Too Wylde by Marcus Wynne Read Free Book Online

that long
standing tradition of dealing in guns, reassigned to the Lake City
Joint Terrorism Task Force. There was a picture.
    Long thick black hair combed straight back
with a streak of white on either temple. Mustache hiding part of a
scar that started at the upper right of his mouth and stretched
across both lips into his left cheek. Hard brown eyes that stared
right at the camera and the hint of a tat in the faded neck of the
black t-shirt. Muscles underneath that, not the gym kind.
    Not bad.
    "His cell phone's on the back of the card,"
Oozy said.
    "I'll call him."
    "Nina?" Oozy said as she got up to go.
    "Yeah?"
    "Please don't kill him."
    She laughed all the way back to her desk.
     
    Lance T
    Lance T handed a thick envelope to the squat
elderly Laotian man who stood before his desk.
    "Thank you, my friend," Lance said.
    The older man inclined his head, smiled
slightly. "Thank you, my friend. It is always good to see you."
    "I appreciate your...patronage."
    The older man took that in. "Yes. I know this
word. 'The regular business given to a store, restaurant, or public
service by a person or group.' Yes?
    "Yes. Exactly."
    "So please, Lance...help me with my poor
English? Are you a store, a restaurant, or a public service?"
    They both laughed hard and long.
    "I would think...a public service, my friend.
We do endeavor to serve the public, and serve the public well."
    "Public, this is close to pubic?"
    "In spelling only. It's a good thing we don't
gamble on crosswords in here."
    "Yes. Though that does give me an
idea..."
    "I don't know if I can afford any more
ideas!"
    "We will let that germinate. You know this
word?"
    "Yes," Lance said, grinning. "This word, I
know."
    He watched the third most senior Laotian
gangster in Lake City walk out the door, sat back, put his
Ferragamo shod feet up on his desk (carefully, so as not to disturb
the shine on his shoes or the walnut desk top) and considered his
day. So much to do in The Trojan Horse: audition some new dancers
pleading for a shot? Long lunch downtown with the Chief of Police?
Spot check both sets of books? Or maybe just a long excellent
cigar, a glass of Macallan, and take the rest of the day off?
    It was good to be Lance T.
    Maybe the gym. The fighter he was and always
had been clamored for some expression, though these days he spent
most of his fighting time boxing for fun. His wrestling days had
left him with the ripped physique and a bevy of old injuries;
boxing gave him a chance to work hard on something he'd always
admired and never tried; it was always good to be a beginner at
something.
    The gym.
    ***
    Rudy's Gym looked like it had been plucked
right out of a 40's noir movie. Stained ancient wooden flooring,
racks of duct taped bags, boxes of sweat blurred gloves and hand
wraps, jump ropes hanging from pegs. The sweet familiar smell of
old sweat, sweat expended in honest effort, the creak of the canvas
mat in the ring, the clink of the ropes. Young men, and a few
women, in various corners shadow boxing, working the speed bags to
a steady rat tat tat, a few of the old timers, still cut hard
though greying, chatting in the corner, nodded at Lance when he
came in.
    He nodded back, one fighter to another,
changed in the locker room, the old wooden bench bowed by many
years, slammed the rusty locker shut and went out to warm up with a
few rounds of jump rope.
    Rudy, the second generation of Rudy's to own
and run this gym, was a black densely muscled former champion kick
boxer who'd taken over the gym from his father; a longish stint in
Korea and Japan as a pro fighter had left him with a little money
and a lot of injuries, so it was time to work the gym, coach a few
fighters, and work on nurturing the next generation of
warriors.
    "Lance," Rudy said.
    "Hey, brother. How's it?"
    "Good. You?"
    "Never better."
    Rudy laughed. "I guess not. It's good to be
Lance T. You looking for a partner today?"
    "Maybe later. Jump some rope, do some bag
work."
    "You want to work mitts,