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?”