Page 34 of Stone’s Cage

He slowly walks over to where I'm standing next to the fence.

"Don't," he swallows hard, "go home. Coach's."

Coach slips his hand into his pocket and hurriedly works a key off a keyring and hands it to me.

"Run," he says. "Run as fast as you can. Then get a cab."

"What?"

"Go," he says with such intensity, I realize he means now, and to run fast. Fishing around in his pocket he hands me a torn piece of a paper with an address scribbled on it. "Meet us there." He sees my face and drives home what he's trying to say: "You can’t stay here."

So that's what I do. I run as fast as I can for three blocks and then I call an Uber. When I arrive at Coach's brownstone, it is fairly nice, with a real railing and lights that are not burned out. I unlock the door and then bolt it, throwing the safety latch as well.

I wait an hour. Every minute is excruciating. I've been sitting as still as a stone on a plush green velvet sofa just listening. I can’t even drink water my stomach is so churned up. And then I hear someone at a different door off the back, scraping a key into a lock.

"It’s me, Coach."

I spring up and throw the safety catch off.

The door opens and Coach steps in, trying not to scare me. "I drove back, the lot's behind the house," he offered as if little details would help. They did. Tossing his keys on the counter he turned to see if Stone needed help.

Stone steps into the kitchen holding his shoulder awkwardly and pressing a thin ice pack to his face.

"Oh my god," was all I could say. He smiles at me, almost with relief, like something is over, and makes his way to a leather chair where he sinks down, wincing, as he tries to tip his head back and put the ice pack on his throat.

"Is this how all the fights are?"

Coach shakes his head. "No. This is what happens when assholes fight jacked up on coke and amphetamines."

I stare at Coach. "Really?"

"Shreves wanted to make damn sure he lost tonight." Turning to Stone he asks, "Do you know how much he put up?"

Stone holds up three fingers.

Coach looks puzzled. "Three grand?"

Stone barely shakes his head. Then he does the three fingers again and makes an "O" with his fingers.

Coach nods. "Yeah. That's more like it. Thirty K. Your place'll be torched."

Stone sees my face and waves a finger at Coach, directing him to do something. "Oh yeah right. Here you go, says Coach, reaching into his gym bag and pulling out Tig.

"Can you talk at all?" I ask, not knowing what to do.

"I can," Stone says, though his voice is really hoarse.

"This means your winnings are about eight K, wired directly into my account and, this time, it’s all yours," says Coach fishing around in his freezer. The place is small but nice. Tidy. Everything is in its place. I remember at one point, Stone told me the guy was ex-marine.

"But what about Shreves? What about," I swallow, "the Hooks?"

"I'm out forever," says Stone. Then Stone reaches for me and pats his lap. Being ever so careful, I sit on the arm of the leather chair and ease myself down onto him. I feel him tense and I wonder if his ribs are bruised, but he relaxes after a moment or two and breathes into my hair.

"Tell her," he says, and closes his eyes.

I look at Coach, this African American man with kind gray eyes and wonder what he's got on Shreves. It's got to be big.

He's up though, making tea and setting down three mugs. This all seems so civilized after the last two hours. The stove ticks as the burner lights. Settling a copper kettle on the burner, he turns to me.