From the back of the gym I watched Blanchard spar in the center ring. I looked for flaws in his basic attack and gauged his reactions when his sparring partners got cute. I saw that in clinches his elbows were tucked in to deflect body shots, leaving him open for jarring little uppercuts that would bring up his guard and set him up for counter hooks to the ribs. I saw that his best punch, the right cross, was always telegraphed with two half steps to the left and a head feint. I saw that on the ropes he was deadly, that he could keep lighter opponents pinned there with elbow steers alternated with short body blows. Moving closer, I saw eyebrow scar tissue that I would have to avoid in order to prevent a stoppage on cuts. That rankled, but a long scar running down the left side of his ribcage looked like a juicy place to throw him a lot of hurt.
“At least he looks good with his shirt off.”
I turned to face the words. Kay Lake was staring at me; out of the corner of my eye I saw Blanchard, resting on his stool, staring at us. “Where’s your sketch pad?” I asked.
Kay waved at Blanchard; he blew her a kiss with two gloved hands. The bell rang, and he and his partner moved toward each other popping jabs. “I gave that up,” Kay said. “I wasn’t very good, so I changed my major.”
“To what?”
“To pre-med, then psychology, then English lit, then history.”
“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
Kay smiled. “So do I, but I don’t know any. What do you want?”
I eyeballed the gym. Thirty or forty spectators were seated in folding chairs around the center ring, most of them off-duty cops and reporters, most of them smoking. A dissipating haze hung over the ring, and the spotlight shining down from the ceiling gave it a sulfurous glow. All eyes were on Blanchard and his punchy, and all the shouts and catcalls were for him–but without me getting ready to avenge old business none of it meant a thing. “I’m part of this. That’s what I want.”
Kay shook her head. “You quit boxing five years ago. It’s not your life anymore.”
The woman’s aggressiveness was making me itchy. I blurted, “And your boyfriend’s a never-was just like me, and you were some sort of gang skirt before he picked you up. You–”
Kay Lake stopped me by laughing. “Have you been reading my press clippings?”
“No. You been reading mine?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t have a retort for _that_. “Why’d Lee quit fighting? Why’d he join the Department?”
“Catching criminals gives him a sense of order. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I’m saving myself for Rita Hayworth. Do you flirt with a lot of cops, or am I a special case?”
Shouts rose from the crowd. I glanced over and saw Blanchard’s sparring partner hit the canvas. Johnny Vogel climbed into the ring and popped out his mouthpiece; the punchy expelled a long jet of blood. When I turned to Kay she was pale, hunching into her Ike jacket. I said, “Tomorrow night’ll be worse. You should stay home.”
Kay shuddered. “No. It’s a big moment for Lee.”
“He told you to come?”
“No. He would never do that.”
“The sensitive type, huh?”
Kay dug in her pockets for cigarettes and matches, then lit up. “Yes. Like you, but without the chip on the shoulder.”
I felt myself go red. “You’re always there for each other? Thick and thin and all that?”
“We try.”
“Then why aren’t you married? Shacking’s against the regs, and if the brass decided to get snotty they could nail Lee for it.”
Kay blew rings at the floor, then looked up at me. “We can’t.”
“Why not? You’ve been shacked for years. He quit fighting smokers for you. He lets you flirt with other men. Sounds like an ace deal to me.”
More shouts echoed. Glancing sidelong, I saw Blanchard pounding a new punchy. I countered the shots, duking the stale gym air. After a few seconds I saw what I was doing and stopped. Kay flipped her cigarette in the direction of the ring and said, “I have to go now. Good luck, Dwight.”