Body Blow

by Dan Ames

  “Lovely,” Dawkins said. He held his hands out in front of him and Troy unlocked the cuffs.

  His wrists were numb and he slowly flexed them up and down, trying to get some blood flow going. He needed to loosen up if he was going to fight someone.

  “Where are they?” Darnell asked someone in the crowd.

  “Just pulled up,” a guy in back answered.

  There was a series of hoots and hollers from outside the building and Billy figured his competition had arrived. He took the opportunity to step into the ring and look around. The man with the rifle had followed his every move, as had Darnell. The only door was the one they’d just come through. It didn’t even have a side door.

  A second group of men poured into the shed, and the last ones in were three big bodies, all about the same size, shape and appearance.

  Brothers, Dawkins thought.

  Three of them.

  More whoops followed as Billy’s three opponents took off their shirts, revealing muscular bodies. Not the low body fat types of physique seen on people in gyms, but the ham and butter-fed slabs of beef produced regularly in the upper Midwest.

  These were farm boys.

  Probably as strong as a team of oxen, and hopefully just as stupid.

  Billy moved back into the ring as the three brothers entered, standing loosely apart. One of them smiled at him, revealing a row of yellow teeth that looked like seed corn.

  Dawkins guessed each one of them weighed somewhere between 250 and 275. He himself had lost weight since his fighting days, and was now barely around 200.

  He was outweighed and outmanned.

  The bloodthirsty crowd surrounded the ring and began calling for the fight to start.

  Dawkins did a quick assessment of the three brothers. They weren’t triplets. They looked close in age, maybe two years apart. With the oldest in the middle. To the right of him was probably the youngest one, he had the most fire in his eye, eager to prove his mettle.

  He would be the first to attack.

  The oldest one would probably hang back, let his younger brothers take the initial abuse, and then try to be the one to finish him off.

  A shot rang out and Darnell emerged from the crowd, the huge revolver sporting a tongue of smoke from its muzzle.

  “At the next shot, the fight will start,” he loudly proclaimed. “Dynamite, take off your shirt and let’s see that old man’s body we all know is hiding under there. Show us some man boobies.”

  The crowd erupted in laughter.

  Dawkins had seen his share of street fights, but the thought of fighting without gloves pissed him off even more. His hands had seen a lot of work over the years and you could break a hand in a split second with the wrong kind of punch.

  Still, he complied by taking off his shirt and enduring a bunch of catcalls at his expense.

  “Damn, you gone soft, man!”

  The fact was, he worked out four times a week and his routines included plenty of time on the heavy bag. But they were comparing him to his fighting days from a decade ago. When he was cut and in the prime of his life.

  Well, someone had called him a mule. It was time to show them how hard he could hit.

  He was now standing in one corner, and the three Farm Boy Brothers were spread out, the youngest one eager to come at him.

  Darnell raised the revolver.

  “You boys get ready for a helluva fight!”

  The crowd erupted and more beers were cracked.

  Darnell’s finger pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John and Ellen put together a plan, and most of the action items were assigned to him.

  “Sorry, but I can’t go sticking my nose too far into this case,” Ellen said. “At least, not until I find out what the committee decides. If they make me an offer and it’s a good one, I don’t want to get into trouble for being involved in a local investigation before I even join the force.”

  “You and your rules,” John said. “You need to learn to live a little.”

  “You and your penchant for breaking the rules,” she countered.

  Ellen sensed the draw of the private investigator, though. It was liberating to be able to go where you wanted, follow whatever lead you felt was the strongest, and not have to deal with office politics. And following procedure. When you had enemies in the office, the slightest breach of protocol could be deadly.

  If you were a lone wolf private investigator, none of that bullshit applied.

  But she was born to be a police officer, and she’d never turn in the badge of her own accord.

  “Why don’t you follow up on the Motor City Promotions angle, and I’ll look into the Detroit law firm,” Ellen said. “I know exactly who to call for information, because I’ve heard of that group before. And I don’t think it was positive.”

  They talked over theories on the way to the resort, and then agreed to meet later for dinner, depending on what they found.

  Ellen returned to her room.

  As much as she liked the resort, and the room was very spacious with a great view, she missed her house. She missed her own bed, her own kitchen, and her own space.

  Why am I up here interviewing for a job then? she asked herself.

  Great question.

  She felt a little tired and debated about taking a nap or getting a workout in.

  As usual, the workout won.

  She put on a pair of tennis shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, and went down to the resort’s fitness center. After a good forty-five minutes on the treadmill, she did a quick routine with free weights and then returned to her room for a hot shower and a change of clothes for dinner later.

  Ellen dug through her phone and found an old friend who worked as an attorney downtown. His name was Colin Dougherty. After an exchange of pleasantries, Ellen brought up the name of the firm that had sent the threatening letter to Dawkins.

  Colin let out a low whistle.

  “Stay away from those guys,” Dougherty said. “They’re bad, bad news.”

  “Bad news in what way?”

  “Utterly ruthless in court,” Doughtery answered. “Known for intimidating witnesses and using less than savory methods to get witnesses to either appear, or not appear, depending on what side they’re on.”

  “Yikes.”

  “And that’s not even the worst part.”

  “Great.”

  “Have you seen the movie The Firm?”

  “Sure,” Ellen replied. “Tom Cruise. The fake law firm owned by…” she realized what she was about to say and stopped herself.

  “Yep. The rumor is they’re at least partly owned by the Mob,” Dougherty said, his voice suddenly low and quiet. “So trust me, Ellen, you really, really don’t want to get involved with them.”

  They agreed to meet in a week or two for drinks and then Ellen disconnected from the call.

  Well, it wasn’t that big of a surprise. The sport of boxing and the Mafia have always been linked, due to the gambling nature of the enterprise. Throwing fights, taking dives, it was all on the table, which is partly why the sport had lost so much of its luster over the years.

  Her phone rang and she saw it was John.

  “Gosh that was a good nap,” he said. “I suppose you worked out.”

  He knew her very well.

  “What’s up?” she asked. She checked her watch. Still a little early for dinner.

  “The girls and Anna have apparently booked a reservation at some dinner theater at the edge of town,” he said “It’s some kind of Sesame Street show or something. I said you were busy on the case, like I am, and can’t go. So, you’re off the hook for dinner tonight.”

  A part of her wouldn’t have minded seeing it, just for giggles. But depending on what news she may or may not hear, there was an opportunity to go downtown again and sample some of Good Isle’s best restaurants.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let me tell you what I found out.”

  She filled him on the law firm an
d its reputation.

  “Huh,” he said.

  There were voices in the background and then John said, “All right, Ellen. I gotta run. Have fun in Good Isle. They probably roll up the sidewalks at 8 p.m. so you’d better hurry.”

  She ended the call and slid the phone into her purse.

  A night on the town in Good Isle seemed interesting.

  She left the resort, went out to her car and drove downtown. Traffic was a little heavier so it took five minutes instead of four.

  Ellen parked along a row of shops she’d seen earlier and made her way along the sidewalk, checking out the merchandise and the prices. Some of the tags listed a pretty high price and she wondered if she’d underestimated what the cost of living might be up here.

  Down from the shops, she came across a restaurant and bar with the name of Sullivan’s. Through the window, she could see a bar and dining room that was filling up fast.

  She was about to go in when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Ellen Rockne?”

  She turned and saw a woman in a police uniform approaching her. A squad car was double parked next to the curb.

  “Yes,” Ellen said.

  The woman stopped in front of her.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a touch late for a quick call to Nate, but I’d done some research back at the hotel while Anna and the girls got ready for their Sesame Street show. I was disappointed I couldn’t go, especially because the Cookie Monster was one of my favorite childhood characters.

  He and I ate cookies exactly the same way.

  With two hands, crumbs cascading down onto our chest.

  Especially if they were chocolate chip.

  Nate answered immediately.

  “Where are you?” he asked. “I dropped by your office today.”

  “Up north, in Good Isle. Why were you paying me a visit?”

  “Just wanted to see if you were up for lunch, but you weren’t,” he said, with a tired, disappointed sigh. “What are you doing up there?”

  I hesitated. I trusted Nate with my life, but I was also cognizant of the fact that my sister was currently employed by the City of Grosse Pointe, and was semi-actively pursuing a job in Good Isle.

  It wouldn’t be good for that news to get out.

  “Ellen somehow got an extra room on her trip up here so she invited us up for a long weekend.”

  “What’s Ellen doing up there?” Nate, the intrepid reporter, loved asking questions.

  I kicked myself for even mentioning her name.

  “Some kind of law enforcement seminar or something, I don’t know,” I said. “I just made sure the room was free.”

  Nate grunted.

  A part of me hoped Ellen didn’t get the job, because if she did, and took it, I would have to admit to Nate that I lied about why she was up in Good Isle.

  Oh, the tangled web we weave.

  “Hey, I’ve got a quick question for you,” I said, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible. “Ever heard of a company called Motor City Boxing Promotions? I did some Internet sleuthing and saw that their name was on some fights a decade or so ago.”

  “Sure, that’s Don White’s company,” Nate said. “You know who Don White is?”

  I did. I had done some research based on the letter from the Detroit law firm about breach of contract, and learned that Don White had been Billy Dawkins’s manager.

  Now, I had a nice connection.

  “He managed a lot of Detroit fighters back when boxing was pretty big in the city.”

  “Guys like Dynamite Dawkins, right?” I asked.

  “Yep, Dynamite was probably his most well-known fighter. Came within one challenger of a shot at the title. Fucked up his eye then, and it was all she wrote.”

  I could almost hear Nate’s brain making connections over the phone.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Doesn’t Dynamite live up in Good Isle now? Holy shit. Are you working a case involving him? What happened?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tiger,” I said. “I’m just checking on something for a friend while I’m here on vacation.” It wasn’t really a lie. Lindsey Nordegren and I were technically acquaintances now, which was close enough to the friend label for me.

  “Hmmm,” Nate said. “Well, I think you’re full of shit, like always, John. But a word of warning. Don White and his crew are not to be trifled with. Motor City Boxing was rumored to be involved with all kinds of questionable characters back in the day, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, well, do you remember freshman year in high school? My fight with Ted Wilson?”

  “Oh my God,” Nate said. “You are a sad, sad man.”

  My victory over a five-second fist fight in high school was something I always liked to bring up to Nate whenever he questioned my obvious machismo.

  “He never saw that punch coming,” I said. “I’ve always had tremendous knockout power. With each hand.”

  Nate hung up on me, which was fine. Envy can ruin friendships and it was better if Nate dealt with his own issues on his time.

  During my research, I had come across an article about Don White and his extensive collection of restored Chris-Craft wooden boats. They were legendary watercraft, started in Michigan back in the early 20th century and were prized by collectors. The article stated that Don White, a resident of Blue Harbor, Michigan, owned some of the finest examples in the Midwest.

  Blue Harbor was only an hour north of Good Isle, and I wondered who had settled in the area first; Don White or Billy Dawkins? I’m sure it wasn’t coincidence that a fighter and his manager ended up buying homes within an hour of each other.

  Another trip onto the Internet and an address database revealed Don White’s home address in Blue Harbor. I used Google Maps to check it out, and he lived in one of the waterfront mansions I’d seen on my drive with Ellen.

  Every town along Lake Michigan’s shoreline had its own stretch of mansions. In fact, you could pretty much drive from the bottom of the state to the top along the shoreline, where most of the real estate was devoted to very nice homes.

  And lots of produce stands.

  Anna and the girls were using Uber to get to the play, which shocked me that the small town of Good Isle even had the car service, but there you go.

  You can’t stop progress, can you?

  So, I fired up the minivan, headed north out of Good Isle and was treated to a spectacular sunset drive. The steep bluffs hid the view from drivers on the road, until you crested the top, and then the beauty of Lake Michigan hit you in the face like a right cross from Dynamite Dawkins.

  It was breathtaking, and now, with the fading sun settling below the western horizon, the sky was a masterpiece of oranges, reds and deep pinks. I suddenly wished I was a painter and could reproduce sunsets like this so I could have a permanent record. Paintings, especially impressionist pieces, were more moving to me than photographs.

  Eventually the narrow ribbon of highway rolled down into Blue Harbor, a town that matched Good Isle in its postcard-quality setting.

  In fact, it felt like almost a mirror image of Good Isle, with the requisite outer strip of retail stores before hitting the historic section downtown, and of course, the harbor. I turned left in town, and wound my way along the lake.

  Again, the amount of money invested in waterfront real estate, even in these small towns along Lake Michigan was astounding.

  I wasn’t a jealous man, but I did wonder how many doctors, lawyers and CEOs there could possibly be to merit the hundreds and hundreds of million-dollar estates.

  Of course, not all of the folks living in these Architectural Digest properties traded among those professions. Don White, for instance, was a boxing manager.

  And, as I gazed upon his home, clearly new construction done in the style of a traditional Michigan farmhouse on steroids, I guessed he was one of the more successful promoters of his kind.

  I turned the
minivan assertively into his driveway and drove up to the house.

  My shoes tread soundlessly as I climbed the stairs of the front porch that somehow was obviously built recently, yet at the same time felt quaintly rustic.

  It was amazing what enough money could do.

  I was about to ring the doorbell when a loud noise erupted from the rear of the house.

  The noise I recognized immediately.

  It was a gunshot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As it turned out, they came at him exactly the way Dawkins had expected.

  Youngest to oldest.

  The young one, full of an inferiority complex or eagerness to prove he was tougher than his older brothers, raced across the makeshift ring, faked a straight left and then threw a murderous haymaker with his right.

  Dawkins saw it coming a mile away.

  Rather than duck away from the feint, he stepped closer at the obvious jab, inside the haymaker, and threw a short right with everything he had. Dawkins torqued his body and drove his fist into, and then through, the younger brother’s chin.

  The young man’s head snapped and the sound was like an axe splitting a massive piece of firewood.

  Dawkins saw the man’s lights go out. He leaned forward, his jaw loose, probably broken, and toppled forward, landing in the dirt on his face.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Dawkins couldn’t dwell on the success of his first punch because the middle brother was right behind the first attacker.

  Unlike his predecessor, this one made no attempt to hide what he was doing. Dawkins remembered that middle children were often indecisive and failed to form their own opinions. They were followers. Not leaders. One of the negatives of being in the middle of the birth order.

  That dynamic seemed to play itself out right before his eyes.

  Because the middle brother’s clear intent was to tackle him, get him to the ground, and probably hold him down while the senior brother pounded his face into a bloody pulp.