Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  I thought about ignoring him again, until I realized the hairy bastard would just keep calling me...and since I wasn’t in any kind of mood to see him face to face, I thought I might as well hear what he had to say.

  The phone rang again and, when it was about to go to voicemail, I picked up.

  “It’s your dime,” I said flippantly.

  “Oh, Sam! I was just about to hang up.”

  “That was valuable information to have. Thank you for sharing.”

  “Don’t be this way, Sam.”

  “What way?” I asked. “Hurt? Betrayed? How would you suggest I be instead, Kingsley? Ecstatic that a man I was falling in love with fucked another woman?”

  “Sam, we need to talk.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Not like this. Not over the phone.”

  “Perhaps in your bed where you fucked her?”

  “Sam...”

  I waited. I had broken out in a sweat. Many of my human functions had stopped altogether, but sweating was not one of them. I sweated with the best of them, especially in a warm minivan on a long drive to L.A., and dealing with this.

  Again.

  I shook my head, swearing silently. Kingsley and I had been dating over eight months now. I had just started feeling the love again. Had just started letting him in, had just started getting over the pain of my cheating ex.

  “Sam,” he tried again. “How did you know?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He must have thought hard about that because he paused good and long. “No. I guess not.”

  But I knew it was eating at him. Good.

  We were silent some more. Traffic on the 5 Freeway was sick. It was midday and I had already made plans for Mary Lou to pick up the kids. I had made special plans to be with Tammy tonight. So had Mary Lou. We were going to have a girl’s night out, so to speak. No boys allowed.

  “Who was she?” I asked.

  “I don’t honestly know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She just...appeared in the office. Wanted to make an appointment. Flirted with me endlessly. Caught me as I was leaving work for the day. Walked with me out to my car. Laughed at everything I said. Touched me, asked me questions. Then asked if I wanted to get a drink with her.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “Yes,” said Kingsley. “I did.”

  “You didn’t have to say yes.”

  “I know, Sam.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  There was a lot of silence on his end. I could hear him breathing, each breath pouring over the receiver as if he were in a sporadic windstorm.

  “I don’t know why, Sam.”

  “Yes you do. Why?”

  “She gave me a lot of attention.”

  “Lots of women give you attention.”

  “She was different.”

  “Prettier.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Prettier than me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. So at what point did you fuck her?”

  “Sam, how do you know this? Did you plant her?”

  And that’s when I hung up on him, nearly crushing my cell phone in the process. He cheats on me...and turns it around? The fucker. The piece of shit.

  And as I drove into the afternoon sun, feeling eternally exhausted and too hurt for tears, I realized that Kingsley had been partially right.

  He had been set up. Just not by me.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Caesar Marquez was trained by his brother at the family gym in downtown Los Angeles, which is where I found myself now.

  His brother’s name was Romero and he and I were walking through the gym together. The gym was not unlike Jacky’s gym in Fullerton. The difference, though, was that Jacky catered to teaching women to defend themselves. The Marquez Gym catered to extremely muscular young men who seemed to take delight in punching the crap out of each other.

  “We’ve produced eleven number-one fighters,” said Romero. Sounding remarkably like Jacky, he paused to tell a young Hispanic kid, who was working a heavy bag, to keep his gloves up. I thought trainers everywhere were entirely too concerned about gloves being up. Then again, what did I know?

  I said, “Must be good for business.”

  He nodded and we continued on, weaving slowly through the gym. I was, I noted, the only female here. Once or twice I spotted a set of eyes watching me, but mostly, the young fighters kept their heads down and their gloves up.

  As we circled a ring where a black guy and a white guy, both wearing head gear, were trading jabs, Romero said, “Caesar would have been the twelfth.”

  I said, “I’m sorry to hear about Caesar.”

  Romero nodded again and we watched the two fighters above us. Both fighters were slugging it out. Fists flew, sweat slung. Some of the sweat landed on my forearm. Eew.

  “My family,” began Romero, as I discreetly wiped the sweat off on my jeans, “are all fighters. I was good, but it turns out, I’m a better trainer than a fighter. Caesar, well, he was something else. He was on his way up. Moving fast, too. He was already ranked in the top ten in his weight class. Top ten and moving up.”

  “How many brothers do you have?”

  “Three living, now one dead.”

  I blinked, astonished. “There were five of you?”

  “Yes. Four now. All boxers. Caesar was the youngest and probably the best. Our father started things off by boxing in a few amateur fights back in the day. He was okay but didn’t love it enough to pursue it. My oldest brother, Eduard, loved it. Passionately. He was good. That’s him over there.” He pointed to a stockier version of himself, a guy who was maybe in his mid-forties and was working closely with a young black guy. They were practicing bobbing and weaving drills. I’d done a few of those with Jacky. “Anyway, his passion drove all of us. Especially Caesar.”

  Romero’s voice was steady, his eyes dry. That he was discussing a brother who had passed not even three weeks ago, one would never guess. Then again, his voice was too steady, and he blinked too much. He was doing what he could to control himself. I suspected this was a very macho culture, and brothers who ran a world-class boxing gym were perhaps the most macho of all.

  We continued through the gym and, without thinking, I threw a punch at an empty heavy bag. It was still daylight and so, I couldn’t put much into the punch, but I think Jacky would have been proud. It had been a straight shot and I had gotten most of my weight behind my punch.

  Romero, who had been leading me into his office, just about stumbled over himself. He looked at the bag moving violently back and forth, creaking along its chains. Then he looked at me.

  “Do that again,” he said.

  “Lucky punch,” I said, realizing my mistake. I really, really hated drawing attention to myself. What possessed me to punch the bag, I don’t know.

  Or, maybe a part of me envisioned it being Kingsley.

  Or Ishmael.

  “Humor me,” he said in his thick Spanish accent. “Please.”

  I gave the punch a half-assed jab.

  “No, chica. Hit it again. Like you did before. Please.”

  Screw it, I thought. The cat was already out of the bag, so to speak, and Jacky himself had been secretly spreading the word that he had on his hands a woman who could beat most men. Perhaps even Romero had heard about me through the boxing grapevine.

  So, I took a breath, focused on the bag in front of me, bounced on my feet a little, positioned my shoulders the way Jacky had taught me, and punched the bag with all my strength, which, of course, was diminished, due to the time of day. And this time I really did think of Kingsley’s face...and this time, the heavy bag did much more than swing and creak on the chain.

  It flew forward and up—so hard and fast that it dislodged itself from the hook it was hanging on. Now it was tumbling end over end, to finally come to a rest halfway across the g
ym. A few boxers had jumped out of the way.

  “¡Ay Dios mio!” said Romero and he made the sign of the cross.

  Many others had turned to watch me. All looked startled. Or, in the very least, confused. Then they all went back to working out and keeping their hands up.

  Romero continued to stare at me.

  “Oops,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  We were in his office, which had a view of most of the gym. Presently, two men were hoisting the heavy bag and repositioning it on the hook. They were using a stepladder and were sweating with effort.

  Romero had yet to say anything. He was in his late thirties, extremely fit, and would have been good-looking if not for the fact that he seemed to have a permanent case of cauliflower ear. That was the condition many fighters got when the ear swelled up.

  Ah, screw it, I decided. He was still damn good-looking, cauliflower ear and all.

  He was leaning back in his office chair, lightly tapping the tips of his fingers together over his chest. The words on his tank top said: Marquez Gym - Elite Training.

  “You gonna say something,” I said, “or just sit there and look at me like I’m a freak.”

  “I’m sorry, señorita,” he said, literally shaking his head. “I’m trying to understand what happened out there.”

  “Sometimes, there are no easy answers.”

  “I suppose not,” he said, then his eyes sort of glazed over a little. I think he was re-living the moment, especially as he began voicing his thoughts. “Good form, good stance, a good punch. A straight shot.”

  He rubbed his face and looked at me.

  I smiled sweetly. “What can I say,” I said. “A lucky shot.”

  “A helluva shot. Or punch. Jacky’s been talking about you.”

  “Jacky exaggerates.”

  Romero shook his head. I think—think—his cauliflower ears might have wobbled a little. “Actually, no, señorita. I would say Jacky is not known to exaggerate. If he says a boxer is damn good, the boxer is damn good.”

  “I’m not a boxer,” I said.

  Romero raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not, but you can punch.”

  “I’m not looking for a trainer,” I said. “I’m here about your brother.”

  That snapped him out of whatever reverie he was in. “My brother?”

  I nodded. “I’m looking for answers, Romero.”

  He didn’t want to let go of what he’d just seen outside the office—in his own gym, no less—something that defied logic and common sense. He finally looked at me, and he finally showed me his real self. Maybe my little display had broken through his machismo and affected him on a deeper level. I didn’t know. But there was a change in him. His walls were coming down and as he looked at me, simply staring at me with an intensity I’d only seen a few times in my life—and perhaps only from Kingsley’s hauntingly amber eyes—Romero broke down.

  And he broke down hard.

  He covered his face with his hand and wept into it, shuddering, his shoulder muscles and triceps rippling. I watched the tears appear through his fingers and cascade down over his knuckles, and watched as his aura rippled with hues of blues and greens.

  After a few minutes of this, he rubbed his face with the backs of his hands. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

  “It’s natural,” I said. “And perfectly okay.”

  “It’s not natural for me.” He wiped his eyes some more. “I miss him so much, Ms. Moon.”

  “I understand.”

  “He should not be dead.” Romero shook his head, rubbed his arms. “Caesar rarely absorbed punishment. He was good. Damn good. He was the one handing out the beatings. And when he wasn’t punching, he was ducking and weaving.”

  “Tell me about the fight.”

  “The fight was no different than the rest. Russell Baker’s good, but not that good. He must have landed a lucky shot or two, enough to do damage. Hard to say.”

  “Is it your professional opinion that your brother was hit hard enough to be killed?”

  “From what I saw? No. From what I know about boxing? Anything can happen.”

  “Who’s allowed in the locker room before a fight?”

  He shrugged. “I guess anyone the fighter allows.”

  “And who did your brother allow?”

  “Myself, my older brother, Eduardo, his manager, his girlfriend, and his promoter.”

  “That’s a lot of people.”

  “Not really. Mostly Caesar was with me and Eduardo, discussing strategy, last-minute thoughts, and trying to calm him down. He is always so excited before a fight.”

  “But you were Caesar’s official trainer, correct?”

  “Yes. But that didn’t stop my other brothers from coming in and giving us their two cents worth.”

  He chuckled. I chuckled. I said, “Was there ever a problem having that many people in the locker room before a fight?”

  “Rarely. Call it controlled mayhem.”

  “Tell me about the locker room on the night in question. Did anything happen that stands out? Anything unusual? Out of the norm?”

  He was shaking his head and thinking hard, now running his fingers through his thick, black hair. I noticed some magazines near his computer keyboard. No, not magazines. Travel guides to the Bahamas. “No, sorry. Nothing that stands out.”

  “You said his girlfriend was in the locker room that night.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his relationship like with his girlfriend?”

  Romero shrugged. “Normal, I suppose.”

  “Define normal.”

  “They mostly got along.”

  “Mostly?”

  He shrugged again. “They fought like anyone, I guess.”

  “They fight physically?”

  Romero paused and cocked his head a little, giving me a better view of his cauliflower ear. I tried not to make a face. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Ms. Moon, but I can assure you that he did not have any altercations with his girlfriend before the fight. I was with him the entire time.”

  “Did your brother mention if he’d been fighting with his girlfriend earlier? Say at the hotel room?”

  Romero looked away and shrugged. “He mentioned a small fight. Nothing big. But they had made up by the time of the fight.”

  “Prior to the Vegas fight, when was Caesar’s last fight?”

  Romero looked up, thinking. “Four months ago.”

  “So three months before his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “How rigorous are his sparring sessions?”

  “Rigorous?”

  “Yes. Could he have suffered any punishment during practice?”

  “We use headgear, Ms. Moon. We go light. Not too heavy. We break up anything that gets too physical.”

  “Is it your expert opinion that Caesar could not have suffered any real injury in his practices leading up to his last fight?”

  “None.”

  “And he didn’t have a history of brain trauma?”

  “None. He was just a kid and a damn good fighter. Damn good. He could have been the best.”

  I nodded, and wondered why I was feeling like I wasn’t getting the whole story. Romero was fighting back tears. Caesar was dead, and there was only one obvious lead. I said, “Can I have his girlfriend’s information?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I somehow found a parking spot on the street near Allison Lopez’s Beverly Hills apartment. By near, I meant three blocks away, all of which I hoofed under the last rays of the setting sun.

  Normally I would have been sprinting...and my skin would have been burning and blistering. Even in the setting sun.

  But now, all I felt was mildly uncomfortable. No sprinting needed. If anything, I felt like I was coming down with a cold. Or a feeling of weakness. Mild apprehension.

  And so, I moved along the tree-lined sidewalk with as much energy as I could muster, knowing that in about twenty minutes, I would have
all the energy in the world.

  Just twenty more minutes.

  I moved between opulent apartments and condo skyrises, some many dozens of stories high, and all boasting glass and steel and smooth plaster. All reflecting the setting sun. Some had limousines parked out front, waiting with doors open, chauffeurs standing ready. I saw no fewer than three Paris Hilton look-alikes, all texting while their dogs squatted on narrow strips of grass out front. The dogs each looked up at me in unison as I passed, baring their little white teeth. One of them even leaped at me, nearly causing its owner to drop her phone.

  Whew!

  Dogs didn’t like me, which was annoying, since I was a dog lover. But I was especially a wolf lover. Except that thought, of course, depressed me instantly, so I let it go.

  At Allison’s apartment—one of the bigger and more opulent ones, no less—I followed the instructions as given to me by her during our brief phone conversation just a few minutes earlier.

  I pressed the pound button on the caller box but nothing happened. I pressed it again. Nothing. No response. There was no sign that the damned thing was even working. Frustrated, I dialed Allison’s cell number; it was busy. Unlike New York apartments, few L.A. apartments have doormen. This one didn’t. The plush lobby, just beyond the glass entryway, was empty.

  I stood there, frustrated.

  I looked around. One of the Paris Hilton look-alikes was still texting, even though her dog had finished piddling minutes ago. I looked over another shoulder. No one.

  I looked back at the locked glass door. There was no doorknob, just a handle. A heavy deadbolt fastened the door to a thick metal frame. No doubt, everyone within the building felt safe and secure in their posh apartments, as well they should. This bolt was serious business, released only by the occupants within. The sign above the handle said “Pull.”

  Two things happened simultaneously. The first was that the sun had finally set. I knew this because I suddenly felt more alive than I ever had before, which is saying something. The second was that the deadbolt tore through the metal door frame, ripping sideways through the metal.

  The sound was god-awful loud. I looked casually back to the Paris look-alike. She was still texting, oblivious to life beyond her smart phone screen. I did, however, have the full attention of her little dog.