The barber had cut a little more than he would have liked. Frank ran his hands over the sides of his head. Maybe he should have gone with another haircut but it didn’t feel right. He had been a Marine too long. He should have done it himself.

He glanced at his watch. He had to go soon. He grabbed his gym bag. He walked briskly to the gym. The heat of the day was dissipating as the sunset but it was still warm out. Frank caught his reflection on one of the passing buildings’ windows and knew he had a fine sheen of sweat on him.

Frank wiped at his brow irritably. He reached Fogwell. The gym was hardly any better temperature wise but strong fans around the room gave the impression of a breeze. That is if you didn’t mind if a breeze smelled like old leather, sweat and the faint scent of musk from the many men who spent their days there.

The room was almost empty. Most of the regulars left at sundown at the latest. He scanned the room. Jack wasn’t there yet. He went to the locker room and changed. The splashed some water on his face and wiped away the sweat. The water at least helped him feel cooler.

He exited the locker room. There was maybe one man still at the gym, doing a set of lifts and was clearly a beginner. He left a few minutes later. He didn’t bother throwing an inquisitive look at Frank. Had Jack cancelled? He wondered as the man left when he came back from the locker room. He saw a shadow forming on the door. Frank stood up.

“If it isn’t Mr. Victory.” Frank goaded as Jack entered the gym. Jack grinned, the shiner on his left eye looking worse for a moment. “Caught the fight. Good job. I had no idea you could hit that hard. O’Donovan’s face looked like he got hit by a brick in the slow mo.”

“I have been told I give a hit as well as I take it.” he said. He shook his head. “Sorry I missed a bus when picking up Matt.” Frank shrugged.

“It’s fine. Go get ready. Can’t warm up if you’re not ready. It wouldn’t be fair.” Jack rolled his eyes and eyed him.

“You got a new cut?”

“It was overgrown. You would think I was more of a punk that a former marine from that mop.” Jack tugged at his own hair, short and straight.

“I think it was like mine right? You call that a mop? Jeeze.”

“Marines.” He shrugged. “Go get changed.” Frank beckoned. Jack disappeared into the locker room. Frank started working on a few stretches. He remembered what it was like at first, when he first started out and wished he still had that physique without all the scar tissue as some of the stretches pulled on from not quite forgotten wounds.

Jack emerged. His shirt looked new. It certainly fit him closer than the previous items he sparred in. Those had been looser.

“That new?” Frank asked to confirm.

“Yeah.” Jack shrugged though he looked pleased. “I thought maybe it was better for today.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He took a look at the shorts. They were good. Jack knew at least some basics. Good. They each worked on their warm ups. When they began to spar it was tougher than Frank had expected. When he thought he said he knew a little more of other techniques, Frank thought Jack had meant a cursory passing in some techniques.

Frank clearly should have asked for a better explanation when he has asked Jack. He pushed Jack away. The man grinned, a savage thing. Frank knew exactly why Jack knew more than a few moves. He liked to fight.

The Murdocks have the Devil in them. He recalled. He upped his game.

“That all you got?” Jack grunted from the floor. Frank grinned he had him pinned. Jack tried to wiggle out but Frank just readjusted his grip. “Damn. Fine. I give up.” Frank let him go. Jack fell back, on him for a moment, before rolling off, standing up and offering him a hand. Frank took it.

Jack smiled at him. He looked sheepish and laughed with a shake to his head. “You beat me.”

“Told you I would.” Though he preened he was honestly surprised by the victory.

“You did. You rest up for the day?”

“Nah. Just a good day, I guess.” Frank said and resisted the urge to touch his bullet wound. Scar now, but all the same he didn’t want to draw attention to it. He felt almost like himself again. He had noted the muscle gain and his increased stamina but nothing like before, still he wasn’t going to spit in the face of a good day. Frank stood straighter.

Jack smiled again and shook his head. “That’s good. I think we should celebrate. No? You finally beat me.” he grinned. “Though not at boxing.”

“You want to just out brawl, Murdock?” Frank asked half joking.

“Not today,” Jack replied.

“I still won. What do you mean by celebrate? A beer? I don’t think I want one right now.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “Something.” He didn’t seem to push on it. Since it was his win Frank guessed he was supposed to choose.

“Lunch? Next Yankees game?” Frank asked. “Might convince me to at least give them a better chance.” It would be in a few days.

“When’s the next game?” Jack paused to think. “Yeah, I can do that.” He frowned. “You mean at a bar right? I can’t really-” Afford tickets and food, Frank thinks he wants to say.

“Yeah. I don’t like shitty hot dogs that much.” Jack nodded. He seemed relieved. Frank wondered how often people got annoyed with him for that. He stretched and felt his muscles protest the movement. Looks like his wind had passed.

Jack followed the move and copied it. It seemed to help. “That’s fine. I gotta train a bit too.” He motioned for his bag near Frank’s. “Can you pass me my water?” Frank pulled the bottle from the worn bag. Jack drank appreciatively from it. Frank licked his lips and went to get his own bottle. Better.

“How are you upcoming matches?” Jack shrugged.

“Same ol’, same ol. Nothing I’m too excited about.”

“Your chances good?”

“Yeah. You looking to bet?” Frank snorted.

“No.” he laughed. “Just asking.” Jack smirked.

“I’m going to win.” his tone would be cocky on anyone else but as Frank had fought the man he knew it was truth. Jack knew his fighters too. If Frank were a betting man he would definitely place his money on Jack

Frank gave a faint nod. “I believe you.” He thought. “You know any good bars for my victory meal?” Jack named a few. They made plans. It was good. Frank took his time in loosening his fatigued muscles.

Jack hit the punching bag. Each hit was a precise move with calculated force. His muscles conveyed his power and in the ring it was clear he was also fast. Battlin’ Jack.

Frank wondered just how much of the Jack in the ring was with in the man he had spent time with at bars and with his son. Frank finished his routine and headed to gather his things. He walked out of it a few minutes later. Jack’s punches had the room resonating with the thumps from the bag

He neared the door. The thumping stopped. “Your new cut looks good Frank.” Frank nodded

“Thanks. Have a good night, Jack.” Jack wished him a good evening too Frank was halfway down the block before he realized he was smiling. It had been a good day.

The game was a few days away. Frank decided to give one hit on the local scumbags again. He could prepare for a few days and then strike. He needed to find more leads. Frank thought he had pieces of the right puzzle but didn't have the whole picture. He needed answers.

It didn't quite work out that way. Frank hit a local bar. He was listening to the chatter around him. He was pretending to focus on the screen in front of him when a couple of low level boys spouted shit about a recent shipment. It was in Spanish.

He knew enough to get the gist. Frank definitely got enough to confirm that the Dogs and Irish were direct competition. Yeah they were fighting over turf. How about Central Park. Maybe a bit about product? He didn't hear more.

He wanted to follow the punks when the screen in front of him changed. It was an old fight. A recap of Jack’s previous matches. He saw the same ferocity he had against the bag, he blocked, he worked well against his opponents.

He drunk his beer quickly. He lost the punks. Fuck. He left the bar. He had info but nothing new really. Except for that other dealer. He hadn't heard anything about them anywhere. The cops were keeping quiet about him.

Maybe he did have something. He thought. He went back to his safe house. He slept. !

He met with Jack at a small bar he noted a few tourists and relaxed minutely. A couple near the bar have him the distinct impression from Wisconsin. The male half of the pair turned and glanced outside. His green shirt had name of the state.

Frank took a small table. He glanced at his reflection on one of the mirrors on the wall meant to make the place look larger. He brushed his hair back and cast a glance at the door before turning to the menu.

Jack joined him a few minutes later. Frank brushed off his apology. Jack wasn't late. Frank had gotten there a bit early.

“You see anything you like?” Jack asked as he motioned to the menu. Frank nodded.

“Yeah. You? Let me guess you're a regular too.” Jack laughed.

“No, I came a few times before. They're good but not my kind of regular place. Too far from home for it.” He yawned. Jack looked tired.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Long night. Matt couldn't sleep until two and then he woke up around five.”

“You need to be elsewhere?”

“He went to school -his choice, not mine. He will be tired but probably able to sleep tonight at least.”

Frank nodded. They ordered and turn to chat about the game. It was nice. His food settled in his stomach well and he really enjoyed Jack’s company. They were friends, he realized. If only for the moment.

He'd repay him for this slice of normality where Frank didn't need to be on guard all the time or at least fully. It was safe because it looked normal, was normal to any outsider not in his head.

The Dogs, the Irish, the Cartel, Rand and the new drug runner. Frank had a lot of shit to clean up. Just not now. He let the tension in his body easy and ordered another beer.

When evening came Frank went out to do a reconnaissance. He looked for dealers. It was easy to spot the small exchanges. Small time dealers didn't really know anything.

They were easy pickings for money and to scope out the territory of a group. It wasn't perfect but he had a rough overlay of the groups’ territories over a few square blocks.

Bikers were the Dogs. The Caucasians were probably the Irish- dressed more normal and less junkie stereotype. The Latinos were probably with the Cartel.

Like he said not perfect. He spotted several players he couldn't identify or was comfortable grouping into the others. Still he thinks the independent players he did confirm were that mystery drug dealer.

He didn't take them out. It was too risky still. He felt good and thinks he can take them (they wouldn't be too armed) but he would rather get more information. Luckily he had patience and money talked

He did a quick calculation of his funds. Yes money talked and walked. He turned and headed to his safe house.

He caught a punk mugging a couple and took him out of commission. It had been a good day.