Even if he’d had a garden variety job and nothing more than a couple of speeding tickets, Isaac wasn’t anywhere near that league of woman. Hell, he wasn’t even playing in the same sport.

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Jim Heron had long been aware that there were two kinds of gyms in the world: commercial and old-school. The former had coordinating color schemes and women taking spinning classes in full makeup and guys with John Mayer carp tattoos pumping weights with padded grips. You were expected to wipe down the machines after you used them and chirpy, spray-tanned trainers checked you in as you came and went.

He’d tried out one of those right after he’d left XOps. It had nearly made him go couch potato.

The old school was more up his alley and that was exactly what he and Adrian and Eddie walked into in South Boston. Mike’s Gym was a man’s world, baby: Place smelled like an armpit, had walls that were prison-worthy, and was hung with faded pictures of Arnold from back in the eighties. The mats were neon blue, the weights were iron, and the single stationary bike in the corner was one of those wind-resistant jobs with the caged fan.

Damn thing was a relic and had dust on the seat.

The men who were doing circuits on the machines or free-weighting it were big, quiet, and had tattoos of the Virgin Mary and Jesus and the cross. There were a lot of broken noses that had healed up cockeyed and some bad caps on gritted front teeth that were no doubt from hockey games or bar fights.

Undoubtedly everyone knew everybody else because they were all related somehow.

He felt right at home as he came up to the front desk. Guy behind it was sixty, maybe sixty-five, with ruddy skin and pale blue eyes and hair that was whiter than the froth on a Bass Black & Tan.

“What can I do for you boys?” the man said, lowering the Boston Herald.

A couple of the members glanced over, and kept staring. Jim and his backups weren’t lightweights, but they were unknowns, which put them into what-the-hell? territory.

“I’m looking for a guy,” Jim said as he took out the flyer with Isaac’s pic on it and spread the thing flat on the chipped Formica counter. “You seen him around here maybe?”

“No, I ain’t,” the guy replied without looking down. “I ain’t seen nobody.”

Jim glanced around. A lot more eyes on them and a lot of weights pausing. Clearly, pushing the old man wasn’t a smart move if he didn’t want to get bum-rushed.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.” The Herald snapped up into place.

Jim turned away and refolded Isaac’s picture. As he went for the door, he cursed under his breath. This was the third place they’d tried, and they’d gotten nothing but stonewalled—