“Names,” Jack said. “Who else fights?”
“Do you know what you’re asking me?” T-Bone asked.
“I know that sometimes you have to do the courageous thing. The right thing. Even when there’s risk involved. We can protect you if you’re worried about your safety.”
T-Bone hesitated again. Then he seemed to make a decision, and his shoulders squared like a man stepping into the ring.
“I don’t need no protection,” he said. “I’ve got my fist. Marco Reyes is another one of the fighters. Heavyweight, been doing this for years. Quiet guy, keeps to himself. He’s over there.” He nodded toward a stocky Hispanic man working the heavy bag with a rhythm that spoke of years of practice. “And Darnell Harris. He’s new, been fighting for maybe six months. He’s in the locker room.”
“That’s very helpful,” Jack said.
“Come on,” T-Bone said. “I’ll introduce you. Don’t mention what I told you. We’ll all be in trouble.”
He led us over to Marco first. Up close, Marco Reyes was built like a fireplace—short, broad, and solid, with hands that looked like they’d been poured from concrete. He had a thick black mustache and deep-set brown eyes that assessed us with quiet intelligence. When T-Bone explained who we were and what we were asking about, Marco pulled his gloves off and wiped his face with a towel.
“Dre was good people,” Marco said, his accent faint—the kind that came from growing up bilingual and choosing English for most conversations. “Best fighter I ever saw walk through those doors. Fast hands, good instincts. And clean, you know? Didn’t trash talk, didn’t try to hurt you worse than necessary. Some of these guys—” He shrugged. “They like the pain part. Dre just liked the competition.”
“When did you last see him?” Jack asked.
“Week ago. We trained together Wednesdays.” Marco folded the towel with deliberate care. “He was in a good mood. Said he had something big coming up. I figured it was a fight—Vic had been talking about a special event, high stakes, big crowd.”
“Did Dre seem worried about anything?”
Marco was quiet for a beat too long. “He was careful,” he said finally. “More careful than usual. Like he was watching his back.” He met Jack’s eyes directly. “In this business, that usually means somebody gave you a reason to.”
Darnell Harris was younger—maybe twenty-two—with a raw-boned physique that suggested he was still growing into his body. He came out of the locker room toweling off his hair, and when T-Bone waved him over, he approached with the nervous energy of a kid called to the principal’s office.
“I only knew Dre a few months,” Darnell said, his voice pitched low. “But he looked out for me. When I started fighting, some of the older guys tried to mess with the new kid, you know? Dre shut that down fast. Said everybody deserved a fair shake.” He swallowed hard. “He told me to keep a record of everything. Said if things ever went south, paper was the only thing that kept you honest.”
He’d been teaching the younger fighters to protect themselves the same way he protected himself. Building a paper trail that could be used as leverage—or as evidence.
“Did he tell you to keep records of anything specific?” I asked.
“The fights. The money. Who got paid, how much, what percentage went to Vic.” Darnell’s eyes darted toward the ring where Vic was still training. “He said the numbers were our insurance policy. That as long as we had proof, nobody could screw us over without consequences.”
“Thanks for your help,” Jack said. “If you think of anything else?—”
“Sheriff.”
The voice cut across the gym floor like a blade.
We turned. Vic Caruso was leaning against the ropes of the far ring, having finished his training session. The fighter he’d been working with had stepped out and was unwrapping his gloves near the watercooler, leaving Vic alone in the elevated square of canvas, his forearms draped over the top rope with a casualness that was entirely calculated.
He’d been watching us. Probably from the moment we’d walked in.
“You want to ask me more questions?” Vic called out, loud enough for every man in the gym to hear. His voice carried that mix of amusement and challenge that belonged to men who were used to being the biggest personality in any room. “I told you everything this morning.”
“We have some follow-up questions,” Jack said.
“Then come up here and ask them.” Vic grinned—wide and wolfish, the kind of grin that was more threat than smile. He slapped the canvas with both hands. “I got a session open. You look like you could use some cardio, Sheriff.”
The gym went quiet. Not all at once—it wasn’t like someone had thrown a switch. But one by one, the heavy bags stopped swinging, the speed bags stopped chattering, the jump ropes stopped slapping the floor. Men who’d been focused on their own workouts turned to watch, sensing the shift in atmosphere the way animals sensed a coming storm.
Jack’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly. But I knew him well enough to see what was happening behind those dark eyes—the rapid calculation, the tactical assessment. Vic was trying to put him on uneven footing, literally and figuratively. Make him fight on Vic’s terms, in Vic’s house, surrounded by Vic’s people.
It was a power play. A move a man made when he felt untouchable.
“You’re saying you’ll answer my questions if I get in the ring?” Jack asked.
