Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

was singing “Night and Day.” Jeremy sighed deeply. “I’ll take care of that when we get the covers put away,” he said, picking up the boxes. “Keep the cover.”
    “Thanks,” I said, moving down past Alice. “Good luck with the Doves .”
    When I reached the lobby, the drunk was sitting against a wall. He was as pale and skinny as any crack in the cold tile under him. He was belting out “In the roaring traffic’s boom” in a not bad imitation of Fred Astaire.
    “Got a tip for you, Fred,” I called as I went for daylight. “Dance your way out of here before a very big man comes down those stairs and sets a new record for the javelin throw with you as the javelin.”
    Fred tipped his hat to me, grinned toothlessly, and didn’t miss a beat as he went on with “in the silence of my lonely room, I think of you night and day.”
    I had been feeling pretty good coming down the stairs, but the drunk’s words reminded me of Anne, and I lost some of my edge. I tucked the cover of Doves of a Winter Night under my arm and headed down the street for Manny’s taco stand. It was early and I had downed a good-sized breakfast, but I was flush with money and a good bad meal consisting of a pair of Manny’s tacos and a Pepsi would put me right again.
    Two tacos and a Pepsi later I was ready for Al Parkman and Reed’s Gym. I got into my Ford after telling Arnie that I wanted him to prepare for fixing the gas gauge, and I headed out toward Figueroa.
    I flipped on the radio, avoided hitting an old guy crossing the street against the light, and listened to a static-broken Conga version of Felix Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song” played by Xavier Cugat.

3
     
    R eed’s Gym was just where Ralph’s notebook said it would be, on Figueroa near Adams. I’d passed it hundreds of times. Ralph didn’t have the name quite right, however. It was REED’S SOLDIER’S GYM. The sign was old and faded. It looked as if the letters had once been gold against a green background. Now it was just letters and chipped paint. The entrance was a narrow door between an appliance store and a movie theater, the Lex, which was showing My Gal Sal . The theater wasn’t open yet. It was only a little after one or so, but Reed’s was open. I could hear the sound of men talking, grunting, swearing, laughing, above at the top of the sagging wooden stairs.
    I hadn’t called ahead. True, a call might have told me if Al Parkman was there, but it would also have told Al Parkman I was coming. As it turned out, Parkman was there, but first I had to get past the pug at the door.
    “Ten cents,” he said. He was wearing a white T-shirt that had REED’S printed on it in black. He was also wearing two of the most convoluted ears I had ever seen on a creature claiming to be a member of the human race. He really didn’t say “Ten cents” either. I had to figure it out from the context and his extended hand. What he said was more like, “Tessn’s.”
    I gave him the dime.
    “Locker and towel’s another dime,” he said.
    He was sitting on a stool, his back to the gym. When he spoke, it looked as if he was having a bit of trouble remembering the words, which he must have said at least thirty times that day alone, judging from the sweating bodies behind him.
    “No thanks. I’m just watching today.” I grinned.
    “You’re a little old for fightin’ anymore, anyway,” he said, looking at me under eyelids weighted down with scar tissue.
    “You got it there,” I agreed. There was a ring in the far corner of the loft. Men, mostly white, were punching bags, jumping ropes, gabbing. Other guys in shirts were milling around or watching the two in the ring, who were going through the motions. Something looked wrong with the scene, but I couldn’t finger it.
    “You’re China Rogers,” I said to the battered face at the door. He did something with his face that was supposed to be a smile.
    “I used to be,” he said. “Ain’t no more. Now I handle the