<strong>Ed's Gym</strong><br/><br/>The gym was large, noisy, and looked like it hadn't seen either a mop or a license inspector in years. Alan stood in the entryway. His dark hoodie sweatshirt and jeans weren't out of place, but he himself clearly was. Quickly his eyes scanned the crowd of boxers working the bags, lifting weights, and queuing up for time in one of the two boxing rings. The slowly turning ventilation fans were no match for the rank odor of stale sweat.<br/><br/>"Oy! You. Get out. Only fighters in here." The voice belonged to a towering man built like a garbage dumpster. The left side of his face had once had an unfortunate encounter with a broken bottle. He was dressed in sweatpants and a black and orange bowling shirt.<br/><br/>Alan continued scanning the crowd, not making eye contact with the larger man. "That's not true. There are three coaches here. The vending machine in the corner is filled by a man or woman who is most likely not a fighter. Similarly, you have functional restrooms which must occasionally require the services of a plumber, who is also unlikely to be a fighter. Those are only three examples."<br/><br/>"You ain't a plumber," the man growled.<br/><br/>"I never said that I was. I was merely pointing out that your initial statement was laughably false on the face of it. I can only conclude that you don't want me here for some reason, which is unfortunate, because I have business here that I will conclude before leaving." There. He'd found what he was looking for, on the far side of the gym. The man matched the photo Aden had sent to his phone.<br/><br/>"That's it. Yer outta here." The big man lurched forward attempting to grab Alan's shirt. Alan waited, then took a step to the side. In the same motion he seized the other man's shirt collar and nudged his right foot behind his left ankle. Off-balance, it was easy to turn his momentum with a hip swivel, sending him staggering into the cinderblock wall. He hit with a very audible crash that drew the attention of those in the nearer part of the gym. Framed signed photographs of dubious authenticity rattled on the wall, and one fell to the floor with a crash of shattering glass.<br/><br/>"Also," Alan added in the same quiet but projecting voice, "I'm a fighter. Possibly I should have mentioned that initially."<br/><br/>He raised a hand in greeting and threaded his way through the training boxers. "Mr. Brannigan? I require your time."<br/>