I shrugged too, but, unlike Kingsley, my shrug didn't look like two land masses heaving. I said, "Nothing yet, although I think Russell's grasping at straws."
Kingsley nodded. "Looking for a way to live with his guilt, perhaps."
"Perhaps," I said. "One thing is clear: It's eating him alive. Literally." I told Kingsley about the black halo I'd seen around the young boxer.
"The same halo you saw around your son?"
"The same."
"What's it mean?" asked Kingsley.
"It means he needs help. Lots of help."
g him alive. Literally." I told Kingsley about the black halo I'd seen around the young boxer.
"The same halo you saw around your son?"
"The same."
"What's it mean?" asked Kingsley.
"It means he needs help. Lots of help."
It was after hours and I was sitting in Jacky's office.
Jacky, if possible, looked even smaller than usual as he sat behind a dented metal desk. He was drinking an orange Gatorade which, I think, was the classic Gatorade. Of course, if I drank Gatorade now, I would heave it up in a glorious orange fountain.
Jacky, of course, didn't need to know that, and since I only spent a few hours a week with the guy - and most of that was spent with him yelling at me to keep my hands up - I hadn't yet developed a telepathic rapport with him.
Which was just as well. I seriously suspected that the old man had suffered some brain damage himself. He'd been a champion back in the day. And in Jacky's case, "back in the day" meant the early fifties in Ireland.
Jacky had spent the past few decades here in Fullerton. At one point his gym had been a happening place for up-and-coming boxers, with Jacky himself training a handful of champions. That is, until downtown Fullerton had become so trendy that Jacky - perhaps a better businessman than I'd given him credit for - had decided to turn his gym into a women's self-defense studio.
Then again, if I was a spunky old man, I'd rather train cute women, too.
Anyway, when Jacky finished off the Gatorade, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, dropped the empty bottle into a nearby wastebasket and sat back.
"What did you think of the kid?" he asked, speaking in an Irish accent so thick that you would think he was only now making his way through Ellis Island.
"I think the kid is deeply troubled," I said. "And I don't blame him."