to Farrell’s gym fifty yards up ahead, white lettering over a blue background. Astoria Sports Complex. Simple, and to the point. He approached the entrance and pulling open the door, ducked inside.
As he walked in, the air-conditioning blasted refreshing, frosty air into his face, cooling him and ruffling his hair. It was a couple of seconds of pure bliss, a brief moment’s escape from the baking heat outside; he moved through the cold air and walked into the gym. From where he was standing in the reception area, Archer could see straight away that the place was well-maintained. Straight ahead, he saw a swimming pool behind the windows of the reception desk. To the right of the pool were a series of separate designated lanes where swimmers were doing laps, and in the left corner some kids were playing in the water together with their parents. Behind them was another smaller pool, or maybe a Jacuzzi. Several people were in there, arms resting on the tiles, relaxing and chatting, taking a break from the merciless city heat.
To the right were two levels. Downstairs was the weight-room, lots of barbells, dumbbells and mirrors. He could see a load of guys in there working out, lifting weights, dance music pounding from speakers mounted on the walls around them. Upstairs, he could just see the tops of some people’s heads as they pedalled away on bikes. The machine room, he guessed, the two floors designed to separate the cardio bunnies and the meatheads. The place was clean and industrious, not the glamorous and expensive type of gym one would get in the city, but then again not the gritty and chalky basements you got at the other end of the scale. It was a legit business, a solid cover for Farrell, and Archer guessed it made him look good when he had to fill out his taxes.
The guy on the front desk had been sizing Archer up from the moment he walked in. He was in his mid-twenties, gelled-back hair, a diamond earring in his right earlobe and a tan that looked a little too golden to be real. He was wearing a white vest that was a size too small, making a statement, trying to show off the endeavours of his work in the room next door. He flashed a customary smile as Archer approached the desk, showing polished white teeth.
‘Looking to join?’ he asked.
Archer shook his head.
‘I’m looking for Farrell.’
The guy’s eyes narrowed. His courteous manner disappeared.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend.’
Before the man could reply, Farrell appeared at the top of the stairs from the cardio room. He whistled down to the guy behind the counter and nodded. The guy with the earring saw this and pressed a button, looking back at Archer suspiciously. The turnstile to Archer’s right clicked, unlocking, and ignoring the guy behind the desk, Archer turned and passed through the turnstile, walking up the stairs to the second floor. When he reached the top of the stairs, Farrell didn’t bother with a greeting. He just turned, and walked off, Archer following him.
‘Gimme five more minutes,’ Farrell said, turning to him. ‘We’re just finishing up her workout.’
Looking around the level, Archer had guessed right. Up here there were lines of cycling and elliptical machines and stair-climbers, people in sports-wear on a few of them, working hard as they watched televisions mounted on the wall ahead. The air-conditioning was on full blast up here too, keeping the temperature nice and cool.
Past the lines of exercise equipment, Archer saw a martial arts cage had been set up across the level towards the wall. He saw Ortiz inside, gasping for air, drenched in sweat, her hands on her hips as she prowled around the black-fenced cage like an animal in captivity. She was wearing a black t-shirt, the sleeves jaggedly cut off, and white shorts, her feet bare, black four-ounce gloves on her hands. She paced around in large circles, recovering, but Archer saw her stop and stare at him when she realised he was here. Her face was cold. Another corner-man was standing beside her, an older guy with grey hair, grizzled and sinewy, looking like a former fighter who had been defeated by Father Time and had stepped outside the ring to corner up-and-comers instead. He was holding a bottle of water and he lifted it, Ortiz tipping her head to take a drink. She swilled and spat the liquid back out to the floor, still glaring at Archer. He