cullen
wasn’t big on getting drenched, but he stayed there with Julio while Cassandra
hustled over to the house and went inside. “So you survive twelve rounds of a
near massacre,” he said, “and now you’re going to die of pneumonia? Come on, Perro. Let’s get out of the rain.”
Julio
lowered his arms, looked at Cullen, and flashed that same enigmatic smile he
had before the last round. “You know why I grinned at you in the corner?”
“Not a
clue.”
“I saw in
your face you thought I was gonna lose. After all we’ve been through, you lost
faith. That made me determined to let you know don’t ever count Julio Babbas
out. Truth is, Carnal, I had my
doubts, too, but seeing that fear in your eyes gave me a shot of adrenalin. No
way in hell was you gonna be right and me wrong. That just wasn’t gonna happen.”
“Tu es mas loco in todo el mundo,” Cullen
said.
“Si, mon.”
“Okay, now that I believe in you
again—can we get our butts inside?”
“Why?
Don’t you like the rain? Rain is a good thing. It makes the grass grow, the
flowers bloom and—”
“And it creates
floods that drown idiots like us.”
Julio
laughed as they trotted over to the house and hurried inside.
“Take
those wet shoes and socks off!” Cassandra called from the kitchen.
She was
rinsing plates and silverware and putting them in the dishwasher when they
walked in looking like two drenched, shaggy dogs. When Julio walked over and
hugged her from behind, she pushed him away.
“You’re
getting me wet,” she said. “Get out of those clothes before you hug me.”
Julio
took two bottles of Tecate from the refrigerator and handed one to Cullen. Then
he turned to Cassandra. “Did you enjoy the fight, querida?”
Cassandra
gave him a sour look. “What sane person would enjoy watching something like
that?”
“The fans
did.”
“That’s
because they’re animals like you. The more blood, the more they cheer.”
“What I
want to know,” Cullen said, “is after the beating you took, how you had the
energy to dance at the club.”
“I popped
a tab of Ecstasy.”
“Since
when do you do drugs?” Cullen said.
The
fighter laughed. “Just kidding. Who needs Ecstasy when you’re the Latino Spider-Man?”
“Okay,
Spider-Man,” Cassandra butted in, “I want you and Danny to get out of my hair
while I finish up. Go into the den after you change clothes. I’ll join you when
I’m done.”
They went
to Julio’s workout room first, where he dug up a couple clean sweat suits and pairs
of white socks. They stripped off their soggy clothes, hung them across the Nautilus
machines and slipped on the dry ones. Still shivering, they went into the den,
where Julio fired up the gas fireplace and they stood there drinking in the
warmth of the flames. When the chill had left their bones, they plopped onto
the leather couch, put their stocking feet up on the coffee table, and sipped
their beers. Cullen glanced at the black drapes pulled closed over a sliding
glass door leading to the backyard. The drapes belonged in a funeral home, but
no matter how hard Cullen and Cassandra had lobbied for a warmer color, Julio
had a thing for black, and that was that.
Cullen
took his cell phone out of the fresh sweat pants and looked for messages.
Finding none of any importance, he left the cell on a table next to the couch.
Julio suddenly seemed subdued, face troubled.
“What’s
wrong?” Cullen said.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t be
telling me nothing, Perro. You just
won a big fight, made a ton of money. Remind me again where I discovered you.”
“In a
shitty club fight at a hotel ballroom in Venezuela.”
“And who
was it who saw something special in you and brought you back to Vegas to train
with McAlary?”
“You, Carnal.”
“So have
you forgotten where you came from?”
“Not a
day goes by when I don’t think about that. If you hadn’t brought me to America to
train with Ryan, I’d still be on the streets of Colombia. Or dead or in jail.”
“So then
why aren’t you happy? What’s going on?”
“Just
tired, I guess.”
Cullen
frowned. Julio always told him everything. “What are you hiding from me?”
“I have
some things on my mind, that’s all.”
“Like
what?”
Julio
said nothing, just stared off at the drapes.
It
happened fast. A man holding a gun stepped out from behind the drapes. He was
dressed head to toe in black, and a ski mask covered his face. The gun made a
spitting sound; then a hole appeared in Julio’s forehead. Cullen opened his
mouth to say something. Nothing came out. The gunman slid the door aside and
disappeared into the night. Julio slumped over onto Cullen’s lap, eyes open,
not seeing.
Cullen’s
heart was beating out of control, mind racing. This can’t be happening. Gotta get help. Maybe chase the guy. No, can’t
leave Julio like this. So much blood. He couldn’t stand seeing it, so he
pressed the palm of his hand hard against Julio’s forehead to try and hold back
the flow.
“Don’t
die on me, Perro! Hang in there!”
He grabbed
his cell phone with his free hand just as Cassandra walked in carrying a bottle
of beer.
“What’s
wrong with Julio?”
“Shot!
Gotta get help!”
“Shot?
What do you mean?”
He
removed his hand to let her see.
“OH MY
GOD! OH MY GOD!”
The beer
dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor. She rushed over and knelt by
Julio. The room filled with a wailing sound. Cullen’s hand shook as he punched
in 911.
Las Vegas Nine-One-One, what's your emergency?
“My
friend just got shot! He’s bleeding badly! Send an ambulance!”
What’s
the exact location of your emergency?
“What?”
Where
are you located?
“Julio Babbas’ house. Hurry!”
I need your address.
“Spring Mountain Road.”
What’s the house number?
“I don’t
fucking know! I just come here all the time!”
Is there someone with you who can tell me?
He looked
at Cassandra. She was still screaming. “What’s your house number, Cassandra?”
She
didn’t respond. Cullen removed his bloody hand from the forehead and shoved it
into Julio’s back pocket. He took out Julio’s wallet and found his driver’s
license.
“One
eighty-six! Hurry before he dies!”
The
nightmare had begun.
***
Cullen
sat on the couch in his apartment drinking a can of beer. The lights were off.
It felt better in the dark. A bunch of crushed cans littered the coffee table.
His sweatshirt was still damp with blood. More of it was caked on his hands. He
should change the shirt and wash his hands, but the blood was all that was left
of Julio.
He had
stayed at the house until the last detective finished questioning him. Then he
and Cassandra hugged for a long time, just standing there, holding on for dear
life…lost life. Cassandra’s sister finally took her away as the cops brought in
a body bag. Cullen had shuddered, seeing it. Two cops had lifted Julio and
started to place him in the bag, but the one holding the blood-soaked head lost
his grip and Julio’s head banged on the floor. Remembering, Cullen winced. The
cop muttered something and picked Julio up again, and this time they succeeded
in placing him in the bag. Cullen had stared at his friend’s face until the
zipper closed over it. They took away the bag. Alone in the den, he looked at
the open sliding door and could still see the gunman dashing off into the
night. The black drapes trembled now in the breeze.
Rain had
started riding the wind into the den, so Cullen got up, closed the door, and
made sure it was locked. As if it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Julio was
dead. A cop walked in and told him it was time to seal off the house. It felt
like his legs were made of wood as he let the cop escort him to the front door.
There he stopped and looked back at the living room. This place would never be
the same. Neither would his life. Not without Julio.
The cops
had offered to drive him home, but he’d wanted to be alone, away from all the
questions he didn’t want to answer because there were no answers. He called a
taxi. On the drive back to his apartment the rain was still driving hard. His eyes
were as wet as the cab’s windshield. He had no idea how he got home or up the
stairs into his place.
Now, guzzling
down the beer, Cullen crushed the can and tossed it on the pile. He couldn’t
stop seeing the hole in Julio’s forehead. It made no sense. Everybody liked
him. There had to be an explanation. Was Julio in some kind of trouble? If he
was, why hadn’t he told him?
Cullen
closed his eyes. He tried in vain to shut everything out, but could still see
the masked man with the gun, hear that awful spitting sound again and again.
One second the guy was there, the next gone, almost like it never happened. Who
would do this? He desperately wanted to know…needed to know.
Then
Cullen understood what had to be done. The hole in Julio’s forehead was now in
his own soul. No surgeon or priest could remove it, only getting justice for
Julio could. He would let the cops look for the killer, but if they failed him
and the system broke down, somehow he would find the guy on his own, no matter
what it took.
Chapter 2
Las Vegas. Eight months later
Detective Lew Gholston was leaning
against an unmarked police car in an abandoned Flying J gas station on a remote
stretch of Route 93. A Chevy Malibu with a lot of dust and miles pulled off the
road and parked near him. Out of the car rolled a tall man in his mid-forties, about
six-foot five and with the kind of ordinary face you’d expect to find behind a
Home Depot counter or working at the post office. The only thing distinctive
about him was the intense steel-blue eyes that Gholston knew from experience
never missed a thing.
“I see you picked a scenic spot for
our first meeting in three years,” the man said. “I should’ve brought my
camera.”
They didn’t shake hands.
“I can’t be seen with you, Boff,” Gholston
said.
“Why? We’re old friends.”
“We were never friends.”
“Don’t you believe in bonds forged
in combat?”
“Not when I lose,” Gholston said. “I’ll
get to the point. I want to make this as quick and painless as possible. I have
someone who’s looking for a private investigator. I recommended you.”
“What’d the mutt do? A murder
involving a sex scandal would be great. I haven’t crushed a juicy homicide case
in a while.”
“The person didn’t commit a crime.”
“It’s a civil suit?” Boff said.
“No.”
“Look, I really enjoy playing
Twenty Questions with you, but I didn’t bring sunscreen and I burn easily.
What’s the case?”
“The person wants you to find a
killer.”
Boff looked surprised. “Is there a
punch line coming?”
“A friend of this person was shot
eight months ago, one bullet to the forehead. It was a hit.”
Boff spread his arms and stepped
forward. “Look at me, Gholston. Who do you see? Frank Boff. I don’t find
killers. I help defend them when they get caught.”
“You put a lot of drug dealers in
jail when you were in the DEA.”
“Ancient history.”
“It’ll come back, like riding a
bicycle.”
Boff shook his head. “You’ve got
the wrong man for this. Even if I found the killer, my first impulse would be
to ask for a retainer.”
Gholston said nothing.
“Did you have a brain fart when you
picked me for this job? You had to know I’d turn you down.”
Gholston said nothing.
“Well, it was certainly nice seeing
you. Let’s do it again in another three years.” Boff turned to go.
“I’m calling in a favor.”
That stopped Boff in his tracks. He
turned around frowning. “Don’t do this to me, Lew. I was just hired by a rich
mope accused of running an interstate Ponzi scheme
allegedly preying on elderly women. The case could go on for months. I could
pay off my mortgage with the money. How could you ask me to drop it?”
Gholston
said nothing.
“Aw, hell, who’s the stiff?”