Donovan Creed Books 5-6 by John Locke

Author:John Locke
Language: deu
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781781854396
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd.
Published: 2011-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

1.

24 Hours Earlier…

THE NYAC IS widely considered the world’s greatest athletic club. Located at 180 Central Park South, the 21-story structure boasts 300 guest rooms, a boxing ring, swimming pool, billiards room that overlooks the park, two handball courts, and a number of meeting rooms. The exterior is limestone and concrete, crafted with an Italian Renaissance influence.

When I’m in the city, that’s where I go to work out. You want to find me, come early. Ask for Donovan Creed.

Today I’m miles away from the NYAC. I’m across town, in the financial district, standing in front of the New York Gentlemen’s Gym. The NYGG is twice as plush as the NYAC, if you can just imagine. I’m wearing olive cargo pants and a Dri-Fit training tee, carrying the vintage leather gym bag that had been used on at least one occasion by the Manassa Mauler himself, Jack Dempsey.

Upon entering, the first thing I see is two security guys in the lobby, talking. I stand a few feet away from them and wait politely till they’re finished. Short, wide guy with a hand-stitched tapered shirt is younger, with a no-nonsense air of aggression. He looks me over, sizing me up.

“Need somethin’?” He says.

“Billy King here yet?”

He looks me up and down a second time, then looks at his friend.

Short, wide guy juts his chin toward the double doors.

“Boxing ring’s in there,” he says. “Billy’s in it, poundin’ turds outta some poor sap.”

I nod.

There’s a check-in area, but no one’s manning the station.

Second security guy is older, maybe fifty. He’s average height, lanky, weighs half as much as his muscle-bound friend. His eyes are kindly, and blue, and framed by ancient scar tissue. In a fair fight between them, my money’s on the older guy.

He looks at my gym bag.

“That’s a hell of a nice bag,” he says. “A classic.”

The three of us stand there, looking at my classic gym bag.

Older guy says, “Mind if I have a look inside?”

“What’s your name?” I say.

“Does it matter?”

“The police might want a statement later on. I don’t want to have to refer to you as ‘young guy’and ‘older guy’.”

“That’s funny,” older guy says.

“Why’s that?”

“My name’s Guy,” he says.

“No shit?”

“Swear to God.”

“Now there’s a coincidence.”

“And you are?”

“Donovan Creed.”

I look at the young guy. He says, “What?”

“Your name,” Guy says.

“Why does he care?” younger guard says.

“I might need a witness later,” I say.

He shrugs. He’s so muscle-bound, the simple effort of lifting his shoulders nearly doubles the volume of his neck.

“You can call me Z.”

“Z,” I say.

“That’s right.”

“That your street name?”

“You got a problem with that?”

Z and I are looking at each other, but out of the corner of my eye I see Guy roll his eyes the slightest bit.

“Guy, Z, nice to meet you,” I say, turning toward the door that leads to the boxing ring.

“Mr. Creed?” Guy says.

I turn my head.

“Your gym bag?” he says.

“Oh, right.”

I hand it to him. The bag is an ancient leather boxing duffel, circa 1919, with a single compartment, accessed by a zipper that runs the full length on top of the bag.

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