"What does your heart tell you?" I asked.
He studied me closely. Outside, commuters were working their way through downtown Fullerton. Red taillights burned through the smoky glass. Something passed across his gaze. An understanding of some sort. Or perhaps wonder. Something. But then he grinned and his cop mustache rose like a referee signaling a touchdown.
"A skin disease, of course," he said. "You need to stay out of the sun."
"Bingo," I said. "You're a hell of a detective."
And with that I left. Outside, I saw that my hands were shaking. The son-of-a-bitch had me rattled. He was one hell of an intuitive cop.
I hate that.
I was boxing at a sparring club in Fullerton called Jacky's. The club was geared towards women, but there were always a few men hanging around the club. These men often dressed better than the women. I suspected homosexuality. The club gave kick-boxing and traditional boxing lessons. I preferred the traditional boxing lessons, and always figured that if the time came in a fight that I had to kick, there was only one place my foot was going.
Crotch City.
I come here three times a week after picking the kids up from school and taking them to their grandmother's home in Brea. Boxing is perhaps one of the most exhausting exercises ever invented, especially when you box in three-minute drills, as I was currently doing, which simulated actual boxing rounds.
My trainer was an Irishman named Jacky. Jacky wore a green bandanna over a full head of graying hair. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, a little fat now, but not soft. He must have been sixty, but looked forty. He was an ex-professional boxer in Ireland, where he had been something of a legend, or that's what he tells me. His crooked nose had been broken countless times, which might or might not have been the result of boxing matches. Maybe he was just clumsy. Amazingly enough, the man rarely sweat, which was something I could not claim. As my personal trainer, his sole responsibility was to hold out his padded palms and to yell at me. He did both well. All with a thick Irish accent.
"C'mon, push yourself. You're dropping your fists, lass!"
Dropping one's fists was a big no-no in Jacky's world, on par with his hatred for anything un-Irish.
So I raised my fists. Again.
During these forty-five minute workouts with Jacky, I hated that little Irish bastard with all my heart.
"You're dropping your hands!" he screamed again.
"Screw you."