Not Forgotten Page 15

  I checked the porches and the parked cars lining the street. Four houses down sat a black Super Duty Ford pickup with dark tinted windows. It looked like the same pickup I’d seen in the restaurant parking lot across from the mission. Could have been a coincidence. Everybody drove a pickup. I memorized the license plate. If I saw it again, it wouldn’t be a coincidence.

  When the bus arrived, two of my neighbors got out. They worked the night shift as civilian employees at the base. Sam and I said hello. They seemed unaware of the potential danger. Like the doves on the roof calmly pecking seeds from the shingles, most people felt safe in their own neighborhood where hunting was supposed to be off-limits. The black Super Duty made a U-turn in the street and drove to the end of the block.

  Rose Gustafson was backing her pickup out of her driveway, so I stopped to open her gate. She rolled down her window and looked me over like my grandmother used to do when I’d stayed out all night with the boys in high school.

  “You look like a man on a mission,” she said. “Are you on a case?”

  “Just out for a jog,” I said. I didn’t want to involve her in any details.

  “Humbug. Be careful,” she said. “Would you keep an eye on my place? I’m going to Seguin to visit my sister.”

  “Happy to,” I said. “Drive safely.”

  “I always do,” she said. “Don’t forget, tomorrow’s trash day.” She drove off, and I closed her gate. I wondered if she braved the freeway or took the back roads. I remembered her complaining about cataracts and how her sight wasn’t what it used to be.

  My pickup stood in the driveway beside the house. There was a scrap of white paper trapped under the wiper blade. I pulled it out. It was a torn piece of a takeout bag from Whataburger with a note scrawled in pencil.

  Stay away from Luna. Next time I don’t miss.

  I glanced quickly in the direction the Super Duty had gone, but it was out of sight. I ran to the end of the block and checked the parking lot by the high school and the Mennonite church. The black pickup was gone.

  Sam followed me back to my yard. I checked under my pickup’s hood, looking for signs of tampering. It wasn’t touched. No obvious prints on the windows. I checked the perimeter of the house. Sam made a show of sniffing the bushes and barked at one of Rose Gustafson’s cats, trying to be helpful. To Sam, cats were always guilty of something. I unlocked the front door and searched the house. Everything seemed in order. The surveillance cameras were intact. Nothing was missing, and no one had done my dirty dishes or laundry.

  I threw a set of gym clothes in my duffle bag along with a handful of cotton swabs, bandages, and a Ziploc baggie. My wound was sore, but the injury didn’t affect my grip or arm strength. Had the bullet hit the bone, the hollow point would have shattered and torn out most of my muscle. I would have been in the hospital with a missing arm. The first aid gear was for Danny Allison. I had no intention of staying away from Luna, and Danny was my prime suspect. He had already challenged me to a fight. If he left a little blood on the canvas, there was nothing to stop me from having it analyzed.

  •••

  Lucky’s gym was on the west side of San Antonio. It was an older part of town not connected to the upscale north or the newer expansion to the far west. Instead of the fashionable Hill Country views of cedar trees and limestone rocks, there was a dense sea of flat green that flowed in every direction. I rolled down a street lined with two-story apartments, car repair shops, and Hispanic markets. Most of the businesses showed their age, but they were open. The area bustled with a gritty working life. Taco stands and one-room restaurants offering fresh tamales were abundant. In the last twenty years, the only new addition to the local economy seemed to be the dollar stores that sold everything except alcohol.

  Lucky’s gym was the anchor store for a strip mall that also housed a Mexican restaurant, a tattoo and massage parlor, and a mom-and-pop gas station. It was a big two-story building that had once been a furniture store. Caesar Hernandez, or “Lucky,” bought the building and the mall with earnings from an impressive welterweight professional career. He was an aggressive, Mexican-style boxer that I’d once seen pummel an opponent to a round-one TKO. He still trained and managed a stable of young up-and-comers.

  The ground floor looked like a high school gym. It was Lucky’s way of giving back to the community. He wouldn’t let the kids in unless school was out, but it was the Labor Day holiday, so teen girls and boys were engaged in all aspects of training. A skinny girl not much more than thirteen was swinging for all she was worth at a punching bag twice her weight. A half dozen other kids were in the corner on the speed bags. Lucky was leaning on the center ring ropes watching two featherweights dance around each other.

  “Mix it up,” he shouted at them. Both seemed reluctant to throw a punch.

  “Hey, champ,” I called to him. “Those your new prospects?”

  He turned to me and smiled. His front two teeth were missing. When he went outside the gym, he wore two gold replacements. In the gym, he kept the false teeth in his pocket.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and teach them a few moves, huh?” Lucky let me spar with the young guys he was training in the heavyweight division. I wasn’t a natural boxer but could hold my own in the ring, and he liked that I could take a punch.

  “They look like eighth graders,” I said.

  “High school. What you working today?” he asked, keeping an eye on the young fighters.

  “I’m gonna try my luck upstairs,” I said. “I wanna hang out with the cool kids.”

  He raised both eyebrows. He knew I never went upstairs, which explained why I had never run into Danny.

  “Don’t hurt those guys,” he said, showing the gap in his teeth. “I need them healthy to pay rent.”

  I didn’t say anything. There were no guarantees I wouldn’t break Danny’s neck.

  I walked up the stairs and took a look around. There were no school kids on the second floor. Lucky didn’t allow it. Four years ago, he partnered with an ex-Army Ranger who offered classes in mixed martial arts. Tough guys and wannabe tough guys who were watching MMA on TV figured they should get in on the action. Lucky was cashing in on the craze. Danny Allison was a wannabe tough guy who got a taste of MMA in Lubbock, and he and his trend-following crowd were making Lucky’s gym the in place to train.

  There were free weights in one corner and practice mats in the other. In the center was a sparring ring, where two women were doing their best Ronda Rousey imitation, huffing and panting and staring each other down. A handful of guys practiced Brazilian jiu-jitsu moves led by Lucky’s partner, Jerry Muth. He wore black pajamas and looked like Chuck Norris with a gray ponytail. Everyone called him Sarge.

  The wannabe tough guys on this floor all wore specialized, name-brand outfits and shoes that they bought on the MMA websites. Most of them decorated their exposed skin with RockTape, the popular kinesiology tape that was supposed to relieve pain and provide joint support. I was five years older than everyone on the second floor except Sarge and could use joint pain relief, but the red, green, and black strips looked more like a fashion statement than anything useful—like wearing a baseball cap backward on a sunny day. The kids downstairs were in gym shorts and T-shirts issued by their school’s athletic department. Those kids came from the streets, where you didn’t need money to be a tough guy.

  I found Danny Allison doing barbell curls and watching himself in the mirror. He wore a string tank top that let him admire his steroid-enhanced muscles without interference. I stood and watched him while he completed a set. He was bulky but not a bodybuilder. I could tell he did aerobics. He had quick movements and a spring in his step that eluded the heavy lifters. He had an inch of height on me and about ten pounds that he probably packed on with whey protein. Strips of black-and-green RockTape covered his knees and both elbows.

  Danny had a happy-go-lucky facial expression that didn’t change whether he was looking at himself i
n the mirror or the other guys in the room. Sylvia didn’t say how much he would inherit, but the Allison family was one of the richest in the state. Had he weighed the money against Marissa and his unborn child? If it was less than a million would he still have killed her? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Spilling Danny’s blood would be a pleasure.

  Danny racked his barbells and finally looked up. A rakish smile spread over his face. “Nick. Didn’t think you’d show up,” he said in a cocky, challenging way, as if we were comparing manhood in the high school shower room. He wasn’t old enough to know that size doesn’t matter.

  “You said Monday,” I said with a smile. I wanted him to stay cocky and at ease until after I laid him out on the canvas. “You up for this?” I pointed with my gym bag to the ring in the center of the floor.

  Danny stepped toward me drying his hands on a designer gym towel. “Always,” he said.

  “I’ll get changed.” I went to the locker room and stowed my street clothes. By the time I came back out, a small crowd of Danny look-alikes had gathered around the ring. Lucky met me ringside. I set my bag down just outside the ropes, so I had easy access to the swabs and the plastic bag.

  “My gym. My rules,” Lucky said loud enough for Danny and the dozen or so onlookers to hear. Word had spread quickly about our challenge match. Sarge joined the crowd and nodded at me. We had traded stories over beers at the VFW a time or two. He was the real deal. Someone I wanted in my corner.

  Danny sauntered over. “Sure, anything you say.” He grinned, trying his best not to look worried. He was doing a good job, but he was already standing on the balls of his feet. He had his shirt off and his shoulders and chest puffed out.

  I didn’t smile, transitioning into fighter mode. I stayed loose and flat-footed. “Fine,” I said. “We use four-ounce gloves. I want to get a workout, but I don’t wanna be here all day.”

  Lucky looked at Danny, then back at me. “Okay, but use headgear.”

  “Done,” I said, effectively taking Danny out of the negotiations. I was making psychological points—playing the adult in the room.

  Lucky handed us the padded headgear. I slipped in my own mouthpiece and climbed into the ring. I held the ropes apart for Danny. Another signal that I was in charge. He noticed the bandage on my upper arm where the bullet had hit me. I had traded out the bulky gauze for a square skin-tone patch, so it wouldn’t draw too much attention.

  “That gonna interfere?” he asked, pointing to the patch.

  “I’ll manage,” I said and walked to the opposite corner of the ring.

  Danny’s cheering section barked encouragement. I stood rock-solid while Danny danced for the crowd. He put on a shadow-boxing show. He stretched. He showed off a combination roundhouse and front scissor kick. All very impressive. Skeeter had said Danny won a few matches in Lubbock. I let him go through his routine. He was telling me everything I needed to know about his fighting style.

  “Aren’t you gonna warm up?” Danny said, still bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

  I didn’t say a word. His frenetic movements told me he was nervous, ready for the punching to start. I waited for Lucky to make his way to center ring.

  “Looks like somebody’s got something to prove here,” Lucky said. He gave both of us a knowing look. He’d been in the fight business too long not to know what was going on. He fixed me with a cocked eyebrow and whispered so Danny couldn’t hear: “I don’t want nobody hurt. Are we clear?”

  I shrugged.

  Danny glanced from side to side at his buddies for support. I heard one say: “Take the old man out.” Times were changing. Nobody had ever called me “old man” before. To these twenty-somethings, thirty-three was over the hill.

  “MMA rules. Stop if I tap you out. Got it?” Lucky barked above the noise.

  “Got it,” I said, keeping my focus on Danny.

  “Yeah, man,” Danny said. He held his gloved hands out. I bumped them hard.

  The fight was on.

  Danny bounced up and down and side to side. Held his arms up and flexed his muscles. I could tell he’d never been in a street fight against an equal opponent. What he did was show off.

  I watched Danny’s eyes. He shot a left-hand jab toward my face. I dodged and slapped his hand away. I moved just enough to keep him off balance. My hands were at the ready, but lower than my shoulders. I wanted him to build up his confidence and start into the kick combination that he’d been practicing. I was sure that he thought it was his knockout move. He was waiting for the right moment to unleash it on me.

  “You don’t have much style,” he shouted through his mouthguard.

  “I had a different teacher,” I said.

  He was already breathing hard. Nervous energy. He threw another left-right combination. I batted both down and hit him with a backhand just to give him a taste. The blow caught him on the chin below the headgear. His neck snapped back. He felt it.

  “The Marine Corps doesn’t give you points for style,” I said.

  Danny recovered from the blow. I gave him credit for taking a punch even though I’d only given him a taste. He tested out a roundhouse kick. It wasn’t his full combination. He was practicing. I saw him targeting the bandage on my arm. His heel grazed the bullet wound. Pain shot down my arm. Danny noticed and tried to throw another kick in that direction. He smelled a weakness. His muscles tensed. He was ready to kick my ass.

  “How do I measure up to your military standards?” he said. He was fishing for a compliment, still playing cocky.

  “You tell me. Do you have what it takes to be a killer? Maybe you already have a taste for blood.” I watched him for a reaction.

  “I’m just playing around,” he claimed, but I saw a slight change in his attitude. He wanted to hit me with everything he had. I started to wonder if his frat-boy shtick was just an act.

  “Are you a killer?” I asked. I saw a faint hint of recognition in his eyes like he knew what I was talking about.

  He swung a couple more punches, trying to get me to move into the corner so that he would have enough room for his kick-punch combination. I stepped back and let him have all the room he needed.

  “You know where this came from?” I asked, holding up my bandaged arm. “Someone took a shot at me.”

  “Dangerous work,” he said.

  “You can tell whoever did it, I won’t back down,” I said.

  “You’re one crazy dude,” he said. He wasn’t going to give me a confession. Not then anyway. He wanted to kick my ass.

  I saw his kick-punch combo coming before he executed it. His body language telegraphed his attack like a sci-fi movie prologue scrolling into outer space. I was enjoying every second of it. There would be enough blood for a dozen DNA tests.

  The roundhouse came and went. I moved as little as necessary and felt the breeze on my cheek as his foot cruised through empty air. He did have strength and speed. That kick had probably taken out a dozen opponents in Lubbock. I saw the disappointment on his face when he didn’t connect.

  He launched the scissor kick next. I waited for it. He had good form but no imagination. He landed on the balls of his feet, ready for the punch combo. He swung his left hook like a cleanup hitter for the Astros. I took it on the shoulder and felt my arm go numb. Danny noticed my reaction. I needed to finish him off while I still had the strength.

  He flashed his right jab. The move I’d been waiting for. I stepped inside of it and let go with my own right hand. The punch landed just under his nose—that space not covered by the headgear. I wanted plenty of blood.

  His face caved in like a Prius hitting a freight train. I followed up with my right elbow. I felt the bone snap. Blood gushed from his broken nose and lip like water from a breached dam. Danny collapsed on the canvas. Lucky slipped through the ropes and knelt beside him. He shook his head at me.

  “What?” I said innocently. “It was a fair fight. The kid challenged me
.”

  I grabbed my bag through the ropes and pulled out the cotton swab and a baggie. I held the cotton to Danny’s nose and soaked it with blood. Lucky popped an amyl nitrate in his face. Danny came around slowly.

  “Take it easy. Don’t get up too quickly,” I told him. I was playing the adult again. His eyes weren’t quite focused. He never knew what hit him.

  “What happened?” Danny asked.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Lucky waved me out of the way. “Go home,” he said. “The kid learned his lesson.” Lucky was the only one in the room besides Sarge who knew what I had just done. In his prime, he could have done the same to me.

  I slipped the blood sample into a plastic baggie and put it in my gym bag. I didn’t bother to change clothes, just walked down the stairs. The group of Danny’s friends gave me a wide berth and nodded their admiration. They’d just seen their champ get beat.

  Outside on the street, a bronze F-350 pickup with oversized tires and a chrome roll bar took up the first three parking spots. The license plate read Danny One.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Idreaded my next move, but there was no faster way to get Danny’s blood sample to Kelly’s lab in Lubbock than to drive it up there myself. I had to keep the pressure on before the shooter came after me again. I didn’t really have any doubts that Danny was the father or that he was Marissa’s killer. The only remaining question was, How was Marissa’s death connected to Sosa? I spent the five-hour drive going over the possibilities. Sosa couldn’t have been directly involved because he had been in Mexico in July. Skeeter had checked on his whereabouts. The timing of Marcus Lopez’s takeover of Allison Oil seemed significant. Both Marissa’s murder and the business transaction took place in July. By the time Lubbock emerged out of the late summer cotton fields, I was no closer to a viable link.