Santa Olivia (Santa Olivia #1)

Santa Olivia (Santa Olivia #1) Page 34

“I am,” the coach replied.

“Shit.” Miguel rose and walked some distance away, cigar in one hand, whiskey glass in the other. He stood, smoking, his back to them. “Yeah, that and the fact that I’d get lynched in town for being the guy who ratted out Santa fuckin’ Olivia, who turns out to be the beloved kid sister of the sainted Tom Garron.”

Floyd smiled. “Never thought you were stupid, Mig.”

“The hell you didn’t, Coach.” He turned around, drank down half his glass. “I got a brother, too. I answer to Danny. The Garzas have it made in this town. We get a cut of everything Salamanca touches. Booze?” He sloshed his glass. “I can get booze. Booze, pussy, weed, nice clothes. Whatever I want. This?” He jabbed the cigar at them. “Sure, it’s a good smoke, but I’m not going behind Danny’s back and putting my ass on the line for a ten-dollar cigar.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Floyd agreed. “I’ll take the fall. I’m pretty sure I can protect everyone who had anything to do with this. Everyone but Loup.”

Miguel scowled. “Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” Floyd said steadily. “As you say, I’m an old man. I’ve known Bill Argyle a long time.”

“It’s not enough.”

“What do you want?”

“Out.” Miguel jabbed his cigar at the horizon. “I want a ticket out of this dust patch. I wanna walk down a city street. I wanna see a forest. I wanna see the ocean. I wanna drive a car. I wanna fuck beautiful women I haven’t known since I was five years old. I wanna walk into stores filled with shiny new things and spend my fuckin’ money on anything I want, including ten-dollar cigars. I want out.”

Floyd shook his head. “I can’t make you that offer, son.”

Loup stirred. “You said you thought the general would honor his word if I won. One ticket, maybe two.”

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“So if Loup wins there’s a ticket?” Miguel asked. “Are you pretty sure about that?”

“Pretty sure, yes.”

Miguel looked at Loup. “I want it. If there’s two, I want ’em both.”

“One.” She held his gaze without blinking. “If there’s one, it’s yours. If there’s two, I want Father Ramon to decide who gets the other one.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. After a moment, he nodded and shifted his gaze to Floyd Roberts. “How long you think to get her ready?”

“Two years.”

“Johnson’ll be gone by then. Or whoever the fuck he is.”

“I can get him back,” the coach said.

Miguel downed the rest of his whiskey and licked his lips. “Yeah, well, once he’s gone, I want my pick. I’ll have at least a year, right? If I think I’ve got a shot at the new guy in my weight class, I wanna take it. No more playing favorites, no more dicking me around. I’m not getting any younger, Coach. My window’s getting mighty fuckin’ narrow, if you know what I mean. I wanna pick my shot. Deal?”

Floyd hesitated, then nodded. “You’ve got my word, son.”

“And if I win, all bets are off.” Miguel sucked on the cigar, blew out a plume of smoke. “I’m taking my two tickets, and me and Danny are out of here. I’ll keep my mouth shut, but you and the freakshow are on your own. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good.” Miguel returned and dropped heavily into the chair, holding out his glass for a refill. He contemplated the smoldering cigar in his hand. “Y’know, this is a pretty goddamned good cigar, Coach.”

“Uh-huh.” Floyd nodded. “Don’t make a habit of it. Bad for your wind.”

Miguel laughed humorlessly. “Some coach. Thanks for the advice, old man.” He reached out with one long arm, stubbed out the cigar in a potted marigold. His gaze settled onto Loup, filled with a complicated mixture of sympathy and antagonism. “I meant what I said, kid. I am sorry about your brother. And if they fucked him over and slipped in a ringer, it sucks even more. I get it. But you do know I’m gonna do my best to beat the living shit out of you before you get anywhere near a prizefight, right?”

“Yeah.” Loup smiled at him with surpassing sweetness. “Thanks, Miguel. I’m counting on it.”

He shook his head. “Freakshow.”

THIRTY-TWO

Are you out of your mind?” Mack held the heavy bag braced while Loup pounded on it, gloved fists a blur. “Miguel Garza?”

“Yeah, I know.” She concentrated. “But he’s good.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Me neither.” Loup worked the bag for another ten minutes, hitting at full strength and full speed. Mack grunted and struggled to keep his feet. “Okay, break.” She stepped back and wiped sweat from her brow with one forearm. “He’s still one of us, though. I think he’ll keep his word.”

“He’d better.” Mack picked up a roll of duct tape and began wrapping another layer around the bag to keep the seams from splitting. “Because if he turns you in, I will fucking kill him, Loup.” His gray eyes were calm and focused. “I will.”

She picked up a recycled bottle between her gloves and drank a long swig of water. “I don’t think he will. You should of heard him. He’s got everything anyone could want here and it’s not enough. He wants a ticket out, bad. Cars and oceans and forests.” She drank again, then lowered the bottle. “You ever think about it?”

“Getting out?” Mack kept wrapping. “I dunno. Not that much. It’s home. It’s what I know. You?”

“Some.” Loup shrugged. “Tommy used to talk about it. All the stuff we’d do and see. I don’t care about that so much. Now that he’s gone, if I went anywhere, I’d want to go south. Over the wall.”

“It’s a fucking war zone, Loup.”

“Maybe.” She pointed with her chin. “Put some more there; the old stuff’s coming loose. I dunno. Jaime’s been reading all these old magazines and newspapers. He thinks my father was right. That the government made up all that stuff about El Segundo so people would go along with it.”

“With what?”

“The walls. The cordon. The bases.” She took another drink, then set the bottle down carefully. “He says there’s nothing in it about us. No one knows we’re here. Isn’t that weird?”

“I guess.” Mack finished with the tape. “So why south?”

“ ’Cause that’s where my father went. Him, and the other guys like him. Someplace with a funny name and lots of fish. I have it written down. He’s probably gone now, but maybe there are other kids, you know? Like me.” She cocked her head and regarded the bag. “Guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Loup.” Mack came over and put his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t have to do this.”

She gazed at his familiar face. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay.” After a moment, he nodded. “Let’s get back to work.”

Miguel Garza kept his word. Three days after they struck their deal, Floyd ordered Loup to report to the gym on the following Sunday morning.

“Ten a.m.,” he said. “I don’t open until noon on Sundays. That’ll give you time to warm up, time to spar a few rounds, clean up before the boys arrive. I want you in proper gear. You can change in your brother’s old room, wash up afterward. There’s no shower, but there’s a sink.”

“Okay,” Loup agreed.

“Have you been training with the weights I gave you?” Floyd asked. “Full speed?” She nodded. “Good girl. Leave them off for this. Find your measure in the ring. We can put them on later.” He hesitated. “Speed’s a problem. That’s my biggest worry. You’re going to have to dial it down in the ring and match Miguel’s pace. Otherwise, you’ll just run rings around him.”

“I can do that,” Loup said. “It’s pretty much what I’ve had to do all my life.”

“I know.” He rubbed his chin. “That’s what worries me. If our man’s been training against opponents as fast as he is…” His voice trailed off.

“I don’t think he has,” she said. “I really don’t. He wasn’t a good enough boxer. No one’s ever pushed him. Not in the ring.”

Floyd sighed. “I hope to hell you’re right, child. All right, let’s go ransack the storeroom and see what we can find to fit you.”

He found sparring gloves and headgear that fit without much difficulty and there were unused mouth guards sized for younger fighters or lightweights. Clothing wasn’t a problem. The women’s locker room had been taken over by the fighters Floyd trained years ago, but he’d salvaged dozens of abandoned gym bags and Loup had rummaged through them at the outset, laying claim to a handful of garments that fit.

Boxing shoes and a groin protector were another matter.

“I can requisition a pair of shoes in your size,” Floyd said. “Boys’ shoes will be fine and you can use your regular gym shoes for now. But this.” He held out the smallest groin protector at arm’s length, squinting at the bulging cup. “They do make them for women. But I can’t see how I can requisition one without raising a red flag.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Oh, no!” He shot her a dour look. “Loup Garron, I’m setting a sixteen-year-old girl to sparring with a grown man. There’s no way on God’s green earth that you’re getting into that ring without proper gear.” He shoved it at her. “See if it fits well enough otherwise.”

Aside from the cup being too big, it fit.

“Live with it,” Floyd said.

Loup shrugged. “Okay.”

“You don’t get embarrassed easily, do you?” He looked quizzically at her. “Do you even understand embarrassment?”