Redhanded by Michael Cadnum

cheated and he got caught.”
    I was in no mood for conversation.
    Loquesto entered the locker room, letting his arms dangle the way even ex-boxers do, staying loose.
    He said, “You’re going to San Diego.”
    The news dazzled me, but it confused me, too. I knew I hadn’t done that well today.
    Loquesto sat down beside me, Raymond looking on, his eyes tense, hopeful.
    Loquesto said, “You’ll have to come up with the registration fee, the airfare, the hotel. I’ll write you in as our number one middleweight novice.”
    I could not speak until I cleared my throat. “I should have finished him when I had the chance.”
    â€œIf your opponent fights dirty, what can you do?” Loquesto rubbed the back of his head. “I got a rabbit punch in Cannes one night—I can still feel it. It was the only time I ever fought in Europe, one sneak punch in the fifth round and I was looking at the ceiling. I had a great left hook that night. Crochet de gauche , they call it.”
    â€œBut you lost the fight,” I said.
    â€œI won. My opponent was disqualified.”
    I thought about this, and considered Loquesto in a new light, someone who had gone further as a pro than I had guessed.
    â€œSan Diego trip comes to six hundred dollars,” he said. “With insurance. If you can’t afford it—”
    â€œMy dad can write a check.”
    Loquesto didn’t speak for a moment. Then he added, “There are church groups and YMCA donations that’ll cover the costs. Most boxers can’t cough up the money.”
    I told him I didn’t need any help.
    Stacy was lingering in the hall, and saying he was sorry, that it was one of those things.
    Raymond walked stiffly and wouldn’t even look at him.
    Stacy looked like a security guard with two kids again, solid, pink-cheeked, as though he had been jogging around Lake Merritt, not trading punches.
    I gave him a nod, staying silent, and patted his arm, because I understood.
    I knew how to cheat, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    â€œI am not going to park this car right in front of the restaurant,” said Chad.
    Raymond was driving, switching on the turn signal to make a left turn, Oakland serene in afternoon sunlight, brick buildings and Victorian gables. Some of the old buildings had been repainted and outfitted with flower boxes, pink geraniums. Nobody looked in a hurry, all the pedestrians in a good mood.
    I had dropped by the doctor’s office. The doctor was there ahead of me, opening his mail. He had used a cotton-tipped wooden swab to paint my inner lip with painkiller, a flavor like spearmint mouthwash. I closed my eyes and felt the needle, the duct getting sewed up tight. I had asked Dr. Lu if the cut would hurt my career, and he replied, “Not a cut like this.”
    â€œThey have parking in the back,” said Raymond, easing the car along at a leisurely pace.
    â€œThe first thing a cop does when he goes on duty is check out the cars parked behind Camino Real,” said Chad.
    â€œThis is a shiny white Pontiac,” Raymond said. “It’s going to be visible, no matter where we park.”
    Chad leaned forward. “Park along in here.”
    I had assumed we were seeking a shadowy alleyway. This was a highly visible street with gleaming parking meters, the three of us searching our pockets to come up with enough coins.
    Camino Real is a restaurant right across the street from the Oakland Police Department. My father and I used to eat there after hearing the Oakland Symphony. Once we had seen a man get arrested there, spread out on the floor, cuffed, propped upright, and marched out the door, no fuss, no complaint. Dad had shaken his head, taken a forkful of refritos , and said, “How about that?”
    Turning back to survey the street, the last thing you see is the tall tower of detention cells for arrested suspects. People in Camino Real have the street-scruffy look of