Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“Doing what?” I said.

“Nothing,” Delmar said. “My guys said he just sat there.”

“Say anything?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I looked at Hotel Counsel.

“Mr. Sixkill speak?” I said.

“No,” Delmar said. “Not a word.”

“And then the city arrived,” I said.

“Ambulance came,” Delmar said. “Cops came, and it was pretty well out of our hands after that.”

“Theories?” I said.

“I think they were having rough sex and it got out of hand,” Delmar said.

“That is, of course, Mr. Delmar’s personal speculation only,” Hotel Counsel said.

“You weren’t quoting somebody else?” I said to Delmar.

Delmar smiled faintly.

“Just so we’re clear,” Hotel Counsel said.

“They took her to Boston City?” I said.

“Yes,” Delmar said.

“May I talk with the two hotel security people who first went up to the room?”

“I prefer all discussion to go through Mr. Delmar and myself,” Hotel Counsel said.

“I prefer that you be less of a horse’s ass,” I said.

“No need to be abusive,” Hotel Counsel said.

“Just so we’re clear,” I said.

Zebulon Sixkill and I went to the Harbor Health Club in the early afternoon. He looked great in a black tank top and sweats. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were startling, and bulged or relaxed smoothly with every movement. People looked at him when he came, the way people often looked at Hawk. Being a trained investigator, I concluded that he’d probably done some weight work.

“How much can you bench, Zebulon?”

“Z,” he said.

“Got it,” I said. “How much do you bench.”

“Four-fifty,” he said.

“Let’s start with half that,” I said.

“No fighting?” Z said.

“We will,” I said. “Just see how many reps you can do with two-twenty-five. The machine is fine.”

Z nodded and slid into the reclining bench-press machine and set the pin at two-twenty-five and did fifteen reps.

“How many can you do?” Z said.

I shrugged and got into the machine and did twenty-five.

“Jesus Christ,” Z said.

“On the other hand,” I said. “I’ve never done four-fifty in my life.”

Z nodded.

“Different approach,” I said. “You run?”

“Ten miles,” Z said.

“Ever do intervals?”

“Fast and slow?” Z said.

“Sort of,” I said.

“Football,” he said.

I nodded.

Mostly in deference to Hawk and me, and also with a nod to his own years as a ranked lightweight, Henry Cimoli had salvaged a boxing room when the club went upscale. Z and I went in, away from the bright, tight workout clothes and the mirrors and the chrome weight machines, and the upbeat listen-while-you-sweat music. There was a speed bag, a heavy bag, a little two-ended jeeter bag that even Hawk had trouble with, a couple of body bags, and an open space with rubber floor mats for sparring.

Henry Cimoli came in wearing a white satin sweat suit. And custom sneakers.

“Thought I saw you come in,” Henry said. “New sparring partner?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Henry, this is Z. Z, Henry.”

They shook hands. When they finished, Henry shook his as if it hurt.

“Nice grip you got there, Z,” Henry said.

Z nodded.

“Hawk still in East Bumfuck?” Henry said to me.

“Central Asia,” I said.

“When’s he coming home,” Henry said.

“Whenever he wants to,” I said.

Henry nodded.

“That would be Hawk,” he said. “You guys gonna box?”

“I’m conducting a little introduction for Z,” I said. “Wanna sit in?”

“He want to be a pro or just win the fights in the alley?”

“Alley,” Z said.

“Probably win most of those now, being so big and strong,” Henry said.

“Wanna win all,” Z said.

“But no one ever taught him,” I said to Henry.

Henry looked at Z.

“Okay,” Henry said. “I fought at one-thirty-two. Long time ago. I weigh about one-forty-five now. And, if you don’t know, I’d clean your clock.”

Z shook his head.

“Can he take a punch?” Henry asked me.

“Yes.”

“You’ve tested that?”

“Yes.”

Henry nodded.

“Wanna try it?” he said.

“Me and you?” Z said.

“Sure, open hand, we’ll just slap. Nobody gets hurt.”

Z looked at me.

“It’ll be instructive,” I said. “You won’t hurt him.”

He shrugged.

“Right here?” he said.

“Sure,” Henry said. “That’ll be your corner. This’ll be mine. Spenser will ref.”

“No need to worry about hitting him below the belt,” I said to Z. “He’s so short nobody can reach that low.”

Z stood in his corner.

I said, “Bong!”

Henry went into his fighting stance. Left foot forward, knees bent, hands high on either side of his face. Z came from his corner with his hands held loosely a little above his waist. He put out a left jab at Henry, who moved around it. Z followed with a right cross, and Henry moved around it. They went around the room that way for more than a minute, with Z throwing openhanded punches, and Henry bobbing and weaving just enough to make him miss.

Z was breathing hard.

“Stay still,” he said.

Henry grinned at him.

“Okay,” he said, and stopped.

Z closed with him. Henry leaned and rolled and bobbed without moving his feet and Z still couldn’t hit him. Z was arm-weary. His hands were low. He tried a left. Henry checked it with his right, and stepped around it. Henry put two open-right-hand punches into the body, and as Z wheeled toward him, Henry put an open left hook onto Z’s chin. Z shook his head and tried a right. Henry checked it with his left hand and put an overhand left onto Z’s jaw. Z lunged at Henry, trying to grab him. Henry put out a left jab that Z ran into, and then rolled around Z so that he was behind him. He hit him a couple of times in the kidneys. And as Z turned wearily, his hands down, his voice rasping, Henry slapped him left, right, left, right on the cheeks.

“Bong,” I said.

Z stared at Henry.

“Annoying,” I said. “Isn’t it.”

“Do that to you?” Z said.

“No,” Henry said. “I couldn’t. He knows how. He’s as quick as I am, and he’s in shape.”

“And me?” Z said.

“You, Kemo Sabe, are quick enough,” Henry said. “But you don’t know how and you’re not in shape.”

“Kemo Sabe?” Z said, and looked at me.

“Henry speaks many languages,” I said.

Z studied Henry for a minute.

“You’re a big, strong guy,” Henry said. “And you got nice natural reflexes. I don’t want to close with you until you’re ready to puke.”

“No wind,” Z said.

Henry nodded.

“And you don’t know how to fight,” Henry said. “Ever been a bouncer?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures, they like guys like you,” Henry said. “Big, scary. Stop a lot of fights before they start.”

“And most of them are drunk,” Z said.

“Like you were,” I said. “When we fought.”

“Drunk’s never an asset in a fight,” Henry said.

“I don’t need to be drunk,” Z said.

“Sure,” Henry said. “Guy like you... You grab some guy, don’t know any more than you. You slam him up against a wall, give him one big punch on the side of the head. Fight over.”

Z nodded.

“Been winning fights all my life,” Z said. “Never had a problem until the other day.”

Henry nodded toward me.

“Then you ran into him?” Henry said. “And he knew more than you.”

Z nodded.

“Well,” Henry said. “There you go.”

Zebulon Sixkill IV