Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“But maybe, just maybe he’s innocent.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” Martin said, “but I also know how important kids are to you, so I’m going to make a deal. I’ll read whatever Evans’s remaining people submit. Then we’ll see.”

“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

“But you have to make a promise to me.”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“You are never, and I mean never, to speak to Russ Evans or mention him in my presence again. Promise me that, Darlene.”

Again, she conjured up an image of Evans sitting across the table from her-a soul adrift and without hope of rescue. Despite her lingering doubts and the horrible accusations against the man, her heart ached for him. But loyalty to her husband was by far the stronger pull.

“Of course,” she said. “I promise. Come closer, now. Let’s start over again.”

Darlene turned off the bedside lamp, but Martin quickly switched it back on.

“I’ve got work to do,” he said, pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. “You get some sleep. I’ll be in later and see you in the morning.”

“I … I’m glad I told you,” she said, more than a little bewildered.

“Me, too,” he replied, grinning without warmth, “because I already heard about the meeting from one of the other agents.”

Stick and Move was a thousand-square-foot gymnasium located amidst a stretch of warehouses within walking distance of Lou’s two-bedroom apartment. Inside were three boxing rings, each the standard twenty-feet-by-twenty. Heavy bags hung from one side of the gym like trophy sharks on a dock, and a row of pear-shaped speed bags were wall-mounted to the other. There were several stationary bikes, a quality set of free weights, wall-length mirrors, plenty of room for jumping rope, and several sets of medicine balls.

And best of all from Lou’s point of view, it smelled like a serious gym.

A day had passed since the horror of Kings Ridge. Lou’s knee had calmed down from a four out of ten on the stiffness scale to maybe a two. The gym was active and noisy when he arrived to train. Cap Duncan, sparring helmet in place, was already in the ring, pounding his gloves together and dancing-a glistening, graceful block of granite on legs. He noted Lou’s arrival with hungry eyes, and motioned him through the ropes. Cap was Bahamian black, shaved bald, and fit- ripped was the gym rats’ word.

A good guess would have placed him in his twenties, but Lou had organized a surprise fiftieth birthday party for him two years ago. Cap, who along with a bank or two, owned the place, was short for Cap’n Crunch, a moniker he earned during a brief but highly touted professional boxing career, largely because of the distinctive sound that noses made when he hit them.

Crunch.

“Hey, there, Doc, with all that you talked about at the meeting last night, I thought you might not make it in.”

“I need this more today than ever, Cap.”

Lou threw his ragged sweatshirt aside and worked the kinks from his neck. He was two or three inches taller than his sparring partner, in addition to being a decade younger, and his well-developed shoulders formed a decent V with his waist. But it would be difficult for anyone who compared the two men to believe that he was the harder puncher-and they would be right.

The two of them had connected the day that Lou arrived from six months of treatment at a rehab center in Atlanta and moved into an attic room in the halfway house where Cap was a counselor. When the financing came through allowing the purchase of the Stick and Move, Lou went to work there and the fighter became his trainer and his AA sponsor. There was no one on the mean streets or in the recovery community that Cap didn’t know, and few on either side who didn’t respect him.

With his hands already hot and sweaty inside his gloves, and his wrists stiff from athletic tape, Lou moved to the center of the ring, still working the tightness from his shoulders and neck, and wondering if he should say something about the bandage on his forehead beneath the front of his helmet.

“So, how’s your day been?” he asked, finagling with his mouth guard to sound intelligible.

Cap’s first punch, which seemed to have arrived out of nowhere, caught Lou on the side of his headgear.

“If you’re in the ring-”

“I know, I know,” Lou said, finishing one of Cap’s favorite aphorisms, “be ready to get hit.”

“So, what do you think this is? Ballet class?”

Cap’s words were thick from speaking over and around his mouth protector, but Lou knew his translation of them was close enough. He circled, assessing his options, but not yet ready to commit to any punches. Then he made his second mistake, glancing down, momentarily mesmerized by the older man’s footwork. This time, he saw Cap’s jab coming from the right, but was no better at defending it. The blow connected against his temple with a solid thump.

“Remember how I said I’d drive you to the meeting on Friday?” Lou said, already beginning to breathe heavily. “Well, another cheap shot like that and you’ll be going by cab.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot you were just in a car accident,” Cap said. “Tell you what, I’ll go easy on you this session.”

“By easy, you mean?”

“You’ll only need to soak for an hour in the ice tub.” He grinned broadly around his green mouth guard.

Lou blocked a left-right combination and returned one of his own, which barely connected. Cap could still fight him almost blindfolded. In order to do much of anything against the man, he was going to have to concentrate.

Childless, but married “a few times here and there” when it suited his purpose, Cap had devoted his youth to boxing, spending every waking hour training in grungy gyms, slowly climbing the amateur ranks. He could dazzle opponents with his footwork, but it was his punching, as powerful with his left as he was with his right, that garnered the most attention. As a kid, he fooled around with alcohol and reefer, but then a trainer set him straight. He gave up smoking and drinking, and began to care for his body through diet, vitamins, and more training.

Eventually, Cap got his big break, scoring a professional fight against a much-hyped contender for the IBA’s middleweight belt. The fight that should have made his career was ultimately what landed him in the same halfway house where Lou would one day reside.

Alone in the dressing room, only minutes before the bout, Cap received a bouquet of flowers along with an envelope containing five one-hundred-dollar bills and a note instructing him to lose by a knockout in the seventh round. Cap knew it was a mob thing. In his circles, talk about fixing fights was as common as advice shared on punching technique. But instead of losing the fight, Cap beat his opponent to a pulp and won a technical knockout in round two.

He never got to box professionally again.

Before his next scheduled bout, the state boxing federation pulled him from the card, citing a positive test for performance-enhancing drugs banned under their governance. Forced out of the sport he loved, he soon began taking narcotics to help ease his emotional pain and humiliation. The back alleys of D.C. became his home, a brown bag his constant companion. People whom he suspected had set him up offered him work as an enforcer, but he never took the jobs. Finally, when he had suffered enough, two more people came-people from AA.

“You’re slow tonight, Welcome,” Cap said after he threw a series of blazing-fast jabs, purposely pulled to keep from doing any real damage. “You sure you’re all right to box?”

Lou got in a quick, effective body blow and danced away, preening. “I’m fine,” he said. “I need this to clear my head.”