We were in his office, which had a view of most of the gym. Presently, two men were hoisting the heavy bag and repositioning it on the hook. They were using a stepladder and were sweating with effort.
Romero had yet to say anything. He was in his late thirties, extremely fit, and would have been good-looking if not for the fact that he seemed to have a permanent case of cauliflower ear. That was the condition many fighters got when the ear swelled up.
Ah, screw it, I decided. He was still damn good-looking, cauliflower ear and all.
He was leaning back in his office chair, lightly tapping the tips of his fingers together over his chest. The words on his tank top said: Marquez Gym - Elite Training.
"You gonna say something," I said, "or just sit there and look at me like I'm a freak."
"I'm sorry, se?orita," he said, literally shaking his head. "I'm trying to understand what happened out there."
"Sometimes, there are no easy answers."
"I suppose not," he said, then his eyes sort of glazed over a little. I think he was re-living the moment, especially as he began voicing his thoughts. "Good form, good stance, a good punch. A straight shot."
He rubbed his face and looked at me.
I smiled sweetly. "What can I say," I said. "A lucky shot."
"A helluva shot. Or punch. Jacky's been talking about you."
"Jacky exaggerates."
Romero shook his head. I think - think - his cauliflower ears might have wobbled a little. "Actually, no, se?orita. I would say Jacky is not known to exaggerate. If he says a boxer is damn good, the boxer is damn good."
"I'm not a boxer," I said.
Romero raised his eyebrows. "Maybe not, but you can punch."
"I'm not looking for a trainer," I said. "I'm here about your brother."
That snapped him out of whatever reverie he was in. "My brother?"
I nodded. "I'm looking for answers, Romero."
He didn't want to let go of what he'd just seen outside the office - in his own gym, no less - something that defied logic and common sense. He finally looked at me, and he finally showed me his real self. Maybe my little display had broken through his machismo and affected him on a deeper level. I didn't know. But there was a change in him. His walls were coming down and as he looked at me, simply staring at me with an intensity I'd only seen a few times in my life - and perhaps only from Kingsley's hauntingly amber eyes - Romero broke down.
And he broke down hard.
He covered his face with his hand and wept into it, shuddering, his shoulder muscles and triceps rippling. I watched the tears appear through his fingers and cascade down over his knuckles, and watched as his aura rippled with hues of blues and greens.
After a few minutes of this, he rubbed his face with the backs of his hands. "I'm not sure what came over me."
"It's natural," I said. "And perfectly okay."
"It's not natural for me." He wiped his eyes some more. "I miss him so much, Ms. Moon."
"I understand."
"He should not be dead." Romero shook his head, rubbed his arms. "Caesar rarely absorbed punishment. He was good. Damn good. He was the one handing out the beatings. And when he wasn't punching, he was ducking and weaving."
"Tell me about the fight."
"The fight was no different than the rest. Russell Baker's good, but not that good. He must have landed a lucky shot or two, enough to do damage. Hard to say."
"Is it your professional opinion that your brother was hit hard enough to be killed?"
"From what I saw? No. From what I know about boxing? Anything can happen."
"Who's allowed in the locker room before a fight?"
He shrugged. "I guess anyone the fighter allows."