The day after we relocated the money, I sparred a few rounds with the regulars at the Deadfall Gym in Kingston. The Deadfall didn’t help me improve my skills; it slowed their degradation. I’m strong and have fought enough to acquire an arsenal of nasty techniques. Fighting isn’t a static art; it mutates rapidly, endlessly, and for every offensive tactic, there’s a defense or a counter. I gave better than I got, and while sparring isn’t really combat, to put it bluntly, I’d slowed. Somebody drilled me with a flying knee, applied a guillotine choke, and cranked my neck; somebody else hooked me behind the ankle and flung me headfirst onto the mat. The crash rattled the gym’s metal garage door. Also got a complimentary dented nose in the bargain. Rub-some-dirt-on-it-and-walk-it-off type of damage.

Food for thought, these sessions, coupled with the aforementioned weakness in my left arm. Proof positive my problems weren’t localized; they were systemic. I’d withstood copious measures of physical punishment in my days with the mob. The physical abuse quotient only got worse since I began sticking my nose into folks’ business as a detective. Hospital visits and medical bills accrued. MDs tsked and clucked over my collection of injuries and chronic ailments. They passed around X-rays and CAT scans with the enthusiasm of kids trading baseball cards. The upshot being, my bones and muscles ached in the morning; neither hand was quite so steady at the range, and I squinted to read fine print. I did my level best to outwit and out-grapple Father Time; in addition to sparring at the Deadfall, I religiously committed to physical and mental exercise, which included jogging, swimming, and weights. Daily I completed crossword puzzles and played chess matches against the computer and valiantly argued philosophy with Lionel and Meg. I read a book a week.

Regardless, the slippage couldn’t be ignored, only endured.

■■■

Homeward bound, downtown rush hour, I waited at a red light. A couple of frat bros in the oncoming lane jumped out of a Saab to harangue a guy in a rattletrap Chevy. The frat bros jeered abuse and pounded on the Chevy’s door; its driver slowly emerged. He required some time because there was a lot of him to unfold from the cab. Six-six and two-fifty, easy. He wore grungy work clothes and an orange safety vest. His hairy arms dangled near his knees. I didn’t get a clear look at his expression and didn’t need to. His posture spoke volumes. Reminded me of the deceptive laziness of a grizzly several heartbeats before it decides to charge.

Obviously, the punks had never seen an angry bear or heard death call them by name. The bright orange vest was a pretty clear metaphor. DANGER. KEEP OUT. BEWARE OF DOG. MINEFIELD. They weren’t reading the signs of impending doom.

More yelling ensued, coupled with threats of a beating. When this didn’t resolve the matter, one of the bros decided to raise the stakes. He poked the construction worker’s chest. The big guy palmed the kid’s face and slammed him into the pavement. The other bro wisely beat feet toward his own car. My light turned green and I didn’t catch the end of the melodrama. Or perhaps that was the end. The dude pronated in the intersection was bound for somewhere on a stretcher.