Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

backs of their shiny silk jackets, just like in pro boxing, their trash-talking mouths big but without the skills, or the balls, to back them up. Philo was in jeans and sneakers, and under his light jacket, a sleeveless tee. Under the jeans, a steel cup inside a jock inside his boxer briefs, for protecting the jewels.

“The clothing what brought you here.” Something his deceased sexagenarian boxing buddy Hump Fargas had routinely called Philo’s outfit. “No shame in going old school. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Oh, how he missed Hump.

He ignored the rude comments, tossed his gun, wallet, and phone back into the car. Magpie had not, however, ignored the rudeness, was instead teed off, chastising the other boxer in Hawaiian for his disrespect, backing him up against a car, a finger in the guy’s chest. Philo clearly heard the words “sixty-five and oh” in English before Magpie reined in his temper and quieted himself.

Respect. Good show, Magpie, who then invited Philo and his posse to enter the barn first.

Inside was what Philo expected: a barn, nothing more, or maybe something less after its many decades of non-use and decay. Two stories, a dirt floor, small pens for small animals left and right of an open center area, a second level of planked flooring that ran around the perimeter, for storing hay bales. The exterior vertical wood siding hung precariously loose from the framing lumber in spots, was knot-holed, letting in sunlight that dotted the barn’s interior. No different from barns on the mainland, except for what Philo now noticed was on the dirt floor: spray-painted white lines in the center. A square, replicating a boxing ring, but larger. The large size interested him.

Wally spoke up while wandering the perimeter of the “ring” area, Philo walking it as well. “As I understand it, Trout, your opponent likes having room to move.”

This sent chills down Philo’s spine. For the first time in maybe twenty fights, he felt apprehensive about an opponent. Room to maneuver was Philo’s game. Most of his bareknuckle challengers over the years were larger than him, their size and girth the source of their bravado. That always gave him an advantage, his ability to stick and move and stay away. This much space was a surprise.

“I heard Mifumo’s a brawler, not a boxer, and big,” Philo said.

“Still big, Trout, maybe even too big, but now he’s fast,” Lanakai said.

“Huh.” Philo pondered this, a question hitting him dead center: What the hell did I get myself into? “Big and fast? How’d he manage that? Let me take a wild guess.”

“Yes. Steroids,” Lanakai said. “Word is he’s still using. Strength and speed both. So to answer the question you’re asking yourself right about now, yes, this guy is capable of really hurting you.”

“Huh,” Philo said, this time with less ponder, more God-fearing resignation, but soon chased by Navy booyah enthusiasm.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—

“Let’s get started.” Lanakai wiggled his fingers at his bodyguard.

—I will fear no evil—

“Magpie will take you through the paces.”

—for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.

Magpie ushered them into the center of the barn floor, Philo’s only protection a mouthpiece and a steel cup. If Philo had to guess, his sparring partner outweighed him by thirty pounds, plus there was the flak jacket protecting his ribs and the padded gear on his head.

“Mr. Trout, meet Suki-san,” Magpie said. “You’ll go two minutes with him, take a break, do two more minutes, take another break, then a final two minutes. Then you’ll work with me. Consider him your heavy bag for today, Mr. Trout. He’s good for it, but he will hit back. However”—Magpie looked Suki-san in the eye—“nobody throws anything overly hard at the head. Not one punch. Stomach, ribs, arms, make it hurt a little if you’d like, but no headhunting. Got it?”

Philo stuck and ran, stuck and ran, then stuck, ripping off shots up and down Suki’s body, some heavy hands making his sparring partner wince when they caught him in the stomach and ribs, even with the padding. Philo’s approach: leverage, and the snap of his large wrists and hands. Suki retaliated with punches to Philo’s solar plexus that were hard enough to back him up and get an admiring nod from Philo before he waded back in. Intermission, then another two minutes of Philo throwing speed punches at Suki’s padded face, and light head shots designed to help with Philo’s timing, not bombs that could take the man out. Except one did. Suki landed face first in the dirt, shaking out the cotton candy between his ears when he raised himself to his knees.

“Shit. Sorry, man, so sorry. Magpie, I got a lot more in the tank. I thought I was being polite.”

“All well and good, Mr. Trout. Not to worry. He’ll be fine. You can stand down, Suki-san.”

Magpie removed his jacket, limbered his neck. He waved Philo into the center of the square, spoke in a low tone while eyeing his boss Wally, who was preoccupied with his phone.

“So here’s the deal, Trout. Don’t hold back with me. I wanna feel it. I want the boss to see what he’s hitched his wagon to. Because I’m not going to hold back with you. I want your best two minutes, and you’ll get mine. You get the better of me, you’re ready. I get the better of you, the boss maybe hitches himself to me instead. Just so you know, and as a frame of reference, my allegiance to Ka Hui means I will kill for that man. I already have.”

“Look, Magpie, I have no beef with you. C’mon, be reasonable, we can’t be trying to cancel each other ou—”

Magpie’s left hook glanced off Philo’s forehead, but the blow put Philo on notice, like a sledgehammer that had come dangerously close to shattering the bones around his eye socket. Magpie got back into a boxer’s stance as a right-hander and stepped in closer