Oath of Office by Michael Palmer Page A

momentarily mesmerized by the older man’s footwork. This time, he saw Cap’s jab coming from the right, but was no better at defending it. The blow connected against his temple with a solid thump.
    “Remember how I said I’d drive you to the meeting on Friday?” Lou said, already beginning to breathe heavily. “Well, another cheap shot like that and you’ll be going by cab.”
    “Oh, yeah, I forgot you were just in a car accident,” Cap said. “Tell you what, I’ll go easy on you this session.”
    “By easy, you mean?”
    “You’ll only need to soak for an hour in the ice tub.” He grinned broadly around his green mouth guard.
    Lou blocked a left-right combination and returned one of his own, which barely connected. Cap could still fight him almost blindfolded. In order to do much of anything against the man, he was going to have to concentrate.
    Childless, but married “a few times here and there” when it suited his purpose, Cap had devoted his youth to boxing, spending every waking hour training in grungy gyms, slowly climbing the amateur ranks. He could dazzle opponents with his footwork, but it was his punching, as powerful with his left as he was with his right, that garnered the most attention. As a kid, he fooled around with alcohol and reefer, but then a trainer set him straight. He gave up smoking and drinking, and began to care for his body through diet, vitamins, and more training.
    Eventually, Cap got his big break, scoring a professional fight against a much-hyped contender for the IBA’s middleweight belt. The fight that should have made his career was ultimately what landed him in the same halfway house where Lou would one day reside.
    Alone in the dressing room, only minutes before the bout, Cap received a bouquet of flowers along with an envelope containing five one-hundred-dollar bills and a note instructing him to lose by a knockout in the seventh round. Cap knew it was a mob thing. In his circles, talk about fixing fights was as common as advice shared on punching technique. But instead of losing the fight, Cap beat his opponent to a pulp and won a technical knockout in round two.
    He never got to box professionally again.
    Before his next scheduled bout, the state boxing federation pulled him from the card, citing a positive test for performance-enhancing drugs banned under their governance. Forced out of the sport he loved, he soon began taking narcotics to help ease his emotional pain and humiliation. The back alleys of D.C. became his home, a brown bag his constant companion. People whom he suspected had set him up offered him work as an enforcer, but he never took the jobs. Finally, when he had suffered enough, two more people came—people from AA.
    “You’re slow tonight, Welcome,” Cap said after he threw a series of blazing-fast jabs, purposely pulled to keep from doing any real damage. “You sure you’re all right to box?”
    Lou got in a quick, effective body blow and danced away, preening. “I’m fine,” he said. “I need this to clear my head.”
    Lou bobbed and weaved while circling his friend. He feigned a couple jabs that Cap shrugged off. Sweat was engulfing both men now. Cap’s shaved pate was glistening beneath the incandescent overheads. No matter what was ever troubling Lou, sparring like this was the treatment.
    “Did you gash your head?” Cap asked, jabbing at but not hitting Lou’s forehead, indicating the bandage was visible from underneath his headgear.
    “That accident was the craziest thing,” Lou said.
    “Yeah, how so?”
    Lou bobbed again, and this time got in one good shot to Cap’s jaw. Then he danced back and dropped his red mouthpiece into the palm of his glove so he could be heard more clearly.
    “Carolyn Meacham, the dead doc’s widow, was convinced the busted taillight on the car in front of us was going to cause an accident, so she ends up causing one herself, trying to catch up and warn the driver.”
    Cap waited until Lou had