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“You there. You there.” She hauled them to chairs. “You think punching each other makes you strong? It makes you stupid. Fighting’s for those not smart enough to use their words.”
Eve might have disagreed—she liked a good fight—but the lecture had the kids staring at the floor.
“My partner and I can take them downtown,” Eve said casually. “Looks like a couple of assaults, disturbing the peace, and being general dumb-asses to me. Couple hours in a cage . . .” She let it trail off.
Both boys stared at her, jaws on the toes of their skids, which had been the intention. Nita, however, stared holes through her, with no trace of humor, for an icy moment before turning her back again. “It’s for their parents to deal with.”
“Sure. So . . .” She turned back to Magda. “I’m looking for Father López.”
“Yes, he’s in the gym. Marc told me he ran into you this morning, that you said you had some leads.”
“We’re working it. Gym?”
“Through that door, straight down t
o the end of the corridor, turn left.”
“Thanks. And, ah . . .” She jerked her head toward the boys. “Good luck.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Nita doesn’t like cops,” Eve commented as she headed down the corridor with Peabody.
“Either that or she took you seriously. If I didn’t know you, I’d have taken you seriously.”
“I thought scaring kids out of being little assholes was SOP.”
“Well . . . It’s a method.”
“Did you see the kid on the right. Little bastard can take a punch.”
And so, Eve noted when they went through the gym doors, could López. What looked like a portable sparring ring stood behind the center court line. A scatter of kids practiced on equipment on the other half, under the supervision of a couple of women in gym shorts. López—red boxing gloves, black face guard, black baggy shorts, and a white tee—sparred with Marc.
And Marc snuck one in.
Other kids grouped around the ring, called out encouragement. The gym rang with voices, the slap of feet, and the whop of padded gloves finding meat.
Both men had worked up a sweat, and despite the age difference appeared evenly matched to the casual onlooker. But Eve saw López was quicker, and carried that innate boxer’s grace.
An out-fighter, she noted, making his opponent come to him.
He weaved, jabbed, danced right, hooked. Disciplined poetry in motion.
Why, exactly, was fighting the answer of the weak and brainless? Eve wondered.
She watched until the timer rang, and both men stepped back. She’d counted two hits for Marc, six for López. And the way Marc bent at the waist to catch his breath told her he was done.
She walked forward. “Nice round.”
Puffing, still bent over, Marc turned his head. “The guy kills me.”
“You drop your right before you jab.”
“So he tells me,” Marc said bitterly. “You want a shot at him?”
Eve glanced up at López. “Wouldn’t mind, but I’ll rain-check. Have you got a few minutes now?” she asked López. “We have some questions.”
“Of course.”
