Diversion 1 - Diversion (6 page)

Thinking,
theres no time like the present
, Lucky dragged Bo to his first “training session” after lunch.
“A gym? Why a gym? We have one of those back at the office.” Bo stood on the sidewalk, both hands rammed into his pants pockets, which only served to pull the material tighter across his ample tush. At least hed packed a gym bag, as instructed.
“Yeah, well, this is a different kind of gym, and were here for your first lesson.” Lucky bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipation coursing through his veins. His own bag draped from one shoulder.
Bo made no move to enter the gym for a minute or two, and seemed to be thinking things over while poised to run. He glanced at the front door and back at Lucky before bobbing his head in a “lead on” gesture.
Beneath the bill of a Braves cap, Lucky grinned. What a guileless wonder. Too bad Lucky intended to cure the boy of his gullible nature posthaste. “Staying alive” and “trusting” in this business were mutually exclusive.
They stepped inside the squat gray building that probably started life as a school. The familiar scents of sweat and liniment greeted them. A hulk of bunching muscles sat on a stool by the door, leaning his perch back on two legs. His thumbs skipped over the keypad of a cell phone. “What can I do for you?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the device in his hands. Lucky envied anyone whose lifehadnt made them paranoid enough that their eyes never left the door.
“I need a ring,” he replied, perching his shades on top of his head to eye Bo with an assessing gaze. “Thirty minutes, tops.”
“You a member?” The guy condescended to glance up. “Oh, youagain.”
Try not to appear so thrilled, asshole, or I might think you have the hots for me,
Lucky wanted to say. Instead he replied, “Yeah, me.”
“Twos open.” The attendant dismissed Lucky, turning his attention back to his cell phone.
“This way to the locker rooms.” A flick of Luckys hand summoned Newbie to follow, though he didnt waste time checking to see if the man complied. A by-the-book guy might pause a minute, but in the end do as told. Sure enough, two seconds later the squeak of shoe leather trailed Lucky across the worn wooden floor of the main gym. They bypassed a few men pumping iron, skipping rope, and hammering away at a heavy bag. An open doorway offered a view of a trio of sparring rings.
The locker rooms were fairly clean, being early in the day, and Bo and Lucky shed street clothes in favor of shorts and T-shirts in a communal dressing room. Lucky peered at Bos ass while humming Black Eyed Peas
My Hump
, making up his own words.
My hump, my big old juicy rump…I turn around and things fall down, my hump…
Bo gave him the evil eye, nose scrunched as though hed whiffed something nasty. It being in a gym locker room made funky smells a distinct possibility. “What?” Lucky asked, donning his best innocent expression. Bo grumbled and stalked away, finding his way to ring two alone.
Luckys second thoughts began when he found his opponent flexing, stretching, and bouncing in place through a series of warm-ups. Oh shit. Ex-Marine. Only slightly daunted, Lucky followed his own ritual of loosening up.
In the next ring two men sparred, decked out in helmets, gloves, and pads. If genius at the door had been paying any attention hed be approaching now, insisting Lucky obey the gym rules about protective gear.
“You ready?” Lucky asked Bo, ready to get the show on the road. Protective gear had no place in Bos upcoming “lesson.”
“I still dont understand what this has to do with my training, but bring it on.” Bo stood proud and tall, apparently expecting a fair fight.
Lucky didnt fight fair. Using his size, or lack thereof, to full advantage, he dropped to the canvas, sweeping Bos legs out from under him and rebounding to his feet in one slick move.
Bo dragged himself upright, the light of awareness glinting in his eyes. Returning Luckys shit-eating grin, he faked with his left and jabbed with his right. Lucky danced out of reach.
They circled, each seeking weakness in the other. From the corner of his eye Lucky noticed a few fighters assembling around the ring to witness what they probably saw as a grudge match and not
Richmond Lucklighters Introduction to the Cesspool of My World.
Roughly five minutes in the ring raised Luckys appreciation of his new charge. The man knew how to use his fists, even if he did rely too heavily on his hands while ignoring the rest of his body. Twice more Lucky caught him in a sweep. The next thwarted attempt proved the man eventually learned.
Lucky lost all sense of time and place, focusing on his breathing, how he held himself, watching for a subtle shift of muscle to betray a punch aimed his way. Occasionally he wasnt fast enough or misjudged, allowing a blow to land on his shoulder or chest, and once, his face.
Thatll leave a mark.
He danced and faked, seeking to tire his opponent rather than beat him. If hed really wanted an easy victory, Bo would already be laid out on the canvas. Art hadnt lasted ten minutes during “orientation.” For some reason Lucky felt the need to test his protégés capabilities.
They prowled, they clinched, they jabbed, they fell into perfect rhythm, orbiting each other, seeking an opening.
This man might one day be my equal. At least in fighting.
Lucky didnt find a worthy opponent often.
Exploiting a split second of distraction while Bo wiped his sweaty brow, Lucky brought the lesson home, catching Bo on the chin with a lightning fast left hook, followed by a good swift kick, tumbling his opponent to the mat. Lucky dived like a duck on a June bug before Bo even hit the canvas, easily pinning the larger man.
Despite the rush and heady affirmation that he was “still da man,” defeating Bo hadnt been easy. Lucky grinned at the fallen fighter, not a gloating grin, but a, “You did good, but I can still beat you” grin.
He hauled a still-stunned Bo to his feet, helping him out of the ring. One arm wrapped around a firmly muscled back, Lucky guided the loser back to the locker room, to comments from the bystanders on form, stance, and whod won bets. Usual gym talk.
In the wake of a testosterone high, Lucky showered, not bothering to hide his appreciation for Bos body, lean and taut with light muscles, more of a swimmer or runners build than a gym rats. Bo didnt turn away or cower beneath the not-so-subtle scrutiny; he merely lathered and rinsed his hair and body with practiced efficiency. His broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist, ending in an incredibly firm yet round ass. The guy easily stood six foot. And while hed never make the cover of GQ, he wasnt too hard on the eyes, especially when compared to the rest of the department.
Luckys cock responded to the intriguing view and he turned away to hide his budding erection. Taunting a rookie was one thing, perving on a coworker another entirely—even if he did want a closer look.
Once dried and dressed, Bo asked, “Mind telling me now why we went a round in a gym when youre supposed to be training me?”
No harm explaining, Lucky supposed. “I am training you. Our little exercise today served two purposes. One: you can tell a lot about a man by the way he fights. And if were gonna be watching eachothers backs, its best to know what youre capable of.”
Bo chewed his bottom lip, mulling over the words. “Makes sense, in a twisted sorta way, I guess. Whats the other reason?”
“To let you know from the get-go how badly I can kick your ass. Anytime you want to challenge me, remember this day.” Lucky spun on his heel and trotted toward the exit. He called over his shoulder, “Lesson two is this: I am the best. I always have been, and always will be the best. Watch and learn, but youll never be able to touch this.” He waved his hand to indicate himself.
“But you were busted.”
Lucky stopped in his tracks. Oh shit. Did Walter have to tell Newbie everything? He schooled the irritation out of his voice and turned to face Bo, hoping to come across as nonchalant. “Which leads to lesson number three: never trust anybody. Now, what say we go get some coffee?”

It took a lot of conniving to avoid a man he sat across from for the good part of a week; however, Lucky had conniving down to an art form. And on those few occasions he and Bo breathed the same air, Lucky grinned and cracked his knuckles, a blatant reminder of who called the shots.

Either Newbie had stupid moments, or a death wish, for he insisted on talking—to Lucky.
“Pretty lady. Is she your sister?” Bo stared over Luckys shoulder at a picture of Charlotte holding her oldest son. Shed been pregnant with the second at the time. What was he now? Eleven? Twelve? The woman desperately needed to send a new picture.
Lucky offered a challenging glare. “What if shes my wife or girlfriend?”
Bos jaw dropped open before he snapped his mouth closed and attempted to hide blatant disbelief. “Oh, Im sorry. I didnt mean…”
“Shes my sister,” Lucky growled, flipping the picture face down. “Now, did you leave something on my desk?”
“No.”
“Then would you mind getting the hell back to your own?”
“I came to bring you this.” He held out a large envelope.
Lucky snatched it from his hand, reaching in to pull out a massive “there goes the rain forest” amount of paper, secured together by an industrial-sized paper clamp. A few pictures fell out of the pack, along with a key and a map to a Kissimmee, Florida address. Lucky shook his head in exasperation. Hed only been home a few days, and now hed have to leave again. And back to Florida, too, damn it. Florida, where hed spent some of the happiest times of his life. Now, he avoided the place whenever possible. He didnt need the reminders of how badly his life had gone to shit.
“Youre welcome,” Bo huffed, beating a hasty retreat to his own desk.
Lucky ignored him, staring at the image of a pretty, forty-ish blonde woman who might soon be facing some serious charges. With her carefree smile and perfectly styled hair, she certainly wouldnt strike many folks as a hard-boiled criminal.
It takes all kinds, I guess.
Beverly Ryerson
, he read, sole owner of the Ryerson Clinic in Orlando, inherited from her late husband. The daytime drama lover in Lucky shouted,
She killed him!
A blurb in the report citing the cause of death as pancreatic cancer did little to diminish Luckys suspicions. Suspicions were good things. They kept you alive.
He buried himself in his work, researching every available scrap of information about the Ryerson Clinic, sorting through phone bills, bank records, and personnel records. Several hours later he was thoroughly convinced that he knew more about Beverly Ryersons business than she did.
“Mind if I ask you something?”
Lucky jumped, startled to find Bo standing at his back again. Evening shadows stretched across his desk, and the surrounding cubes were silent. The clock on the wall showed 5:55.
Damn. I actually was
involved
in my work.
Yawning and suddenly exhausted, he carefully spun his chair around to hand a chipped and stained coffee mug to Bo.“Ill answer your question if you get me more java.”
Bo opened his mouth, faced flushing a lovely outraged color, but in the end he snatched the cup from Luckys hand and stalked off. Presumably to the coffeepot.
He returned with a cup of what might have been shoe polish, but Lucky eagerly gulped it down. When had they made it? A week ago?
Given the time of day and a lack of a bigger audience, Lucky took it easy on the guy, somewhat. It simply wasnt worth the energy at the moment to irritate him properly.“Whaddya wanna know?” He leaned the chair back as far as he dared.
“Keith and I did everything by the book. Why werent we able to find you?”
“How did you go about your search?”
“Standard tactics, according to Keith. Your car wasnt moved all weekend, your landlady swears she heard you in your room and that you never left, you didnt buy a bus ticket, rent a car, or even hitchhike, from what we found.”
“Mistake number one—it wasnt me you needed to watch.” He turned a weary gaze on the man who never in a million years stood a chance of matching his skills. “Everyone has a weakness. Figure out the weakness and youll find your man.”
I wonder what yours is.
“Are you saying I should have found out which Starbucks suddenly experienced a spike in sales and sugarshortages?”
As comebacks went, it wasnt bad. Needed work on delivery, but not a totally worthless effort. “No. Answer this. If Im not buying tickets, renting hotel rooms, et cetera, et cetera, how am I traveling?”
Bos brow furrowed, and Lucky could almost hear the wheels turning beneath his perfectly styled hair. The light bulb came on, erasing the minuscule worry creases from the mans forehead. Damned but he appeared too young sometimes. The big bad world was gonna chew the guy up and spit him out. “You had an accomplice.”
“Bingo!”
“Instead of wasting time watching you…”
If you wanna find the animal, find the keeper.
“You shoulda watched Walter, he made all my arrangements. Now, any idea where he is right now?” Lucky cracked his knuckles. “Or maybe Keith? Your landlady? Name em and I can find em.” His fingers raced over his computers keys.

Bright and early Monday morning, a blue Ford Escort pulled into the driveway of Luckys new home for the next few weeks, thumping to the strains of Lady Gagas “Pokerface.”
Ah, a contemporary rock fan. This is gonna be fun.
Lucky scrolled his iPod to his “Crazy” playlist, more properly labeled, “songs to drive coworkers crazy.” He dropped the device back into his pocket, anticipating Bos reaction.

“Come on in. Its not much, but Walter doesnt believe in spending a dime more than he has to, as if the car he assigned you wasnt clue enough.”

If not for Bos attempting to get a job at the pharmacy theyd be watching, Lucky had little doubt that hed have wound up in some cheap, flea-bag hotel instead of this reasonably decent, if tiny house. How Lucky longed for a place out in the woods, where no one would ever find him—even with Walters help. To the houses advantage, several citrus trees crowded the tiny backyard, their limbs heavy with oranges, tangerines, and grapefruit. He hadnt had an orange off the tree in quite some time. Once youd tasted a freshly picked orange, the pitiful specimens in grocery stores lost their appeal. Did Floridians keep the good stuff for themselves? Hed certainly never tasted the like in North Carolina, or anywhere else.