Knuckles (Insatiable Series Book 4.5)

by Patrick Logan

  Tony turned, as did his two henchmen, one of whom not so subtly reached into the front of his coat. But when Tony’s eyes met Peter’s, he signaled for his man to stand down.

  “You’re Stanley’s son, aren’t you?”

  Peter nodded, suddenly unsure of what he was hoping to accomplish by approaching this man in the rain.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Peter shrugged.

  “He can’t pay—my father, he can’t pay you.”

  His words didn’t seem to faze Tony.

  “I figured as much.”

  “Then what’s going to happen to him?”

  Tony sighed, and closed the car door, turning completely to face Peter.

  “More than likely he’ll up and leave. Take off, leave the County. Eventually, though, we’ll find him.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” Peter said quietly. “Mother will never be able to find us if we leave.”

  Tony said nothing, and Peter regrouped.

  “What are you going to do when you find him?”

  Now it was Tony’s turn to shrug.

  “Why do you care? He obviously doesn’t give a shit about you.”

  Peter subconsciously probed his swollen eye, the bruise on his cheek.

  “People like your dad… people like Stanley don’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves, kid. Sorry to say, but he’s going to keep on beating you. Maybe it’s best if you get away from him. He’s poison, and you don’t want to get sick.”

  Peter lowered his gaze, knowing that what this man said was true, but not caring.

  “I can work for you,” he said after listening to the rainfall for several seconds.

  Tony laughed.

  “Work for me? What can you do for me?”

  Peter looked up again, staring Tony directly in the face.

  “I can fight.”

  “You? You can’t even hold your own against your old man, how would you fare on the streets or in the ring?”

  Tears mixed with the rain on his swollen cheeks.

  “I’ve never hit him, I never fight back. But I can fight—I’ve been training with Frank Gillespe.”

  Tony raised an eyebrow at this.

  “You’ve been training at Gillespe MMA?”

  Peter nodded.

  “For more than two years now; Frank says that he has never seen someone with as much power as me.”

  Tony chewed the inside of his lip, obviously struggling with some internal conflict.

  Peter waited, suddenly aware that he was barefoot, and that his toes had gone numb in the frigid rain. Tony finally opened his mouth, and Peter was convinced that the man was going to tell him to go back inside.

  But he didn’t.

  “It takes some balls to come out here, kid, especially after what we did to your dad. I respect that. So, I’ll tell you what; you come out to the gym on Monday and show me what you got. If you’re as good as you say you are, as you claim Frank Gillespe says, then I’m sure we can work something out. And you do me a favor or two, and I might forget all about the money that ol’ Stanley owes me.”

  Peter’s heart lifted, and it was all he could do to keep the elation he felt from crossing his features.

  He nodded, perhaps too vigorously, and he thought he caught a hint of a smile cross Tony’s face. Then the man turned and pulled the door to his Mercedes open and stepped inside. The two other men got into the front seats, and a moment later Peter was left in the alley, watching the red tail lights disappear into the rain.

  Four years ago… I can’t believe that was only four years ago.

  After all of the fights he had had in Tony’s gym, after all of the jobs he had done for the man, he should have known that there would always be one more task, one more favor.

  Peter opened his eyes and found himself staring at the poster of himself and Jermaine Pinker, their faces so close that their noses were nearly touching.

  The words of the man with the long black beard, the one who called himself Dirk although Peter was positive that wasn’t his name, echoed in his mind.

  “Third round you go down. You go down, and you stay down. Tony says to remember the day in the rain.”

  And then the man had put a large leather bag in his locker. Peter didn’t need to look inside to know what was in there.

  It was insurance.

  “In the third round, you go down.”

  Indeed, there was definitely something very different about this fight, about this place.

  Something bad was going to happen here; Peter felt it in his guts like an ill-tempered tapeworm.

  Chapter 15

  Chris tried to follow Yori after he overheard the man’s conversation outside the diner, but his violent bout of vomiting took longer than expected.

  He lost him.

  Instead, Chris eventually made his way back to Tony’s Gym and found himself sitting in his car, watching the front doors half-expecting Yori to burst out. Preferably wounded.

  He didn’t.

  The fight was tomorrow, and Chris’s plan to steal money from one of the dead drops and use it to bet on Riot 7 had failed miserably. He literally had nothing left, save, of course, the car in which he presently sat, which was quite literally a piece of shit.

  Will Pierce was a local bookie who accepted bets on everything from the number of annual car accidents in the Tri-County area, to how many commercials there would be on the local telecast for the Askergan Falcons high-school football team. Chris had heard a rumor that the first thing Tony did after lending someone cash was to contact all local bookies and warn them not to take money from them.

  Chris was no different. But Will Pierce was; he accepted bets on any and everything, and Chris just happened to be his best friend growing up.

  Will most definitely would take his bet, but even he wouldn’t do it on consignment, regardless of how long they had known each other.

  As Chris continued to listen to the caw of a gull high above and mulled his options, of which, he realized, he had very few, the door to a blue Camaro suddenly opened. No cars had entered or left the lot since Chris had arrived nearly ten minutes ago, which meant that the man with the long black beard clutching a leather bag that stepped out of it must have been sitting inside for some time.

  Chris’s raised his eyebrow and watched as the man took a deep breath than strode across the parking lot, oblivious to his presence.

  The man went to the front door without hesitation and peered through the window briefly before pulling the door wide.

  This surprised Chris; it was the Thursday before a Friday fight, and everyone knew that the gym was closed the day before.

  Tony liked to spend the time cleaning it up, getting it ready.

  Which begged the question why Chris himself was here.

  And the man with the leather bag—one that looked oddly familiar to Chris.

  His intrigue led him to action, and Chris flipped the hood of his jacket over his head and stepped out into the waning sun. He hurried across the parking lot and caught the door before it clicked closed and pulled it just wide enough to slip inside.

  Chris instinctively moved out of the stream of light that spilled in through the glass doors behind him and pushed his back against the wall, becoming one with the shadows. He saw no sign of the man with the beard, but knew that he must be close.

  After catching his breath, Chris listened closely, confirming what he already knew: the gym wasn’t empty.

  A pain suddenly shot up his arm, a physical reminder that he shouldn’t be here. After all, Tony may be a congenial criminal, but he was still a criminal, and the only reason that he should be back here is to pay the man.

  Only he didn’t, and most likely wouldn’t, have the money.

  I should just get back in my piece of shit car and drive far, far away from this place.

  But Chris didn’t want to leave. This was his home. And, besides, even if he did leave, he knew that at some point he would be drawn back.
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  The tri-county area had a way of doing that to people, or so he had heard.

  And he had one final card to play. The Trump card.

  Yori, who was almost definitely a cop of some sort. Tony would pay dearly for that information. Depending on his mood, it might even be enough for the man to overlook his debt.

  But Chris already had three dead or injured people on his mind and as much as he despised the wiry fucker, he was reluctant to have another festering in his brain.

  No, he decided; ousting Yori was a last resort, one that he would hold on to until—if—he absolutely needed it.

  Chris slid further along the wall, careful not to make a sound. The muffled words seemed to be coming from the locker room, and he peeked around the corner first before slinking in behind one of the large blue lockers. Then he leaned his ear close and listened.

  “Tony told me to tell you to remember that night in the rain. He said that you would know what that means.”

  There was a pause, and then another voice, another he didn’t recognize answered.

  “Yeah, I know what he means. What’s the bag for?”

  “Insurance. The cartel knows you have it, that you are holding onto it for him.”

  Chris’s mind whirred during the pause that ensued.

  The cartels?

  Tony’s attitude seemed to have changed as of late, and all of the hints about him coming into something large suddenly made sense to Chris.

  Tony was striking a deal with the cartels to make Pekinish the center of some sort of heroin distribution ring—it was the only thing that made sense. Which would also explain why he had been so hard on Chris, so desperate to get his loan back.

  And it also explained Yori’s conversation with the police or whoever he had been speaking to on the phone; they thought that the presence of the two Mexicans at the dead drop location meant that things were escalating quickly.

  That perhaps the cartels had other ideas for Tony and his operation.

  An image of the injured old lady suddenly flashed in Chris’s mind, but he pushed it away and concentrated on the voices on the other side of the lockers.

  “Is this necessary?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Tony told me to give it to you, and to tell you that the cartels know you have it. Understand?”

  There was an affirmative grunt.

  “Third round, Peter. Go down, stay down.”

  This parting instruction was followed by the sound of movement, and Chris quickly moved down the length of the lockers, once again melding in with the shadows. The man with the long black beard walked passed him without turning and left the room.

  Chris held his breath and waited, his heart pounding away in his chest like a schizophrenic jackhammer.

  The sound it made seemed impossibly loud to Chris, and there was nothing he could do to calm it. If he was caught eavesdropping on Peter Glike, he had no idea what the man would do to him.

  Chris pictured the man’s profile on the fight poster.

  He was a killer, through and through.

  Eventually, a labored sigh and movement reached him from the other side of the lockers. As Peter made his way toward the door, following in the bearded man’s footsteps, Chris slid around the other side of the lockers, where the boxer had come from.

  His intention had been to hide, then slip out the back door when the coast was clear, but Chris froze when he saw the black leather bag sitting alone on a table. A bare bulb on the ceiling cast something akin to a halo on the rough surface.

  Chris’s breath caught in his throat.

  It was the bag filled with heroin, heroin that was supposed to be insurance for Peter to throw the fight. And it had been left here, unattended.

  As Peter’s footsteps receded further into the gym, Chris swallowed hard. Something that his mother used to say to him, all those years ago when he was holding a sign out by the freeway came to him then.

  In every person’s life, there is a moment—just one moment—when they are forced to make a decision. And this decision won’t only change what they do, how they act, but who they are.

  Knowing his mother, it was unlikely that this piece of wisdom was unique, but he just knew—knew—deep down that this was that moment.

  Chris eyed the rough surface of the bag, then looked down at his makeshift sling.

  Sweat began to form on his brow, and he snaked a dry tongue across his lips.

  This is the moment.

  Chris strode forward and grabbed the bag with his good arm, and slid it off the table.

  It was heavier than he expected, and he suppressed a grunt as it pulled his arm downward.

  He should have gone out the back door then, fled into the sun, driven until his eyes were bleeding, his ass sore.

  But he was compelled to head back toward the gym, to get a final glimpse of the man who he had almost certainly delivered a death sentence.

  Common sense dictated that he run, cut the heroin up, sell it bit by bit without raising any eyebrows.

  But Chris Davis wasn’t known for common sense. And when he saw the heavily muscled man in the ring, leaning on the ropes, deep in thought, something else occurred to him.

  This man wasn’t going to throw the fight. He knew this as much as he knew his name was Chris Davis.

  No, Peter Glike wouldn’t throw this fight, or any other.

  No matter the consequences.

  Chris slowly backed into the locker room, then eased the rear door open.

  When he made it toward his car, there was a spring in his step, despite the pain that traveled up from his broken arm.

  His friend Will Pierce wouldn’t accept bets on consignment, or shitty cars.

  But he would most definitely accept heroin. Everyone in Pekinish loved heroin.

  Chapter 16

  Two large men in trenchcoats stood in front of the door to Tony’s Gym, their imposing frames blocking the entrance way. Inside, the previously empty warehouse was jammed with people, noisily clanging beer bottles together and shouting, their excitement for the impending bare-knuckled fight palpable. New lights had been strung from the ceiling, but rather than making the interior generally more illuminated, these only served to harshly illuminate certain features—the ring, the bar—while pushing others deeper into the shadows.

  A quick glance showed that while Tony’s Gym was already bursting at the seams, there was a formidable line of angry looking men with greasy beards and cut-off jean vests still awaiting entry. His first inclination was to cut to the front, but looking at their scowled expressions, he decided against it.

  Besides, he wasn’t here to rustle feathers.

  The wait seemed nearly infinite to Coggins, but a quick glance at his watch revealed that it had taken less than ten minutes.

  Contributing to his unease was the fact that he didn’t recognize either of the two men in trenchcoats.

  “Coggins,” he said sharply, eying the larger of the two. “Here to see Tony.”

  The man didn’t respond. Instead, he grunted and asked Coggins to hold out his arms. Coggins did as he was asked, and as he was being patted down, he reiterated, “I’m not here for the fights. I’m just here to see Tony.”

  The other bouncer, whose arms remained crossed over his chest throughout the entire ordeal, scoffed.

  “Not gonna happen—not today. He’s busy with the fight.”

  The first bouncer, clearly satisfied with his search, nodded and stepped backward. Coggins lowered his arms.

  “I just need to speak to him, won’t take more than five minutes.”

  Crossed-arms man clenched his formidable jaw.

  “Like I said, ain’t gonna happen.”

  Coggins frowned.

  “What about Yori? He here?”

  “Don’t know. Could be—I haven’t seen him.”

  Realizing that this conversation was going nowhere, Coggins simply nodded and stepped forward. He took two steps before the man who had searched him put a massive han
d on the center of his chest.

  “Ten bucks.”

  Coggins stared blankly, trying to figure out if he was serious. Less than forty-eight hours ago he had been running errands for Tony, errands that had resulted in the likely deaths of two men, and now these knuckle-draggers were demanding that he paid ten bucks to enter the warehouse? For what? Just to speak with Tony?

  “Like I said, I’m not here for the fights—I’m Bradley Coggins.”

  The man’s hard expression didn’t falter.

  “You could be Celine Dion for all I care. Fact is, Tony said anyone who wants in has to pay ten bucks. That includes you. So pay up, or get the fuck out of here.”

  Coggins bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t in the mood for this type of shit; his head was still pounding, the final vestiges of his wicked hangover clinging to his brain like some sort of parasite.

  He wasn’t here to ruffle feathers, but pluck them? That might just be on the docket.

  One of the bikers behind him shouted to hurry the fuck up, and Coggins shook his head.

  This was a battle he was destined to lose. Scowling, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill and thrust it at the men. The one who had frisked him took it, and squeezed it into a ball, a smile forming on his face.

  Neither of the bouncers bothered stepping aside, forcing Coggins to squeeze between their massive, square shoulders to enter the converted warehouse.

  The interior of the gym smelled predictably of sweat, but this time the odor was punctuated by the sour funk of stale beer. The gym hadn’t been completely neglected, however. At the very least, someone had cleaned the floor of the boxing ring, and he thought that the ropes looked new. The lights, however, weren’t doing it any favors; the harsh bulbs surrounded by metal cones sutured to the ceiling in a maze of electrical cords high above made the entire scene resemble an industrial alien abduction. The clientele had also changed compared to the few other times that Coggins had found himself in the gym. No longer was the space populated by mostly muscular men with their hands wrapped, pounding on punching bags; in fact, the punching bags had been completely removed. In their place was a throng of bikers, which explained the multitude of choppers parked out front.