maybe when the hubby was out screwing around, the wife phoned Mantilla to cry on his shoulder.”
“Could be.”
“Her calls to Miami were for the most part , routine. A lot were to her father and a woman with the same last name as her old man’s. I assume a sister or an aunt. The only thing out of the ordinary in her Miami calls was that about two weeks ago, she phoned a guy there named Jorge Gamboa. Four times. Gamboa apparently has Cuban mob connections in Florida.
This caught Boff’s interest. “If this Gamboa’s connected, he could’ve contracted a hit man for her,” he said. “Or maybe did the shooting himself.”
Wright wrote a quick note on a pad. “I’ll look into this guy some more. But outside of this Gamboa, there’s nothing else that’d keep the wife in play.”
Boff’s phone rang. He picked up.
“What’s up, Mikey?” He listened, then winced. “I’m on my way.”
“Bad news, Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“Not family, I hope.”
“No. Thanks for the workup, Billy. I owe you dinner.”
Wright waved it off. “If you’re gonna take me to Burger King again, thanks but no thanks.”
Taking his folder with him, Boff headed for the door.
On the way to the gym, he called Damiano and got a quick rundown on what had happened to Cullen’s girlfriend. After parking his car near the gym, he lumbered up the stairs, walked inside, and found Bellucci, McAlary, and Kate sitting on benches watching Cullen pound the heavy bag like he was trying to kill it. Grunting with rage, he was hammering the big sack relentlessly. Boff figured he must have been at it awhile, because his tank top and sweat pants were completely soaked. He nodded at the others, then leaned against the wall by the door and watched Cullen.
“Danny,” McAlary said, “maybe you should quit now. You don’t want to risk hurting your hands.”
Cullen ignored him and kept at the bag.
A minute later, Bellucci stood up and walked over. “Danny, listen to me.”
“Go away.”
“I know you’re hurting, buddy. But if you break a hand or tear a ligament, you won’t be able to fight for the championship.”
“I don’t care!”
“Bullshit.”
Cullen fired a vicious uppercut and then three straight right hooks.
Bellucci stepped closer to Cullen. “How many times have you told me you want to win this title fight to honor your father?”
Although Cullen didn’t reply, after pounding the bag for another minute, he finally stopped, dropped his arms to his sides, and stood there panting. Finally he nodded at Bellucci. As they walked over and sat on an empty bench, McAlary got up.
“Let me see your hands,” he said.
Cullen held both gloves out to his trainer, who after unlacing them and removing the wraps, carefully inspected his hands. “No apparent damage,” he said, sounding relieved. He grabbed a clean towel from a nearby bench and tossed it to his boxer.
“I…I… keep thinking…this was my fault. Maybe, you know, maybe if I’d pushed her harder, she would’ve taken money from me for a taxi.”
Bellucci shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t have, Danny. You said Marla didn’t even let you buy her dinner. She wanted everything Dutch.”
At this point, Boff pushed off the wall and walked over. “Danny, I’m really sorry,” he said as he laid one hand on the boxer’s shoulder, left it there a few moments, then took it away.
Knowing Boff, Cullen understood that touching his shoulder was as close to expressing affection as he could do with almost anybody except his wife. He looked up at Boff and managed a weak smile. Then he hung his head down and sighed. “Man, I’ve seen too many people close to me die. First my father. Then Julio. And…and now this.” He looked up again. “I know Marla and I had only been seeing each other for a few months, but…how do I say this? Marla…she took my breath away whenever I was around her.”
Boff nodded. “When I starting dating my wife in high school,” he said,
“Could be.”
“Her calls to Miami were for the most part , routine. A lot were to her father and a woman with the same last name as her old man’s. I assume a sister or an aunt. The only thing out of the ordinary in her Miami calls was that about two weeks ago, she phoned a guy there named Jorge Gamboa. Four times. Gamboa apparently has Cuban mob connections in Florida.
This caught Boff’s interest. “If this Gamboa’s connected, he could’ve contracted a hit man for her,” he said. “Or maybe did the shooting himself.”
Wright wrote a quick note on a pad. “I’ll look into this guy some more. But outside of this Gamboa, there’s nothing else that’d keep the wife in play.”
Boff’s phone rang. He picked up.
“What’s up, Mikey?” He listened, then winced. “I’m on my way.”
“Bad news, Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“Not family, I hope.”
“No. Thanks for the workup, Billy. I owe you dinner.”
Wright waved it off. “If you’re gonna take me to Burger King again, thanks but no thanks.”
Taking his folder with him, Boff headed for the door.
On the way to the gym, he called Damiano and got a quick rundown on what had happened to Cullen’s girlfriend. After parking his car near the gym, he lumbered up the stairs, walked inside, and found Bellucci, McAlary, and Kate sitting on benches watching Cullen pound the heavy bag like he was trying to kill it. Grunting with rage, he was hammering the big sack relentlessly. Boff figured he must have been at it awhile, because his tank top and sweat pants were completely soaked. He nodded at the others, then leaned against the wall by the door and watched Cullen.
“Danny,” McAlary said, “maybe you should quit now. You don’t want to risk hurting your hands.”
Cullen ignored him and kept at the bag.
A minute later, Bellucci stood up and walked over. “Danny, listen to me.”
“Go away.”
“I know you’re hurting, buddy. But if you break a hand or tear a ligament, you won’t be able to fight for the championship.”
“I don’t care!”
“Bullshit.”
Cullen fired a vicious uppercut and then three straight right hooks.
Bellucci stepped closer to Cullen. “How many times have you told me you want to win this title fight to honor your father?”
Although Cullen didn’t reply, after pounding the bag for another minute, he finally stopped, dropped his arms to his sides, and stood there panting. Finally he nodded at Bellucci. As they walked over and sat on an empty bench, McAlary got up.
“Let me see your hands,” he said.
Cullen held both gloves out to his trainer, who after unlacing them and removing the wraps, carefully inspected his hands. “No apparent damage,” he said, sounding relieved. He grabbed a clean towel from a nearby bench and tossed it to his boxer.
“I…I… keep thinking…this was my fault. Maybe, you know, maybe if I’d pushed her harder, she would’ve taken money from me for a taxi.”
Bellucci shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t have, Danny. You said Marla didn’t even let you buy her dinner. She wanted everything Dutch.”
At this point, Boff pushed off the wall and walked over. “Danny, I’m really sorry,” he said as he laid one hand on the boxer’s shoulder, left it there a few moments, then took it away.
Knowing Boff, Cullen understood that touching his shoulder was as close to expressing affection as he could do with almost anybody except his wife. He looked up at Boff and managed a weak smile. Then he hung his head down and sighed. “Man, I’ve seen too many people close to me die. First my father. Then Julio. And…and now this.” He looked up again. “I know Marla and I had only been seeing each other for a few months, but…how do I say this? Marla…she took my breath away whenever I was around her.”
Boff nodded. “When I starting dating my wife in high school,” he said,
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