By the Book, page 9
Duncan laughed. “That, my friend, is the biggest secret of the universe, and thus part of the risk. If humankind had a patented answer to that, the world would be full of happy rich people.”
It wasn’t funny. Not even a little bit. “You’re just full of useless wisdom tonight, aren’t you?” Nick groused. Finances and investment weren’t his strongest areas. He’d be broke by now without George to manage his assets.
Duncan threw him a shrewd look, as if he indeed had all the answers, but he wasn’t sharing.
Nick hated that habit. It could drive a man insane. “What do I have to say to get a retort out of you, to get a good yelling match going?”
Duncan shook his head. “Ca’ canny, brother. I told you I’m not going to fight you. Especially not when you’re just asking for punishment.”
“I expect you know what you’re talking about,” Nick said, getting up. “I sure as hell don’t.” He pulled his wallet out and threw a couple of bills on the table. As expected, he didn’t get an answer. And maybe he shouldn’t blame Duncan for that.
He had no idea why he was so furious. He could try to pretend that it was Duncan’s fault, but didn’t quite manage to achieve that degree of self-absorption. Either way, his tired calm of earlier that day had been shot. “I’m calling it a night.”
“Might want to take a cab.”
Nick shrugged it off. He was pissed all right, but not in that sense. Something inside him had been disturbed, and he wasn’t sure what, or how to get a handle on it.
Outside, the air was still too warm to cool him down. His skin was tight, trying to contain the unknown disturbance inside him that was more complicated than anger. Or desire. Although, Ben crowding him against the doorjamb...
Nick walked to the car with long strides. His body wanted to run, but one didn’t run in an expensive suit. Besides, what he really wanted to do was punch something.
Stepping smartly on the accelerator was almost as good, but there were too many red lights in the city to get a good clip going. He tapped his fingers, impatiently waiting for the green, then smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel in frustration.
The driver in the next lane revved his engine. Nick glanced over and met the man’s eyes as the engine roared again. Fifties, pimp-style shirt and a flashy watch, in a red Mustang. Oh, yeah? You want a race, you taste-challenged, ill-bred lowlife? Well, buckle up.
The Jaguar responded to the slightest touch like the thoroughbred it was, and shot away from the stop line the second the light turned green, leaving the Mustang in the dust.
On a long, straight road without traffic, the slightly lower top speed of the classic Jag would have been a disadvantage. But in downtown Boston, even on a weeknight past ten, it came down to driver’s skill, and Lowlife didn’t have it. He lost time braking and accelerating too hard when weaving around slower cars, overcorrecting across the middle line, almost clipping oncoming traffic.
The Jag’s powerful engine vibrated against Nick’s hands on the wheel and hummed all around him. Or was that the blood thundering through his veins? The wind whistled in the cracked-open window and whipped into Nick’s hair. He suddenly wished he’d bothered to take the top down. But it was an emotion rather than a conscious thought. There was no thought. This was almost as good as sex. Better. No fucking investment.
Nick was running on instinct and adrenaline. The lights of the city and of other cars were incidental. The only lights that mattered were the ones in his rearview mirror.
He downshifted to weave his way around a pickup, then stepped on the gas, pulling the engine into high revolution before shifting back into third, giving himself that little bit of extra momentum for a blissfully empty stretch before the next crossroad.
The traffic light in front of him was yellow, switching to red right as he sped through the crossing. The lights of the Mustang behind him didn’t slow down, barreled through the red light accompanied by a cacophony of screeching brakes and blaring horns, but made it to the other side unscathed.
Nick took his foot off the gas and used the drag of his downshift to nudge the Jag into a wide curve off the four-lane road into a two-lane side street. The main road had a traffic cam ahead, and he had no intention of making the morning news. If Lowlife was serious about wanting to race, he would follow Nick’s lead.
He did. He came skidding around the curve, overcorrected to the other side, front wheel hitting the curb hard enough to make Nick wince, losing time again as he straightened his car, widening the gap.
The Jag’s headlight beam caught two bright green reflectors about a foot off the road surface, then the cat disappeared under the car.
The cat disappeared under the car!
Nick braked as hard as he dared, considering his speed and the car behind him. The Mustang’s horn almost blasted him out of his seat before Lowlife sped past, lights flashing, right middle finger fully extended.
Nick pulled the Jag over and fumbled for a flashlight in the glove compartment. He could still feel the vibration of the engine in his hands, still hear its hum. No, that was definitely the blood in his ears now. Talk about coitus interruptus.
His heartbeat a fast tattoo, mouth dry, he stepped into the street and swept the light beam across the ground, back and forth, looking for a small, broken body on the asphalt.
That could have been a person.
He didn’t find anything, continued up one sidewalk, then back down the other.
The cat sat in a corner between a wall and an electrical box.
Nick flicked the flashlight off and went down on one knee. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows thrown by the streetlight two houses down, but he couldn’t quite make out whether the cat was moving.
He held out his hand, palm down. “You okay, little guy?”
A small, furry head butted into his palm. Nick felt rather than heard the purr that came with it.
He ran his hand down the cat’s back and tail, nudging it into the light where he could check it over. The tag on the collar read Dusty.
“Looks like you’re okay, my friend. My apologies for the scare. That was stupid.” And irresponsible. And high-handed assholery beyond belief. “You live around here, buddy? Better head home.” He gave the cat a last pat, then stood and brushed the dust off his knee. “See you around.”
* * *
Too wired to go home, he drove back to the field office, where he changed into worn jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his gym bag, and then took the T to Skinny’s. The boxing gym was located in the seedier part of town, not a place where he wanted to park the Jag, or be seen getting in and out of it.
There was no hip fitness equipment here, just the ring, and some heavy bags and a lot of weights. It reeked of sweat rather than money, but for Nick it was a refuge. When his mind got too convoluted, when he needed clarity, he could come here, where he wasn’t Nicholas Marshall, heir to the Williams fortune, or even Special Agent Marshall, but just Nick. Nobody knew or cared who he was or where he came from.
George called it slumming it, but to Nick it was more than that; Skinny’s kept him real, and he was extremely grateful for the place and the people, and very aware of his privilege. His membership didn’t even pay for a fraction of what the gritty little place meant to him. In a way, it had given him George, and on that alone he’d never be able to put a price.
He worked a heavy bag until he was soaked, but the workout didn’t fill the nebulous need that had driven him here today. He’d have liked to get in the ring with someone, but the only other people present were a scrawny kid around fifteen who weighed at most half as much as Nick, and Skinny himself. The former heavyweight pro, still a towering brick house of a man, typically ignored challenges. Rumor had it he’d hung up his gloves because he’d killed a man in the ring, but Nick figured that Skinny simply knew he’d be fighting all day if he scratched the itch of every cocky asshole who walked into the joint. Skinny didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, so he ran his gym, gave out advice on request, and that was that.
Tonight, though, he watched Nick for a while, then, when the kid had left, Skinny locked the door, disappeared in his office, and came back out wearing a pair of sparring gloves. He climbed into the ring and stood, arms at his side, the picture of relaxation.
Nick was still wondering what he was doing in the ring by himself when Skinny said, “You’re not getting a written invitation.”
Nick’s eyebrows rose nearly into his hairline. “I thought you didn’t fight anymore.”
“I don’t fight customers. But this ain’t going to be a fight. Just a little sparring. Middleweight?”
“Er, let’s call it that.”
Skinny didn’t call him on the extra couple of pounds Nick was carrying. He merely nodded. “Now get your ass up here.”
Nick did as he was told, but couldn’t help asking, “Why?”
“Consider it payback.”
“For what?”
“For thinking I don’t know where my money comes from.”
Nick tried hard for a poker face. He’d been very careful to keep his name off any donations. George was the one who signed checks and brought in any cash. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied.
“Of course you don’t. Now, put ’em up.”
Nick raised his gloves in front of his face, and Skinny started a sequence of light punches, markedly intended as a warm-up. Nick didn’t know where he did his fighting, but there was no ring rust on the man; he had the Ali shuffle down pat, and his combinations had Nick fighting to stay out of reach.
“You’re pawing,” Skinny commented. “Be first.”
Nick went into attack mode; he figured he couldn’t hurt Skinny if he tried. He was right. It had been a while since he’d been so seriously outclassed in the ring.
Skinny went strictly to the body, mostly with straight punches and ultra-quick jabs Nick would never have thought the big man capable of. And Skinny’s counterpunches nearly always found their mark.
Nick soon lost track of time and gained a number of what would later be spectacular bruises. He was tiring fast and barely making contact. And then that didn’t matter anymore, because Skinny delivered a body shot like a wrecking ball that took the wind out of Nick and killed his legs. He found himself on his knees, fighting for air with Skinny bent over him, murmuring, “Take your time, buddy. Breathe. There you go. Easy. You’ll be fine.”
Nick managed to regain his feet, but he wouldn’t have passed a standing eight count, and Skinny knew it. “Shower,” he commanded.
Nick dragged a towel out of his gym bag on his way past the lockers to the six-by-eight fully tiled room with a floor drain in the middle and four showerheads strung along one wall.
The water felt good. It washed away whatever Skinny had knocked loose. Nick still hadn’t puzzled out what that was; it remained vague and shadowy. But despite his aching body, he felt lighter.
Back in the gym, Skinny was sweeping the floor. He briefly looked up when Nick came in and nodded to himself.
“Still alive,” Nick said, then added, more seriously, “Thanks.”
Skinny waved it off. “Don’t mention it.” But then he grinned. “Next time you need the shit knocked out of you, just say the word.”
Nick thought about that on his way home. Had that been what he’d needed? Some weird form of self-flagellation by proxy? For the stupid-as-fuck street race? Maybe. It sure didn’t help with whatever had been bugging him since Monday morning, maybe even longer.
George opened her door when he unlocked his, took one look at his attire and the gym bag, and folded her arms over her chest.
“What are you still doing up?” Nick asked to head her off.
“Waiting for your call, telling me you’d be late for dinner, or to come and get you. How often do I have to tell you not to walk around in that part of town? Putting your Ralph Lauren tees through the wash a few times does not make you look like you grew up there, you know?”
“It’s not a Ralph L—”
Her eyebrows drew together in a fierce V.
“I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“One day they’ll figure out who you are,” she said, but her eyebrows relaxed a little.
That reminded Nick. “Skinny made very overt references to our monetary contributions today.”
“You mean your monetary contributions; I only pay my membership. Fuck. I knew it; Skinny isn’t stupid. What did he say?”
“Just that he was sparring with me as a kind of quid pro quo. Do we have to stand in the hallway? I need a drink.”
She followed him into his sitting room. “Skinny? Sparred with you?”
Nick could feel her stare between his shoulder blades. He carefully lowered himself into an armchair, which prompted George to say, “You mean he beat you up.”
“Without even working up a sweat. Which is why—”
“You need a drink.” She handed him a tumbler he hadn’t even seen her pour.
The amber liquid looked decidedly friendly in the lamplight. “I’m getting old, George.” The single malt went down even friendlier.
“Bull. Shit. Is that what this is about?”
Nick was getting a crick in the neck from looking up at her. “Do you have to stand there like Judgment Day?”
George hesitated for a moment, then poured herself a drink and settled into the armchair across from him. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to fall apart on me,” she said.
Nick laid a hand on his heart. “Have I ever?”
“Not yet. But then you’ve never been licked in that ring before, either.”
Nick gave her a wry grin. “Only because I usually choose my sparring partners with more care.” He paused, a memory suddenly flooding back. “The one time I didn’t get that choice you saved my ass.”
“Really? You think you have to remind me of the fact that the first time I laid eyes on you, you were a bloody mess in the parking lot? Why the fuck do you think I don’t want you to go there in the first place?”
“It was a misunderstanding.” Ten years, and he could still taste the metallic terror of that night on his tongue.
“Unh-huh. Pieces of shit.”
The attack had had nothing to do with the gym and everything with Nick hitting on the wrong guy with the wrong buddies in the wrong bar.
“You showed up in the nick of time.” He’d never gotten his signals crossed again after that night.
“They were so surprised that the girl carried a gun,” she growled.
Nick didn’t remember the surprised part; he’d been a tad out of it at the time, but he could readily believe it. He did remember her hauling him home, no questions asked. “Why do you put up with me, George?”
“Because you pay me well.”
He echoed her earlier words. “Bull. Shit.” She’d throw the money in his face in a heartbeat if he ticked her off. She’d done it before, when he’d offered to pay her tuition. She had called him a few years later, though, to tell him he wanted to hire her and pay her a lot of money because she was worth it. She’d been right.
Now she grinned. “No, really, you do.”
“Damn you, I know I do. That’s not—never mind.” He leaned his head back and studied the shadows on the ceiling.
After a while she said, “Well, the money and the killer kitchen are hard to ignore. Plus, this address does wonders for my business. But mostly I stick with you, because under all that Boston Brahmin bullshit you’re a good guy, Nick Marshall.”
He’d needed to hear that, though that didn’t make it true. Who was he, really, without the car, the loft, the suits with the deep pockets? How long could one wear a mask without it growing into one’s skin?
“So,” George continued, “whatever you’re beating yourself up about lately is probably bullshit as well.”
He hadn’t been aware that he was beating himself up before tonight. But she was the third person calling him on it tonight. And what, if not punishment, had he sought in the ring with a guy like Skinny?
Ever since that hungover Monday morning he’d felt as if he was letting something important run through his fingers like sand. His dad’s words did a voiceover to the image of a pair of Bambi eyes turning steely.
He shivered. He was getting old.
He drained his scotch. “Enough introspection.” Or he really would fall apart on poor George. “I’m going to bed.”
* * *
He woke just after five with fragments of dreams careening through his mind: hourglasses and heavy bags, George and Duncan. And Bennett Coyne, of all people, driving a VW bus with curtains and painted-on flowers and peace symbols.
Nick turned over and snuggled back into his pillow, fully intending to sacrifice another couple of hours to Morpheus, when he suddenly bolted upright. The VW bus. That was what he’d been missing. And no wonder. It was a tenuous connection at best. One that only a sleeping brain could come up with.
According to a witness in the Banyon case, a very hippie-looking VW bus had been one of the vehicles leaving the scene. Nobody, as far as Nick knew, had ever considered it a lead. Nick would not even have remembered it if he hadn’t read and reread the file multiple times over the last few days. That type of vehicle would fit with a stoner accident, a hit-and-run at most. Well, possibly a brawl with a deadly ending, but not a stone-cold execution.
But Nick couldn’t shake the sudden and utter conviction that he’d seen just such an improbable vehicle on one of the CCTV tapes he’d been checking yesterday. That had been the niggle he couldn’t shake.
