“We’ll wait,” Jack said. “While we do—we’re looking for a guy who goes by T-Bone. He around?”
“Yeah.” He nodded toward the back of the gym, where a row of benches lined the wall near the free weights. “He’s over there. Wrapping his hands.”
“Thanks.”
T-Bone was sitting on a bench near the back wall, methodically wrapping his hands with the practiced motions of someone who’d done it a thousand times. He was young—mid-twenties, about Dre’s age—with dark brown skin and a lean, wiry build that suggested speed over power. His face had the same hallmarks as every other fighter in this gym—a nose that had been rearranged at least once, scar tissue above one eye, the flatness to the bridge that came from taking hits to the face over and over again. But where the other men in the gym wore their damage like armor, T-Bone wore his like a confession. There was something in his eyes—a wariness, a watchfulness—that reminded me of a stray dog that had been kicked too many times.
He looked up as we approached and immediately looked back down at his hands, wrapping faster. But not before I saw the recognition. He knew who we were. Word traveled fast in a place like this.
“T-Bone?” Jack said.
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up. Just kept wrapping, the fabric going round and round his knuckles with mechanical precision.
“I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves. We’re investigating the death of Andre Washington.”
The wrapping stopped. T-Bone’s hands went still in his lap, and for a moment he didn’t move at all. Then his shoulders dropped, and he let out a breath that carried the weight of something he’d been holding in.
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time. “I know who you are. I heard you were here this morning, asking about Dre.” He finally looked up. “I called his girl. Tiana. She’s wrecked.”
“You and Dre were friends?” I asked.
“Since basic.” T-Bone’s voice was steady, but his hands had started wrapping again—nervous motion, something to do while the rest of him tried to hold it together. “We went through boot camp at Parris Island together. He was the only one who didn’t give me grief about the nickname.” He smiled with the memory. “My real name’s Terrance James. But I ate three T-bone steaks the night before we shipped out, and the drill instructor hung that name on me the first day. Been stuck with it ever since.”
Terrance James. T.J. The initials in Dre’s notebook—the ones that appeared frequently, in lower amounts but consistent.
“Dre got you into Iron House?” Jack asked.
“He got here first. Told me about it after I got out of the Marines, said Vic was looking for more fighters.” T-Bone glanced toward the far ring, where Vic was still working with his fighter. “I’m not in Dre’s class—never was. He was special, you know? Had that thing you can’t teach. Me, I’m just a guy who can take a punch and throw one back. Good enough for the undercard, not good enough for the main event.”
He said it without bitterness, like it was a fact he’d made peace with a long time ago. Some men knew their limits and worked within them. Others didn’t find out where the edge was until they went over it.
“Tell us about the fights,” Jack said.
T-Bone’s wrapping hands went still again. His eyes cut sideways—quick, checking to see who was in earshot. The nearest fighters were fifteen feet away, working the speed bags, their own noise covering any conversation at normal volume. But T-Bone still dropped his voice.
“What fights?”
“The ones that happen on Saturday nights,” Jack said. “Every two to three weeks. The ones Dre was keeping records of in a notebook we found.”
T-Bone’s whole body went rigid, his jaw clenching so tight I could see the muscles bunch beneath his skin. Whatever composure he’d been maintaining crumbled, and for a second he looked exactly like what he was—a scared young man who’d gotten himself into something bigger than he could handle and was only now realizing how deep the water went.
“Look, man, I can’t—” He shook his head, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “You don’t understand. These aren’t just gym fights. The people running this—they’re not playing around. They’ve got connections. Real connections. The kind where people disappear and nobody asks questions.”
“Like Dre disappeared?”
That hit home. T-Bone flinched like Jack had slapped him.
“I want to help,” he said. “Dre was my brother. Not by blood, but by everything else. He was the best man I ever knew, and somebody killed him, and I want—” His voice cracked. He pressed his wrapped fists against his thighs and breathed through it. “But I’ve got a sister. She’s got two little girls. If something happens to me?—”
“We can protect you,” Jack said. “But we can’t do anything if we don’t know who we’re protecting you from.”
T-Bone was quiet for a long moment. Around us, the gym continued its rhythmic work—the thud of bags, the skip of ropes, the grunt of effort. Life going on as usual while a young man weighed the cost of doing the right thing.
“I fight on the undercard,” he said finally, so quietly I had to lean in to hear him. “The Saturday night bouts—they’re underground. No sanctioning, no medicals, no rules except the ones they decide on the night. The money’s good. Better than anything else I can get with my skill set and a DD-214.”
“Where do they hold them?”
“Different places. They rotate through the old tunnels under the docks. Yeah, there’s a whole network down there. Been down there since before the Civil War, from what Vic says. Old as the docks themselves. They’ve got sections set up with rings, lighting, the works. Never the same section twice in a row—keeps people from getting too comfortable, makes it harder for anyone to find you if they’re looking.” He paused. “But the organization runs through here. Vic sets up the cards, matches the fighters, handles the money. There’s a guy above him—I’ve never met him, but Vic takes orders from someone. Big money. The kind of money that buys silence.”
