Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

Tucker was silent, the circulating blue of pool water reflecting from his eyes “If I could catch old circuit court judge Samuel Davidson after the church service tomorrow, I might have a chance to get his ear.”

O’Brien smiled. “Thank you.” He looked at his watch and stood. “I need to call a cab. I have to make a couple of stops downtown.”

“Tell you what, I’ve got two cars in the driveway-one more than I need. Couldn’t bear to part with Margaret’s black thunderbird after she died. She loved that car. We used to enjoy putting the top down and head to Key Largo on weekends. The car is one of the last Ford made before ending production in oh-three. She only put three thousand miles on it. Car’s in need of driving. Take it. Drop if off when you’re done.”

O’Brien drove across the MacArthur Causeway, keeping the little T-Bird humming just below the speed limit. His cell rang. It was Dave Collins. “I may have come up with a lead on the picture of the moon you emailed me. I compared it with a cropped close-up from the image Father Callahan drew, the one you had Detective Grant email to me. I believe it may date to a fifteenth century painter, a man many people thought was deranged. But, with Father Callahan’s art history background, it makes sense.”

“Why?”

“Because the painter used the Omega sign. A lot of his work was about good and evil, heaven and hell…that might explain the six-six-six.”

O’Brien thought about the night he found Father Callahan dead-open eyes locked on the stained glass.

“Sean, you need to see this.”

A light rain fell as O’Brien drove slowly by the Sixth Street Gym. It was a two-story art deco, rehabbed, and painted a shade lighter than a slice of ripe honeydew melon. A canvas awning with a red neon sign hanging beneath the marquee read:

Sixth Street Gym

Boxing, Ju Jitsu and Tai Chi Training

World’s Best Aerobics and Weight Training

O’Brien read the marquee as he drove past the gym, circled around, and parked a block away on 71 ^ st Street. He walked in the rain, watching the bounce of headlights reflecting off wet streets, the neon like red lava flowing into dark puddles.

O’Brien saw a woman get out of a parked car on the opposite side of the street. She used the palms of both hands to smooth her mini-shirt down, stood under an awning to light a cigarette, blew the first drag of smoke over her shoulder and started walking. Her heels were like taps against the wet sidewalk.

A man in the car pulled away from the curb, driving fast down the rain-slick street, the red taillights leaving a reflective trail as he hit brakes, turned left and was gone.

O’Brien approached the front door of the Sixth Street Gym. A Cadillac Escalade, a white Chevy pickup truck, and a yellow Ferrari were parked near the curb. The black writing on the melon-colored door had the style of Japanese characters that were painted to look like small samurai swords. They read:

Boxing — Kickboxing — Karate — Heavy Bag Training — Personal Trainers

World’s Best Exercise for the Mind and Spirit

Enter the house of dragons, thought O’Brien as he opened the door to loud music and the smell of gym sweat. He walked down a hall that resembled a hall of fame. Pictures of boxers and celebrity boxers framed and placed on both walls. Kid Gavilan. Sugar Ramos. Kid Chocolate. Stallone. Ali. Mickey Rourke. Foreman. Sugar Ray. Angelo Dundee. And among them stood an old black-and-white photograph of Ernest Hemingway in the ring with a smaller man. The caption read: “Poncho amp; Papa.”

O’Brien could hear the pounding on the heavy bags, the rattle of the speed bags, the clank of metal-on-metal, the buzz of machines and the rock ‘n roll from the loud speakers. He wondered when he turned the corner and entered the gym, would he see Carlos Salazar lifting weights, punching a heavy bag, or ready to take his head off.

He stepped into the main part of the massive gym. A large American flag hung at the far end. There were dozens of people training on machines, lifting weights, and riding stationary bikes, while half a dozen others worked the heavy bags. They wore wireless headphones and pounded leather on leather to soundtracks only they heard.

There were two separate rings. Behind the ropes in both rings, personal trainers barked encouragement, threw jabs and taunts at boxers. The trainers use hand-boards, the boxers smacking the boards with lightweight gloves.

O’Brien stood near a heavy bag that was not being used. He scanned as many faces as he could. Mostly men. Mostly white. Lots of ink on the bare chests and backs. Testosterone as heavy in the air as the smell of sweat.

A twenty-something Hispanic woman, dark skin, hourglass figure, tight black shorts and using pink boxing gloves, spared with a male partner.

O’Brien walked through the gym trying not to seem like he was looking for something or someone. Less than ten feet to his right, a man began doing arm curls with a thirty-pound weight. He had an Irish shamrock tattooed on his shoulder, the interconnecting cloverleaves forming a 666. His left earring was a black onyx shaped like an eye.

O’Brien glanced at the man’s face. Ruddy. Irish-American. Big boned. Shoulders like a buffalo. The man said, “Do I remind you of somebody, pal?” His accent was brogue Irish.

“No, just passing through,” said O’Brien.”

The man said nothing, his eyes suspicious and the tendons in his neck taut like piano strings as he lifted the weight.

O’Brien moved on toward the center ring. A trainer was finishing a light sparing round with a man who looked like he had a military background. Shaved head. An American flag was tattooed above a Special Forces insignia on his right upper arm. The left arm had a small map of Iraq with the dates 2006–2007. The man removed his gloves, toweled off his face, and climbed out of the opposite side of the ring.

The trainer stepped down near O’Brien and said, “Can I help you?” He wore a sweat-stained tank top. He had a square, angular face. One eye looked more to the left than the other eye, a white scar between the left nostril and lip. Biceps and forearms like hammered iron. He used his teeth to pull on the drawstring to his left glove.

“I like your place. What does personal training costs?”

“Depends. Nothing better than working with a trainer on the heavy bag. Great for the cardio and upper body. You’ll build stamina and add muscle to your legs.”

“How about training in the ring?”

“The best. It builds mind and body. Why sit on a stationary bike and watch some clown on CNN when you can go one-on-one in the ring?”

“I see you offer training in the martial arts?”

“Absolutely. Got some of Miami’s best trainers?”

“Would Carlos Salazar be one?”

He turned his head slightly, looked at O’Brien a beat though his left eye, cocked his head like a lizard before attacking an insect. “Never heard of the guy.”

“Rather than train people in martial arts, maybe he just comes here as a customer-big guy, like you. Wears a beard short-”

“Don’t recognize the dude. Got another client waiting.”

“Here’s how you can recognize the dude. He’ll look like a coward because he beats women and priests. If you see Salazar, tell him Sean O’Brien sends his best.”

The trainer used the back of his knuckle-scarred hand to wipe a drop of sweat from his chin. He stepped around O’Brien, grazing his left shoulder against O’Brien’s shirtsleeve and leaving a dark stain of perspiration.

O’Brien walked to a remote corner of the gym and called Ron Hamilton. “I’m at the Sixth Street Gym. Spoke with one of the trainers. He knows Salazar. Wouldn’t admit it, but definitely knows him.”