Blood and Bone

by Austin Camacho

  Hannibal stepped within arm’s reach and spoke what sounded like three harsh words: “Shut! The fuck! Up!” After which he backhanded Joey with his gun. The big man dropped to the floor and did not move. Hannibal then slid his pistol back under his right arm and snatched Floyd up by his collar. The player’s face twisted into a snarl and he started to resist, so Hannibal slammed him into the wall. That brought the widened eyes he was looking for. He jammed his knee up between Floyd’s legs to hold him in place and put his face so close to Floyd’s they almost touched. Close enough to finally smell fear.

  “Did you think you could threaten my friends and just go about your business? Did you think you could shoot up my office and I’d just ignore it? Huh?” Hannibal slammed his right fist into Floyd’s stomach. Once. Twice. Three times and Floyd began coughing like he was about to retch. Hannibal stopped him with a forearm across his throat.

  “What do you want?” Floyd gasped. “What is it with you?”

  “Me?” Hannibal’s throat, restricted by rage, only allowed his voice out in a strained growl. “Well I ain’t no hooker. Hookers are all scared of you. And I ain’t no cop. Cops play by rules. And I ain’t another pimp or gangster. They all hide behind a gang of muscle men. See, I take care of trouble up close and personal. You ain’t never met a nigger like me.”

  While Hannibal stared into Floyd’s cruel but terrified eyes, he saw realization dawn. Under the threat of physical damage, Floyd suddenly appeared to have a light bulb moment.

  “Look, why don’t I just forget Jewel ever existed?” Floyd croaked. “If she can go straight, good for her. She can go anywhere she wants. She can go on back up to Jersey where I picked her up last year.”

  Hannibal eased the pressure on Floyd’s throat as those words sifted down into his brain. “You hang out in Atlantic City?”

  “Sometimes,” Floyd stammered, as if he was not sure if admitting it was a mistake. “Lot of girls up there, working independent. I can usually find seasoned girls like Jewel up there.”

  “You might just come out of this with a whole skin, pimp,” Hannibal said, spinning Floyd around and tossing him onto the dirty leather couch across the room. Hannibal spun a chair away from the table, faced its back toward Floyd, and dropped onto it. He again drew his automatic and aimed it casually at Floyd’s nose.

  “I was thinking of breaking your arm,” Hannibal said, “or maybe blowing out one your knees. That would be fair for shooting at my client and ruining my computer. But maybe I won’t if you turn out to be of some use. So, give me the 411 on Zack King.”

  Floyd screwed his forehead up into a puzzled expression. “Who?”

  Hannibal squeezed his trigger, and a hole opened up in the front of the sofa, less than two inches below Floyd’s crotch. The pimp drew a sharp breath. He controlled his voice, avoiding a scream, but he could not stop drops of moisture from welling up on his forehead and dripping down his face.

  “You mean Zack King in Jersey,” he said, as if the original question had somehow confused him. “White guy, runs a club up there. Has prize fights there, and takes bets on his fighters.”

  “His fighters?”

  “Well, yeah,” Floyd leaned forward, as if confiding in a friend. “He runs a gym downtown where most of the fighters train. I think he’s skimming a pretty good amount off the gambling, because he knows the fighters so well.”

  Hannibal heard Joey stirring behind him, but he put his gun away and continued talking to Floyd. “You know, Floyd my man, if you tell me exactly where this place is, and stay away from my client, you might not get your ass kicked today.” Then he stood to face Joey. “You, on the other hand, just need to sit down and shut up.” Joey hesitated, fists curled but face blank.

  “Look man, I been kickboxing since I was sixteen,” Hannibal said. “You’re nothing like fast enough, or skillful enough to take me. If you got any sense, you’ll get your buddy there to a doctor before he bleeds to death.”

  Joey continued to stand, facing Hannibal. He never looked at Floyd, but his eyes wandered from Hannibal’s face to his hands and back again.

  “What’s it going to be?” Hannibal asked. His anger had passed, leaving him with the weariness that comes when adrenaline stops pumping and the rational mind reminds us how little violence solves. Perhaps Joey saw all that on Hannibal’s face, because he raised his fists into a defensive stance and stepped forward.

  “All right,” Hannibal said, his mouth pulled to one side. His stance shifted subtly and his hands rose to chest height. When Joey leaned in with his first punch, Hannibal ignored it and unleashed a burst of left-right combinations. When Joey staggered back, he switched to three-way combos: left, right, left crescent kick to the ribs. When Joey hit the wall, Hannibal delivered a single side stamp to his midsection, putting Joey on his knees. Hannibal did not have the heart to finish it. He turned back to Floyd.

  “That’s you if you give me bad dope, or if you ever come within a mile of hurting Jewel,” Hannibal said. “In fact, if you ever come down to my hood again I’ll break your knees. You reading me, you slimy pimp?”

  Floyd nodded, but his eyes were on Joey and Lawrence. Hannibal wondered what might happen to him when others on the street got the word his main protectors were out of business for a while.

  When Hannibal got home, the broken glass was cleaned up. Sarge was perched on the desk, shotgun in hand. Cindy sat in his desk chair reading Cosmopolitan. Jewel was nowhere in sight.

  “So, did you kill her while I was gone?” he asked her.

  Sarge grinned and dropped to his feet. “Jewel’s in the back. She’s been keeping a pretty low profile since Cindy got here.”

  “I didn’t say a word to her,” Cindy said, rising. “I think she just figured out who I was.”

  “So what brings you down here?”

  She stood so she could rub her hands up his chest. He was instantly less tired. “I called to find out what happened in Baltimore,” she said. “Sarge told me there were shots fired and you took off after the guilty party. I just wanted to know you were okay.”

  “I’m fine, and the guy who did this won’t do it again,” Hannibal said. He held her hands in his. They reminded him of commitment, dedication, and responsibility. In such a short time, this woman had become his anchor, his tether line to reality. He could not say what was in his heart, but he hoped she guessed how important she was to him. He leaned in and kissed her lips gently.

  “Babe, I need a break from all this. Can you get the rest of the day off? We can maybe put together a picnic and go over to Riverside Park and just sit.”

  “I think I can arrange that,” Cindy smiled. “Want to go right away?”

  “Not quite. I’ve got to go take care of one responsibility first, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me.”

  When Hannibal walked in, Kyle Mortimer was sitting up straight in bed playing a video game. On the television screen, a dinosaur screamed like a swooping eagle while battling a sword wielding skeleton. He hoped Kyle was the dinosaur, because its tail was pounding the skeleton. Kyle looked stronger than when Hannibal met him, and his eyes were more alive. His windows were open, and the room filled with the scent of newly mown lawn.

  With a whoop of triumph, Kyle watched the dinosaur eat the skeletal warrior. Then he turned toward the door, his smile as bright as the sun coming in his window.

  “Hi, Mister Jones. Come on in. It’s good to see you.”

  Hannibal gripped Cindy’s hand hard and walked over to Kyle’s bed. The boy continued his game, his dinosaur now facing some sort of ice being.

  “Kyle, I said I’d report in to you,” Hannibal said, “so I wanted you to know everything I’ve found out so far. I actually made a lot of progress in finding your father.”

  “Oh, yeah. Grandpa told me my dad’s dead. You sure work fast.” Kyle never looked away from the screen and his smile never wavered.

  “He told you?”

  “Sure,” Kyle said. “He said he died a long time ago.
”

  “Kyle, I’m sorry,” Hannibal began.

  “Not your fault. I’m glad to have an answer.” Kyle turned to Hannibal. “See, all these years I’ve thought my father was somewhere hiding from us, that he didn’t want to know how I was or what I was doing. Now I know he died soon after he ran out on us. I mean, sure he left us, but he never really had a chance to change his mind.”

  The boy’s optimism was bottomless and Hannibal’s throat thickened thinking about it. He heard Cindy sniff, then rummage in her purse for a tissue. “Still,” Hannibal said, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring better news. Your best shot at a transplant just evaporated.”

  Kyle took Hannibal’s empty hand, and Hannibal could feel the electricity of his courage. “Not really. There is still my half sister.”

  “They told you about Angela?”

  “She came up here,” Kyle said. “She only stayed for a few minutes, though. Some people just…” he looked down at his covers, “they just can’t, you know?”

  Hannibal did know. “You think she might be your donor?”

  “Well, the odds aren’t quite as good as with a true sibling,” Kyle said, in his clinical way. “But even half brothers and sisters often provide compatible bone marrow. Trouble is, the HLA test takes a few days, and I’ve only got a few days. But hey, that’s the way it always works, isn’t it? Just before the deadline, a miracle happens.”

  “Yes, and I believe you could make a miracle happen,” Hannibal said, shaking Kyle by his shoulders. “If there’s anything I can do to make this all any easier…”

  “There is one thing,” Kyle said. A shadow crossed his face as if he suddenly realized how short his time might be. “Just in case things don’t work out. I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you suppose there’s any way you could find out how my father died, and why? I’d hate to leave without knowing that.”

  Hannibal considered for a moment. “I found out about one man who probably knew, but he was murdered. Then I found out the murderer might know. Today I think I found out how to find the murderer. I was planning to give that information to the police and let it go at that, but this is different. Gabe Nieswand asked me to stay on the payroll for a couple more days, and you are the client, after all. I’ll see what I can turn up and get back to you. I promise to be here before…” Hannibal choked and had to clear his throat, “before you have to leave.”

  -18-

  THURSDAY

  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 w
ondered 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.