CHAPTER 26 IRON JACK
IRON JACK
The ride to Virginia takes nearly four hours. Morning rush hour traffic is dwindling on the highway as I exit and head into the hometown of my old fight-circuit nemesis, Grey Beast.
I remember him well. We were both light heavyweights. I was working out at The Crunch, our nickname for Jesse Ranch’s fighter gym. I’d been invited there by Jesse himself, who was a boxer from way back, an old rival of the infamous long-time boxing champion The Cure McClure.
I didn’t say as much to Max and Sherman last night, but I’m more familiar with the McClure family than I let on.
The circles we ran in then were small and fiercely competitive. The Cure ran his operation out of Buster’s Gym in southeast L.A. His son, Colt McClure, went the MMA path, peaking a little over a decade ago when he won the championship after a comeback from a gunshot wound.
He was shot by another fighter, or someone hired by one. There are always ugly rivalries in the circuit as everyone jockeys to go pro.
I should have known Grey Beast was running by the same playbook. If you can’t beat them in the ring, there’s always violence outside of it.
But in my case, my parents were the marks instead of me.
It all makes sense now. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that it was my L.A. life, not the club, that brought about my parents’ deaths.
I give the Harley more gas. That motherfucker is going down. I may never have gotten to face Grey Beast in the fight cage, but we’ll get a showdown nonetheless.
As I approach the neighborhood, I consider my lack of a plan. If Grey Beast drew me here by giving a member of the Kin his credit card, then he’s calling me out. He could be ready for me with an arsenal.
Damn, I miss the Wild Hair. I need operatives. Fancy’s ability to schmooze. Hoss’s brute force. Chain’s sneaky old man act.
I turn into a sleazy diner and park. I should eat. Think this through. Choose a tactic.
See if there is any way to do this and still make it back to Greta.
I slide into a cracked vinyl seat and order a full plate of breakfast. I use Google Maps to assess the area around Grey Beast’s house.
He has a large lot surrounded with a stone fence. There’s a gate at the back to an alley, and one at the front drive. It’s standing open in the street view.
I check the date. One year ago. I look at Zillow. The Beast bought this house two years ago. That tracks. He took my spot on the circuit when I departed, and the checks started rolling in. He did well, headlining back-to-back MMA events. I imagine sponsorships started coming his way.
Virginia is his home state. He came back a champion and a sports hero. It makes sense he bought a big house.
But one year ago, his gate stood open. Maybe it was a random moment caught by the Google car. Or maybe he leaves it that way all the time. I won’t know until I ride by.
Based on the aerial, there’s a pool and a cabana behind the main house. The garage is attached. A circle drive comes around the front from the street entrance. It’s all typical.
Zillow still has a slew of pictures from the sale. I eat bacon and eggs and toast while I flip through them, memorizing the layout, looking at windows and doors. There’s a basement with a small window and an exterior door.
Lots of ways in.
Is he there?
I start checking social media to see when his fights are. He might even be in L.A. I didn’t hang around long enough to know what his fighting and training habits were going to become.
I drink a second cup of coffee while I sort through his Instagram account. He must have a whole team on it, because they post multiple times a day. Workout videos. Stills from fights. Promo flyers.
I peer at the background of one from an entire series uploaded yesterday. That’s not The Crunch. I find an image that shows the interior of the gym and run a Google image search.
There’s plenty of matches. Grey Beast now works out at an outfit here in Fairfax. He owns it, actually.
I could confront him there. If he was at his gym yesterday, he’ll probably be there today.
I do a similar assessment of that property, front entrance, back exit, windows. Then turn my phone over on the table. Do I want to do this publicly or in private? His home or his gym?
A text comes through. It’s Greta. Travels going okay?
She managed to wait nearly five hours before checking in. I ought to turn her loose for the time being. If something bad goes down, I don’t want her to be on my phone for the cops to find. In fact, I don’t want a phone at all.
One last message.
Arrived. Trashing my phone. See you on the other side.
I don’t wait for a response. I don’t want to see it. I factory reset the phone, then turn it off, then pull it apart. When it’s in pieces, I wrap it all up in a long piece of paper towel from the roll on the table. I set it on my empty plate.
The gal waiting on the table takes the dirty plates, and I watch as she scrapes everything into a trash can, including the paper towel with the phone parts.
Done.
I feel heavy, like the weight of what happens next is strapped to my shoulders.
I pull out my wallet. My parents stare up at me from a picture tucked into a sleeve. I pull out the photo. They’re the age I remember best, when I was about twelve. Dad sits on the seat of his Harley, the one that got crushed under the truck. Mom rests on his knee, her arms around his neck.
This picture was in his wallet, the one given to me at the hospital when I went to identify the bodies, fresh in from L.A., completely lost. I was more desperate than angry at that point.
The rage would come later.
I pull the photo out and lean it against the roll of paper towels. Then I pull cash from my wallet and leave it by my coffee mug.
That done, I stroll out of the diner, dropping my wallet, cards, and identification in the trash as I pass by. They’ll have to work to identify me.
It’s time for the next part of this journey, however it’s going to end.
I choose the gym.