“You sure this is the place?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. Wait here, he tends to get a little jumpy around strangers.”
Tyson took the tablet from him and shot up a rickety old staircase on the side of a red brick building and banged on a black metal door. He looked down at Jack then yelled, “Yo, Cosmo, you in there? It’s Tyson.”
He hammered against the door with a clenched fist.
A metal slat opened and nervous eyes peered out.
“Hey man, open up. I need you to weave your magic.”
Jack heard multiple locks click and the door opened. A stringy-looking Mexican fella came out wearing a thin white muscle shirt, baggy jeans and Nikes. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, his hair was spiked with frosted tips and he wore a red bandanna around his forehead. A joint hung from the corner of his mouth; smoke spiraling up the side of his face. Tyson greeted him with a street handshake and chest bump. “Been a while.”
“Yeah.”
“Heard about Nicky. Sorry man, that shit sucks.”
Tyson nodded and glanced at Jack. Cosmo followed his gaze. “Who the fuck’s he?”
“Ah, he’s cool, man. He’s a friend of mine.” Tyson held up the tablet in front of his face. “Look, I need you to print off several copies of the woman on this video and scan it and see if there is anything unusual, maybe someone who looks out of place.”
“What is it?”
“It’s all aboveboard. I’m just trying to help my buddy find this woman. So can you help?”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Man, I got you those tickets the other night for free.”
Cosmo studied Jack at the bottom of the staircase. “All right. Leave it with me and check back later.”
“Good man.” Tyson patted him on the arm and started heading down the steps then stopped and looked back up. “Oh, and don’t you go showing that around.”
Cosmo took a big hit on his doobie and blew out a cloud before ducking back into his apartment.
“You sure you can trust him?” Jack asked.
“Cosmo? Yeah, I’ve known him since I was a kid. He has a few screws loose up top but that kid is as loyal as they come. You’re in good hands, Jack. C’mon, let me show you the gym. You’re gonna love this place.” Tyson bounced on the balls of his feet. He was clearly enamored by anything related to fighting. They took off down the sidewalk, crossed the street, cut through a few back alleys where morning parcel deliveries were being made. On the way they passed by several street bums and Tyson exchanged waves.
“You know a lot of people around here,” Jack said.
“Ah, not that many but you see the same faces after a while.”
Pope’s Gym was sandwiched between a bar and a greasy spoon restaurant. A large graphic decal with the words Jeremiah Pope’s Ultimate Fitness was plastered across the front of the windows, with the image of a couple of fighters in combat stances. There was a knot of guys outside with gym bags over their shoulders talking among themselves. They acknowledged Tyson with a nod as he and Jack entered.
Instantly the smell of perspiration and worn leather brought back a flood of memories. Jack had spent the better part of his early years hanging around the Pig’s Ear watching boxers work up a sweat. This place was no different except it incorporated much more, wrestling, boxing and all facets of mixed martial arts. The measured beat of skip ropes, and the thump of heavy bags being struck made the room come alive. Over the speakers music blared out. They passed a reception area where two gals were helping a family through the process of signing up. There were a couple of leather couches against the wall and a table with an array of fighter magazines fanned out.
They walked down a waxed corridor full of UFC posters with 4-ounce gloves encased behind glass and shiny tournament belts on either side. It was there to inspire, to fill the minds of the hopeful with dreams of grandeur. Everyone wanted the fame, the glory and the money that came with being a champ but few were willing to put in the hard work to get there. Jack recalled all types of men and women that used the gym back in the day, the wide-eyed quiet ones, the talkative loudmouths, and the muscle heads. Everyone talked the big game and entered with swagger. He’d seen the numbers rise then drop after a couple of weeks when the novelty of being a fighter wore off, or a hard punch to the face knocked sense into them. Everyone wanted to be at the top but only a few had the dedication, drive and willingness to sacrifice it all. And even then there were no guarantees. It was a game of inches as much as it was skill, speed and accuracy. Oh there were many that were certain they were as good as Joe Frazier or Muhammad Ali, many that said they would be the next big thing only to find themselves days later on their ass reconsidering the future. Those ones would slip away quietly avoiding humiliation, others would hang in longer only to quit when they knew
