There wasn’t a lot. He had never played Vegas—I wasn’t sure that was the right turn of phrase, but I was running with it—and had only made it onto pay-per-view a couple times, and never as the main event. Many of the articles on him used the word journeyman. I wondered about the reference. To me, a journeyman was a football or baseball player who was good but not quite good enough to make it stick, so he regularly got traded. I knew guys who had played for a different minor-league team every year of their careers, moving from town to town and state to state, looking for the elusive big break. They would fill holes when a team needed cover for an injured player or a guy who had been picked up by the majors. But there seemed to be a limit to how many teams a guy could box for.

  My research told me that Johnny “Slumber” Cabrini spent most of his twenty-year career getting beat. I noted that his record was still active. I didn’t know if that meant he hadn’t officially held a press conference to announce his retirement or if he had and no one had bothered to turn up. But as it stood, his record was 13-81-3. I took that to read thirteen wins, eighty-one losses, and three draws. Outside of Jacksonville I couldn’t figure out how that was a viable sports career.

  After a couple hours Ron and Lizzy debriefed me in my office.

  “So, according to the online documents, the fund is referred to as the fighters’ fund,” said Ron. “It’s there to provide support for medical issues faced by former boxers who have retired from the game. It’s not insurance per se; it’s a pool of money to help guys who can’t afford to pay their medical bills. The only caveat is that the health issues have to be related to having been a boxer. So if you blew a knee in a bout and later in life needed a knee replacement, you should get assistance. But if you twisted your knee in the bathtub, then you wouldn’t qualify.”

  “So how are they saying Johnny Cabrini doesn’t qualify?”

  “I don’t know. If his issues are mental, then I would think a case could be made that it is related to boxing. Getting hit in the head doesn’t seem healthy to me.”

  “And this guy got hit in the head plenty, if his record is anything to go by. So why the denial?”

  “As I told Tina, some less reputable firms deny every claim initially. So we need to push back. Nine times out of ten that gets a result, especially if the claimant has gotten outside help.”

  “Like us,” I said.

  “Or a lawyer,” said Ron. “But the letter isn’t specific about the grounds for denial. It says he doesn’t qualify but not why. That broad terminology is probably deliberate, to give the claimant nothing to argue against.”

  “So how do we make it specific?”

  “We’d have to get the records from the doctor—copies of test results, that sort of thing.”

  “Can we?”

  “Not easily. There are HIPAA rules in place, to protect patient privacy, but they also make it easier for these kinds of people to hide what they’re doing. We can have Johnny request the results in writing, but in my experience, we’ll get a lot of meaningless numbers and no explanation of how they made their determination.”

  “So who knows how it was determined?”

  “The doctor.”

  “So we talk to the doctor.”

  “He won’t tell you anything,” said Ron. “Again, HIPAA rules.”

  “I’m not loving these rules.”

  “You would if someone was trying to get your medical records. It’s a double-edged sword.”

  I looked at Lizzy. “What do we know about the doctor?”

  “Doctors,” she said. “There’s a Dr. Wrexham. He’s the one from the fund. He has a clinic in Mangonia Park. Appears to be a general practitioner. I couldn’t find anything on his website about neurology or mental illness.”

  “Okay. And the other guy?”

  “Dr. Abe.” Lizzy pronounced it Ah-bay.

  “Is that how you say his name?” I asked.

  “Yes, I watched him in a video about sports-related head trauma.”

  “Sports-related head trauma? He sounds a little more on point.”

  “He’s a neurologist and neurosurgeon, and head of a research team affiliated with Florida Atlantic University, looking into brain trauma from contact and combat sports, like football and boxing.”

  “Tina said they were providing their assessment for free?”

  “Yes,” she said, holding up a document. “Johnny Cabrini signed on to be part of a study that Dr. Abe is doing. It included all medical checkups, physiological and psychological screening and support, and some medications.”

  “Okay, I think I need to go see these doctors.”

  “I’ll try to arrange appointments,” said Lizzy.

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “I’m still digging into who is actually behind the fund,” said Ron. “The contracts that Johnny signed for his fights—and there aren’t many in this shoebox, so I assume most are handshake agreements—are typically drawn up by the promoters of the fight, but that’s not always the same organization.”

  “The GBC website mentions the fighters’ fund but not how someone gets into it or initiates a claim from it,” said Lizzy.

  “Right,” said Ron. “And the GBC is the sanctioning body for every fight I can find paperwork for.”

  “So what do we know about this Global Boxing Council? What is a sanctioning body exactly?”

  “It rubber-stamps the fights. Think of it a little bit like the NFL. It doesn’t own football, it just authorizes and promotes games between specific teams under its banner. But these days there’s also the USFL and the XFL, arena football, and so on.”

  “But the NFL is the biggest of them all.”

  “Sure, and in boxing it’s the same. There are bigger, more well-established sanctioning bodies, like the WBO and the IBF, and there are less well-known ones. The GBC is one of those.”

  “So like a minor-league boxing thing.”

  “Sort of. Boxers tend to stay in their own sanctioning body until they become a champion, at which point they might fight a champion from another sanctioning body. Sometimes one person holds all the titles for the main bodies and will become the undisputed champion.”

  “Okay, so the GBC runs this fund for its boxers.”

  “Maybe,” said Lizzy. “There’s mention of it on their website, but, Ron, you said the address you have is in Palm Beach.”

  “A PO box. That’s all.”

  “Well, the GBC isn’t based in the United States.”

  “Where’s it based?” I asked.

  “British Virgin Islands.”

  I nodded. “British Virgin Islands, hey?”

  “No,” said Lizzy.

  “It’s not in the British Virgin Islands?”

  “Yes, it is, but, no, you are not going there.”

  “I might need to, you don’t know.”

  “I do know. I also know that not long ago you told me to remind you not to take a case north of Fort Pierce or south of Fort Lauderdale.”

  “I did say that.”

  “You did. Besides, the GBC might be based in BVI, but I think we’ll find that’s a tax dodge thing. They hold most of their fights in the US and Mexico.”

  “So they must have a US presence of some sort. They obviously recruit boxers here. We need to know more about them.”

  “I can keep trawling the internet,” said Lizzy.

  “Do,” I said.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to the source.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The center of my universe was a person, not a place, but if it were a place, it would be Longboard Kelly’s. The umbrellas in the courtyard were open, and the soft glow of winter sun was throwing shadows across the surfboard with the bite out of it that hung on the far wall. Our barstools were under the shade of the palapa over the outside bar. Muriel stood behind the bar with hands on hips, watching us as we walked in.

  “Lunch, gents?”

  “Actually we’re looking for Mick,” I said.

  Muriel crossed her arms. “Is he okay?”

  “Mick? Yeah. There’s a thing going on with a friend of his, that’s all.”

  “He’s not sick?”

  “No. Honestly, this isn’t about him.”

  “Hmm, all right. Let me get him.”

  She disappeared into the darkness of the bar’s interior. We each slipped onto a barstool and waited.

  Mick came out alone. “All right?”

  “We wanted to get some background on this GBC—the Global Boxing Council, is it? Is there much you can tell us?”

  “Bit. Know more at the gym.”

  “Gym? What gym?”

  “Stone’s.”

  “Is that where Johnny trains?”

  “Johnny don’t train no more.”

  “Does he hang out there?”

  “Doubt it. Maybe.”

  “Perhaps we’ll take a look after lunch. Can you give me the address?”

  “Hang on.” Mick walked back into the depths of the bar.

  We waited for either of them to return so we could put in a lunch order. Ron was eyeing the condensation on the beer taps like he’d spent the week in the Sahara Desert.

  Mick came back out through the patrons’ side of the indoor bar and stepped out into the sunshine behind Ron.

  “Come on,” said Mick, and he headed for the courtyard exit. Ron looked at me, mouth agape.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll find you a hot dog or something.”

  Mick stood next to my Jeep, and again we climbed in. Mick directed me back to the freeway.

  “You didn’t need to come for this,” I said.

  “Not much for strangers,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Gym.”

  Mick turned to the window, so I dropped it. I headed back toward Lake Worth again and the same exit, Forest Hill Boulevard. Shortly before North Military Trail, Mick pointed to a low-slung strip mall. I pulled in and cruised by a tobacco shop and an Indian restaurant. I parked at the end of the building, across from a double storefront that had all the windows blacked out with paint to keep the heat and light at bay.

  I got out and looked above the windows. On peeling stucco were letters that looked like they’d light up at night. The sign read Samson’s Gym, but under the word Samson’s was the dirty outline of older signage that had once read Stone’s.

  “Stone’s?” I asked Mick.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But it says Samson’s now.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mick led us across the lot and in through a creaky old glass door covered in posters for fight nights and PPV events. I glanced along the storefronts and noticed an ugly kid—his elongated face and nose made him look like a rat—leaning against the stucco between the blacked-out windows and the next place. Wearing a leather jacket that was unnecessary given the weather, he cocked his head to look at me as he chewed on a match. He was working hard to look like he was doing nothing at all, but I knew when a person was loitering with intent.

  The smell hit me as soon as I stepped inside the dark and musty gym. Not unpleasant, really, but definitely earthy—a mix of sweat and leather and talc, with overtones of Tiger Balm and Pine-Sol. Fluorescent tubes gave the guy who was lifting weights at the front a sickly glow. Two women on Assault bikes pumped away, and several men stretched in a large area covered with mats. Along one wall was a collection of speed balls next to where a woman and a man independently took their frustrations out on heavy bags. As I followed Mick deeper into the space, I saw a boxing ring at the rear. A lone guy inside the saggy ropes was gracefully dodging and weaving, his feet against the canvas making deep thuds like a bass drum.

  Mick led us to a man with slicked-back hair who was looking up at the ring. He could have been from Mick’s family; they had a common build, short and thick through the chest, although this guy had a little less beef and stood a tad taller.

  Mick walked up next to him and watched the boxer in the ring dancing around nobody. Up close I saw it was a kid, maybe eighteen, sweating like a sumo wrestler, throwing punches at his imaginary opponent so quickly that his gloves were a blur.

  In an instant, the kid stopped in place and turned toward the corner of the ring. A white-haired, older man I hadn’t noticed jumped up some wooden steps and spoke to him. The Brylcreem model finally nodded to Mick, who returned the gesture.

  “Seen Johnny?” asked Mick.

  “Nah, man. Not in a week. He don’t come ’round here much no more.”

  “Don’t come or not welcome?”

  “Is there a difference right now?” The guy turned to Mick and caught sight of Ron and me. “Help you?” he snapped.

  “They’re with me,” said Mick.

  “Yeah?”

  “Johnny’s due some dough from that fighters’ fund. We’re trying to get it for Tina.”

  “Good. But like I say, I ain’t seen Johnny. We can’t have that going on down here, you know that, Mick.”

  “Have what going on?” I asked.

  The guy looked at me but didn’t speak. He was a good four inches shorter, but everything about him felt bigger. His neck, his biceps, his thighs. He was way too old to be a boxer, but he wasn’t standing in an old-fashioned gym for nothing.

  “Miami Jones, Ron,” said Mick. “Allan Samson.”

  Samson raised his chin in lieu of a handshake. Ron and I reciprocated. He jangled a large keyring in his hand that held thirty or more keys as he looked at Ron for a long moment, enough to sum up that Ron was a lover, not a fighter.

  He turned his attention to me. “Miami? You born there?”

  “No, college.”

  “They call you after your college.”

  “They do.”

  He looked me up and down. “You box?”

  “Nope. Too slow in the feet, I’d reckon.”

  “It’s good for a man to know his limitations.”

  “Plus I value my brain too much. So what is it you can’t have going on down here?”

  “Fighting.”

  I frowned. “Isn’t that what you do here?”

  “No. What we do here is box. Fighting is what morons do on the street. And I’m afraid Johnny was tending that way.”

  “Being a moron?”

  “Losing his cool. Meltdowns.”

  “Not his fault,” said Mick.

  “We all know why, Mick. I’m not saying there ain’t a reason. But we have to have discipline. Gotta keep it in the ring. You know that.”

  Unsurprisingly Mick said nothing.

  “It’s a nice place you got here,” I said.

  “Yeah?” He eyed me like he was searching for sarcasm, which was fair enough. It wasn’t the most sincere comment.

  “Not that busy though.”

  “Most guys come after work.”

  “You do group classes?”

  “This ain’t LA Fitness, pal. Listen, Mick, I got stuff to do. I’ll see you ’round.”

  Samson spun the ring of keys around his fingers like a gunslinger and strode away toward an open doorway, presumably the locker room. As I watched him go, Mick spoke.

  “Apple don’t fall far,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Stone always carried them keys. Flicked ’em just like that.”

  Samson disappeared through the door, so I turned back to Mick.

  “Meet Harv,” he said. “Don’t piss him off.”

  The boxer in the ring eased through the ropes and jumped down, then he too headed toward the locker room. The older man, whose dark, deep-set eyes seemed decades younger than the rest of him, stepped down from the corner and gave Mick a tight smile. His skin looked like he stole it from a lizard.

  “Micky,” he said.

  They bumped fists, and Mick turned to the two of us: “Miami Jones, Ron, this is Harv.”

  Harv offered his hand, so we each shook it, the skin tough as canvas.

  “Boys,” he said.

  “You seen Johnny?” asked Mick.

  “Nah. Sorry, bud. Slumber lost his cool, and Steamtrain gave him the boot. Haven’t seen him in a few days, maybe a week.”

  “You a trainer, Harv?” I asked.

  “Yep. Fifty years.”

  “Seen a lot.”

  “More than most, bud.”

  “Seen a few fighters go downhill like Johnny Cabrini?”

  Harv took a small towel off his shoulder and tossed it into a metal bucket. “Some guys take a lot of punishment in their careers and don’t wear it well later.”

  “Punch-drunk.”

  “You could say.”

  “I’m helping to get Johnny’s wife some money she’s due from the GBC.”

  “Good boy. Tina needs all the help she can get.”

  “So, Harv, do you know anything about this fighters’ fund?”

  “A little. It’s meant to help guys who suffer from long-term injuries get medical help after their careers are done.”

  “What about during their careers?”

  “There’s always insurance if they get hurt in a fight. The athletic commission requires that. But for anything else, like getting hurt in training or whatever, or getting sick, that’s health insurance and it’s the responsibility of the individual.”

  “How many boxers have health insurance?”

  “Unless they’re covered by their parents’ plans or their wives get something through their work, well, I don’t rightly know of any.”

  “Do they have to put money into the fund?”

  “Yeah, if they want to box under the GBC they do. But honestly, most guys around here don’t think about it.” Harv gave me the once-over. “You did something; you were an athlete.”

  “I played football at Miami and minor-league baseball. Six years.”

  “Right. And what did you think back then, about your body, your health?”

  “I thought I was unbreakable, even when I was injured.”

  “Yeah. That’s what young minds are supposed to think. Otherwise, they’d be too damn scared to do anything great. It’s for the old minds to think about the future, what might happen later. To make them pay into insurance and funds and boring stuff so they have something down the line.”