I didn't know anyone named Alpha, and I wasn't eager to hover in the shadow of Benito Ramirez, but the woman reeked of Catholic respectibility, so I took a chance and followed after her. We entered the building next to the gym. It was an average Stark Street row house. Narrow, three stories, sooty exterior, dark, grimy windows. We hurried up a flight of stairs to a small landing. Three doors opened off the landing. One door was ajar, and I felt air-conditioning spilling out into the hallway.

"This way," the woman said, leading me into a cramped reception room dwarfed by a green leather couch and large scarred blond wood desk. A shopworn end table held dog-eared copies of boxing magazines, and pictures of boxers covered walls that cried out for fresh paint.

She ushered me into an inner office and shut the door behind me. The inner office was a lot like the reception room with the exception of two windows looking down at the street. The man behind the desk stood when I entered. He was wearing pleated dress slacks and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. His face was lined and had a good start on jowls. His stocky body still showed muscle, but age had added love handles to his waist and streaks of gunmetal gray to his slicked-back black hair. I placed him in his late fifties and decided his life hadn't been all roses.

He leaned forward and extended his hand. "Jimmy Alpha. I manage Benito Ramirez."

I nodded, not sure how to respond. My first reaction was to shriek, but that would probably be unprofessional.

He motioned me to a folding chair placed slightly to the side of his desk. "I heard you were back on the street, and I wanted to take this opportunity to apologize. I know what happened in the gym between you and Benito. I tried to call you, but your phone was disconnected."

His apology stirred fresh anger. "Ramirez's behavior was unprovoked and inexcusable."

Alpha looked genuinely embarrassed. "I never thought I'd have problems like this," he said. "All I ever wanted was to have a top boxer, and now I got one, and it's giving me ulcers." He took an economy-sized bottle of Mylanta from his top drawer. "See this? I buy this stuff by the case." He unscrewed the cap and chugged some. He put his fist to his sternum and sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm genuinely sorry for what happened to you in the gym."

"There's no reason for you to apologize. It's not your problem."

"I wish that was true. Unfortunately, it is my problem." He screwed the cap back on, returned the bottle to the drawer, and leaned forward, arms resting on his desk. "You work for Vinnie."

"Yes."

"I know Vinnie from way back. Vinnie's a character."

He smiled, and I figured somewhere in his travels he must have heard about the duck.