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I’ve been coming here for twenty years, and frankly, it’s not for the atmosphere, or the music.
It’s because Burke shows up every day at exactly 4:12 p.m., after his day shift ends and once upon a time, it was the one place where we could work off
the day.
Now, like I said, I want answers.
It’s early so I change, do a few sets with the jump rope, popping a sweat.
I drop for a set of polymeric push ups, flip over and add in some sit ups, then end with a few squat thrusts.
I’m sweating, my body buzzing and I’m ready to hit something.
I tape up and work the speed bag. The Doors sing about lighting my fire, and I’m breathing hard when I see Burke stroll in.
He glances at me, nods, and heads to the locker room.
I finish my speed bag sprint and do some shadowboxing. Then I glove up and I’m at the heavy bag when he emerges.
He steps up to the bag, just to tame it.
I imagine the bag is John Booker and land my fist in the center. I’ve been at this enough to know how to keep my balance, but I’m still a little unfocused, maybe, so I dig down. I lean in and feel the sharp smack of my fist against the bag, a snapping punch, not a push.
I’m not trying to take myself out, just work off those words. Because what can a watch do if it doesn’t tell time?
The bag swings hard, back at me, and I keep my feet light, following it. I don’t wait to throw the next punch, because that’s for beginners, but dive back in.
I feel Burke at my side before I see him. He catches the bag. “My turn.”
I’m breathing harder than I thought and sweat saturates my shirt. Burke works off my mitts, tosses them aside and gloves up.
“What I don’t get is why Booker gave me the files. And his watch—did you know about that?”
I don’t need a preamble with Burke. He nods and says, “I wondered what this was about.”
“Why couldn’t he just leave it?”
Burke lifts a shoulder, throws a punch. I’m aware that he hasn’t warmed up, but his hit stuns the entire bag, a massive force, and I’m sorta glad we’re not sparring.
I’m clearly out of shape and that makes me even more perturbed.
“I’m surprised you’re surprised,” Burke says, dancing with the bag. “Clearly, he thinks you have unfinished business.”
“Half those files are yours.”
“I’m still around.” He slams his massive paw into the bag, a thud, a through-shot that could break ribs. “Where are you?”
I’m waiting for the uppercut, how’s the book going, but Burke has mercy and gives it to me square, “You should have never left. Booker—”
“John Booker made me leave.”
“Your fear made you leave.”
Oh. I’ve changed my mind. I want back in the ring.
Burke never raises his voice. Ever. It’s freaky, but he actually gets quieter and that’s when you have to worry. Now, he’s just about whispering and frankly, if I had sense, my blood would run cold.
“And your pride kept you from coming back.”
