In Loving Memory, Frank Warren

Chapter 4: Sparring

There were days when the numbers did not make sense. Usually they danced into their proper places and tallied like they were supposed to. At times they almost magically asked to be moved into better categories to save the client on taxes or overhead. Today was not one of those days. The numbers refused to cooperate. Worst of all, they would not add up properly.

With a groan Frank glanced at the little clock in the lower right hand corner of his computer monitor. It was five after six. Would this day never e-

After six? Staring at the little numbers in disbelief Frank willed them to change. They did. It was now six after six. Even if he caught a cab he would be lucky to make it to the gym before the match was over.

Stupid numbers, they were out to ruin his evening too. Forgetting to grab anything except his keys and the cash he had set aside for a cab, Frank made a mad dash for the elevator.

It must have been in cahoots with Slow Elevator from his building because it refused to come directly to his floor. On the way down it insisted on stopping at every damnable floor whether or not someone was waiting on it.

A string of curse words flowed through his mind. Letting them out might have relieved some of his tension but his close quarters companions during their endless trip down might take exception. Finally the doors opened. Which meant he had to wait on these stupid people to move the hell out of his way.

Frank only had so much patience. The elevator had exhausted. Shoving the last person in front of him to the side, Frank darted through the opening to bolt for the street. Fortunately for him there were several cabs pulling up to the curb. Darting in front of a well dressed couple who could have been headed for the opera, Frank stole their cab by leaping through the open door and slamming it closed behind him.

"The gym on Imperial! An extra twenty if you can make it in ten minutes!" Panting, heart racing, he had to pull out the cash before the cabbie would believe him. The cab dashed through traffic, at least when the cars were actually moving. By the time he was only a couple of blocks away the line of cars had come to a standstill.

"Screw it, I'll get out here," Frank insisted, tossing all his cash over the seat. His feet hit the pavement at a full tilt run. Two blocks, just two lousy blocks. He dodged cars and pedestrians alike in his mad dash.

When he arrived at the gym, panting like a dog with his tongue lolling out and tie flapping over one shoulder, the doors stood open. From outside he could hear a bell ring followed by cheering.

Please, please don't be over, Frank begged. Come on God, I promise to be good.

Reaching the back of the crowd Frank pressed his way through a solid wall of bodies until he reached the last row of folding chairs. Here he could see the action. Another bell rang.

Dean was in the ring wearing silky black boxing trunks outlined in white. His opponent wore white trunks outlined in black. The two men fairly danced around the ring, a tentative jab here, a quick punch there, while their feet hardly seemed to touch the floor. Plenty of bulging muscles promised an untapped store of raw power but it was their finesse which entranced him. Tighter and tighter they danced, closer and closer, testing and teasing. Even from the back Frank could tell these two men knew each other, knew the other's moves as well as his own. Failed tricks and traps, too well used to ever work, followed by chuckles and scattered cheers from the audience proved it.

Then the dance stopped. The two men stood facing one another, each perfectly balanced and tense with anticipation. A hush fell over the crowd. Frank would never be able to say who threw the first real punch because the flurry of red and black gloves was too rapid.