ones could chase the bad men with AK-47s and rocket launchers.
Enrique didn’t call on him and left no messages. This was the way it should be.
On that morning Sevilla found the boxing gym on the third try. He did not know this corner of the city, had never had business there, and the streets were unfamiliar. He parked too far away and didn’t know it so that he walked three blocks before he saw the place. The door was open against the gathering heat of the day, a fan on a stand turned outward to wick away the warmth inside.
Sevilla had never taken up gloves and boxed, though his brother had for a few years during his school days. Urvano’s gym had the look and smell Sevilla remembered, riding his bicycle to be sure his brother left in enough time to sit for dinner with the family, waiting ringside as pugnacious old men with permanently broken noses and deformed ears showed Humberto the finer points of an art already dying.
Urvano was old, but not as old as Sevilla. When Sevilla saw the man, he imagined Humberto perched on the long-legged chair surveying his own domain. The man looked at Sevilla and half-raised a hand in greeting. Sevilla knew then Urvano was an honest man, because only honest men greeted a policeman so free of worry.
He displayed his identification. “Sevilla,” he said.
“If you’re looking for drugs, you won’t find any here,” Urvano said by way of a reply. “I don’t allow that kind of thing here. Anyone with drugs has to leave and they can’t come back.”
“That’s good,” Sevilla said. Two men ghosted each other in the ring. Another practiced his body movements with the heavy bag. Punch, punch and weave. Punch, punch and weave. His head was always in motion. It was quieter here than Sevilla expected. “Drugs are no good for anyone.”
“You can search the lockers if you want,” Urvano said.
“There’s no need. I wouldn’t find anything.”
“That’s right.”
“You can still help me,” Sevilla said. “There was a man who trained here, I found a record of his payments. He was an American. Kelly Courter. You remember him.”
The old man nodded. He smiled to himself a little, crookedly because the nerves on the left side of his face were damaged. His eye drooped as well. “Of course I remember him. He was my only white boy.”
“I can’t imagine too many would come here.”
“Why is that? You see something here that’s no good?” Urvano demanded.
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that gringos want rock music and air conditioning and running machines — you know, treadmills — to make them happy. This is too simple for them.”
Urvano shrugged, but he shifted in his chair so he could regard Sevilla more directly. He was not punch-drunk and his eye was sharp. Sevilla imagined that eye assessing Kelly. “That’s why there are no good white boy fighters,” Urvano said finally. “A fighter isn’t comfortable.”
“My brother was a fighter,” Sevilla said. “He fought three years. He had promise.”
“What happened?”
“Our father wanted him to go to university, learn to be a doctor or a lawyer. Anything where he didn’t have to work with his hands. You see, our father worked with his hands all his life. He was a carpenter. He didn’t want that for us.”
“What did he become?” Urvano asked.
“A pediatrician. And then he moved to Arizona in the United States.”
“And you became a cop.”
Sevilla shrugged. “I don’t work with my hands.”
Urvano smiled enough to show teeth and laughed drily. He offered his hand and Sevilla shook it. The old man pointed toward the ring. “Those two are the best ones I have, but don’t tell them or they will get big heads. Jorge has heavy hands, but he still needs to keep them up. Oscar is better still. Fast. They’ll both be champions just so long as they stay focused.”
“Was Kelly focused?” Sevilla asked.
“I thought so. He was a little older, but not so old. He said he couldn’t fight under his own name. I asked some people if that would be a problem. It could have been overcome.”
“Did he say why he couldn’t fight under his own name?”
“Some trouble in the States. Probably drugs.”
“What makes you say that?” Sevilla asked.
Urvano’s mouth twisted. “I can tell when one of my boys is into drugs. I’m better than those drug-sniffing dogs the police use.”
“I thought you said no drugs were allowed.”
“I can also tell when that’s behind them. Or I thought I did.”
They stood and watched the two young fighters in the ring. Sevilla saw in Jorge the problem Urvano mentioned. He liked to punch and he held his hands too low. Oscar’s jabs came high and fast, and the defense wasn’t there to repel them, but Sevilla saw the wheels turning and Jorge’s stance changed and the sparring match evened. At some silent bell they separated and went to their corners.
“Do you see?” Urvano asked Sevilla and Sevilla nodded. “Kelly was like that: he could think.”
“Did you know him well?” Sevilla inquired.
“No. What I know of him I saw in his workouts. On the bag. In the ring.”
“I heard he had promise in the States. Before,” Sevilla said.
“I believe it. It must have been the drugs that hurt him. Is he using them again?”
Sevilla considered what to say, how to share it. He frowned. “He was. He got free of them again. But these things… it’s hard to fight them.”
“I have his things if you want to see them,” Urvano said. “His locker.”
“Yes.”
Urvano lowered himself from his chair. He walked with a pronounced limp, but his body was lean like a fighter’s and otherwise graceful like a fighter’s. Seeing Urvano made Sevilla embarrassed for the fat on his belly and around his waist. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run a mile, or even run at all. Perversely, he wanted a cigarette.
The few things Kelly left behind were no help. A towel and a bar of soap and a comb carried no hidden message or profound clue. Sevilla cursed under his breath.
“It isn’t what you hoped to find,” Urvano said simply.
“No, it’s not. This is all there is?”
“Yes. I kept it longer than I normally would. He wasn’t paid, but no one wanted the locker yet. I’m sorry.”
Sevilla put his hand on Urvano’s shoulder and shook his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I saw from Kelly’s books that he was paying you. It was the last thing he did before he… well, before his relapse.”
“I blame that on Ortiz,” Urvano said. He spat the name.
“Who?”
“Ortiz. If you were a fighter, you would know him. He’s always sniffing around, making offers real managers can’t match. He came for Jorge and Oscar but they were smart and told him to go to hell.”
The old man headed back to his perch near the door and Sevilla followed. His notepad was already in his hand. “Ortiz,” he said. “He comes from around here?”
“No,” Urvano said. “I don’t know where he comes from. Under a rock, maybe. He wears a suit, but the way he wears it he’s just an animal in a man’s clothing. A snake. If Kelly took drugs again, it was Ortiz that gave them to him, I’m sure.”
Sevilla leafed through the notepad quickly. He found it —
“He books, he manages,” Urvano drawled. He looked pained and the lines on his face deepened. “And sometimes he takes fighters to the States for bigger money. The last time I saw Kelly, I saw him with Ortiz. The son of a bitch came in here like he was welcome. He had some of his
At that moment eight young fighters spilled through the open front door of the gym. They were slick with sweat from running, their shorts and shirts plastered to spare bodies conditioned for the ring. Some of them called to Jorge and Oscar in the ring and all practice stopped as conversation rang from the walls.
