“Only for fitness,” I reply.
“If you ever change your mind, look me up!” The hollow laugh returns. “I’m an agent as well as a promoter. I fight for your fights!”
The man is insufferable.
“Look, Benny,” says Colt, “we know you’re busy and don’t want to take up too much of your time. You know where Lukov is?”
Benny’s stone-faced companion finally speaks up. “Fly is running late, but he’ll be here soon.” The man’s English is near perfect, but I detect the hint of an Eastern European accent.
“Ah, my manners!” says Benny. “Gentlemen, this is Anatol Bronowski, Lukov’s handler.” Benny claps him on the shoulder. “Fly’s a real up-and-comer, eh, Bronowski?”
“He does well, yes.” He talks out of the corner of his mouth, and between the suit and the hat and his scowl, it’s like we’re living inside a black-and-white film noir.
We exchange simple handshakes with Anatol. I spare him the full force of my grip. I need to keep him friendly.
“I look forward to meeting your fighter,” I tell Anatol. He looks me in the eye then, and I see I have his attention. Good. “Make sure tointroduce us.”
Colt excuses us and we extract ourselves from the two of them. When we are away and Benny has safely engaged with someone else, Colt lets out a sigh.
“God, I hate that man,” he mutters. “I had hoped Lukov’s handler wasn’t stuck with him, but there you go.” He shrugs.
“Colt,” I say, “I need you to separate them. I need to talk to Anatol alone.”
Colt looks like I just asked him to hand in his man card.
“I’ll do it,” says Parker before Colt says anything. “I still owe you for Vegas.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Parker, but thank you,” I say.
Parker nods.
“NowIowe you,” mutters Colt.
Parker grins and claps his shoulder. “Yes, yes, you do. Go get me a beer as part of your penance.” And then he’s gone, pushing his way back toward Benny and Anatol.
“But that means I’ll have to bring it to him,” says Colt. He shakes his head. “That sneaky bastard.”
We head to the bar and fight our way to the front.
A cute girl behind the bar eyes Colt. She leans forward so her cleavage spills over the top of her artfully torn UFC T-shirt. “What can I getcha, fighter boy?”
“Whatever you’ve got that isn’t pisswater,” he says.
“You really are off the mat, if you’re drinking beer,” I say.
Colt shrugs. “We mostly hold them for show. Part of the gig.”
“How about you, darling?” the girl asks me.
I glance at their liquor selection. I’m tempted to skip the whole thing based on the labels, but like Colt says, it’s part of the show. “Mix me an Old Fashioned,” I say.
She winks at me. “Classy.”
We look over the crowd as she works. The room is getting packed.I’ll definitely want a quieter space for what I’m here for.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Colt asks.
“To keep you guys out of it.”
