"They haven't looked for him yet. I told Raymond maybe I could save him the trouble. He gave me Maurice's last known address, but doesn't want me to go after him alone. I said, "Raymond, I'm a federal officer, I'm armed…" What it is, he wants to go with me, but he's tied up."

"Would this be like a date?"

Some of the things her dad said she ignored.

"I noticed in Maurice's case file," Karen said, "something that might interest you. He gave his occupation as prizefighter and his employer, the Kronk Recreation Center. You've heard of it, haven't you?"

"The Kronk? Sure, all the good Detroit fighters the last twenty years came out of there. Emanuel Steward's program, the guy who trained those fighters, Tommy Hearns…"

Her dad paused.

"McCrory," Karen said.

"Yeah, Milton McCrory."

"There was a lightweight, Kenty?"

"Hilmer Kenty. You remember those guys? You were a little girl. Your friends are at the mall, you're home watching the fights."

"Well, once in a while I did. And soaps," Karen said.

"General Hospital, I almost became a nurse."

"What're you doing tonight?"

"Nothing. Watch TV if there's anything on."

"Monday night, Poirot's on followed by Miss Marple. You thinking of going to the Kronk?"

"I might, just to see what it's like."

"A place like that," her dad said, "the fighters are okay, they're in there working their tail off. Then there're the guys who want you to think they're fighters, they might even shuffle around like they're doing their footwork, hit the bags, but they never go in the ring. And you got the ones who hang out there 'cause it makes them feel like they're tough guys. You know, the atmosphere. But you can take care of yourself, right?"

"I'll call you tomorrow, let you know how I'm doing."

"I forgot to ask you," her dad said, "what's the weather like?"

"Was a time," Maurice said, "you see a gold Mercedes over in the parking lot has a license plate on it say HITMAN? You know Tommy Hearns is inside. Seeing the car would get our juices flowing."

Glenn said he thought there'd be guys hanging around outside or running, doing their roadwork. Man, it was a bleak, depressing neighborhood, trash blowing in the street…

Maurice said it was too cold to be outside, the dude in his lilac do-rag and tailored black pea jacket, enough shoulders in the coat for White Boy Bob-White Boy wearing a wool shirt hanging out over his T-shirt-coming behind them up the ramp to the front door of the Kronk Recreation Center at McGraw and Junction, a two-story red-brick building that looked to Glenn like a public library no one used in a poor section of town. The streets around here were a clutter of up and-down two-family flats with porches, dingy cars out front narrowing the streets.

Inside at a table they signed their names, the time, and wrote "boxing" in the last column. Glenn could hear kids' voices, basketballs beating on a wood floor, in there where auditorium doors were closed, as they walked past to a stairway, went down to the basement and along a hallway that brought them to KRONK BOXING, lettered on a door painted yellow across the top and the rest of it a bright red, with more words on it that said THIS DOOR HAS LED MANY TO PAIN amp; FAME.

"More the one than the other," Maurice said, waiting for White Boy to edge past them and open the door. Going in, Maurice said to Glenn,

"You feel the heat, uh? Hits you smack in the face." Maurice slipping off his pea jacket now, getting down to his black silk shirt and pleated trousers a shade of taupe.

"Even how much they sweat in here, it don't smell bad, does it? Go sit over there on those benches. I be with you in a few minutes."

Some were like park benches, along the near wall facing the ring, a big one flat on the floor, its size taking up most of the gym. Four young guys, three black and one who looked to Glenn like an Arab, were in there shadowboxing, weaving, ducking, throwing jabs with their taped hands. Glenn had noticed a body bag over where they came in, pictures of fighters all over the walls, a sign above the ring on the other side that said TURN UP THE HEAT. Another one, THE BIGGER THE REWARD THE BIGGER THE SACRIFICE. Glenn stared at it a few moments thinking it should be turned around, lead with The bigger the sacrifice… In the space to the left of the ring were workout machines, a speed bag, a training table, athletic bags in jazzy colors on the floor.

There were old black guys over there in yellow T-shirts with KRONK in red, the trainers, talking to kids working out, watching the ones shuffling around in the ring. Maurice and White Boy were over there now, Maurice approaching the trainers one at a time, faking jabs, rolling his bony shoulders, jiving with them, but not getting any kind of cordial response, no smiles; a trainer would shake his head and Maurice would move on to the next one. White Boy was on a workout machine now, shirts off, popping his muscles.

Glenn brought a cigarette out of his shirt, looking at another one of the signs. NO PAIN NO GAIN. No shit. He reached in for his lighter, the cigarette in his mouth, as one of the trainers, a big heavyset guy, came along from the other side of the gym where the door was-shaking his head at him and pointing to a NO SMOKING sign. Glenn held his raincoat open to slip the cigar rette back into the pack, chin on his chest to see what he was doing.

When he raised his head again he was looking at two white guys in overcoats coming this way, the two guys looking right back at him.

Christ. Jack Foley and Buddy.

Buddy the one saying, "Hey, Studs, how you doing?" as they walked up, Foley with kind of a mild expression, neither one acting like a hard-on, except they sat down on either side of him, close. It gave Glenn only a few moments to deal with his nerves.

He said, "Jesus Christ, what're you guys doing here?" and it didn't sound too bad. Surprised, but not overdoing it, almost like he was glad to see them.

Foley said, "Weren't you expecting us?"

Getting to it right away. Glenn said, "Listen, I'll tell you what happened." It was awkward the way they were sitting, the three of them facing the ring, only two guys in there now. He said to Foley, on his right, "That broad you picked up-did you know she was a U.S. marshal, for Christ sake?" He turned to Buddy as Buddy stood up, took off his overcoat and sat down again.

"She knew me, from that bullshit dope bust. She drove me to court.

Twice. You know what she said, we're in the car on the turnpike?

"I never forget anybody I've cuffed and shackled." Foley said, "Yeah?

She said that to you?"

Glenn turned to see Foley, still with a mild expression, almost smiling. Glenn said, "She asked me if I had a gun," and saw a little more of the smile, not much, just a hint, but like Foley thought it was funny.

"She told me to drive, leave you there, or I was going down for the rest of my life."

Foley said, "Then what happened?"

"I drove. What would you do?"

Foley didn't answer, his face close, deadpan now. Glenn turned his head and was looking at the two guys in the ring sparring, dancing around each other, ducking, throwing jabs, smacking each other's gloves.

"What happened after that?"

"She wanted me to get off the turnpike so she could take me in. No thank you, I had it on the floor. The next thing I know she wigged on me, grabbed the wheel and we spun out and piled up."

"What'd you do then?"

"Got out of the car and ran."

"She try to stop you?"

"She was out cold."

"How do you know she wasn't dead?"

"She was breathing."

"But she could've been hurt."

"What was I supposed to do, get help? She wakes up, she's gonna fucking put me away. I got out of there, man, I ran. I picked up a ride, drove to Orlando and hung around Disney World, in crowds, man, I hid in crowds of people till I figured out what to do."