the Pallbearers (2010) (26 page)

Chapter
47

Wc all rode to Huntington Beach together in Seriana s eight-passenger Dodge van.

Gladiator School was located about a mile from the ocean, just off Beach Boulevard 011 Atlanta Avenue. The building was a windowless, graffiti-tagged brick box with a scarred wooden door. It was between two abandoned storefronts and looked foreboding as hell.

I didn't want to roll into this place en masse. That wouldn't produce anything but blowback. In the spirit of cooperation, and in a renewed effort to keep them on my side, I needed to take at least take one person in with me. But which one?

Sabas was a good puncher. He'd already proved that. But I was through fighting with these animals. This needed to be a finesse operation. Besides that, he was becoming difficult. Diamond was too passive and guileless. Vicki was packing that Charter Arms
Bulldog, now fully loaded with dumdums. I couldn't trust her to stav cool. I needed Alexa to stay out here and police them, so that left Seriana.

"I'm thinking one person should go in with me as a group representative." I couldn't believe I was saying this, but they'd pushed me to the point where I was making bad decisions. "You up for it, Corporal Cotton?"

"Yes sir. By the way, in Ranger school we were taught three forms of martial arts. I'm not too bad, if that's helpful."

"Excellent. Let's tell them I'm your fight manager and that you're looking to start a professional career and want to train here. We have to get to the guy in charge. The promoter. Once we're talking to him, I'll take it from there."

Vargas didn't say anything because he had stopped talking to me.

I motioned to Seriana and she nodded, so I knocked on the wood door while the others took cover. After a moment, it was cracked open an inch. A huge black guy in workout sweats peered out at us.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Is this Gladiator School?" I asked. "It's the right address, but there's no sign."

"Yeah."

"She's interested in training here." I pointed at Seriana. "I manage her. I think it's time for her to turn pro."

"We're a private gym," the man said, but he was smiling at Seriana. He liked what he saw. "We only train current professionals," he added.

"What's your name?" Seriana asked, giving him one of her rare smiles. He seemed to melt under it.

"Joe Hardwick."

"Seriana Cotton. I'm trained in jujitsu, tae kwon do, and tai chi. I've had two amateur fights and won 'em both. Could I at least talk to somebody about a tryout?"

Joe Hardwick looked her over, more or less ignoring me. He wanted to let her in, but apparently there were rules he had to follow. "Only team members are supposed to be in here. But okay, I guess you being a fighter makes it an exception. Come on in. Ill get Mr. Mingo."

The Gladiator School was a slightly larger version of the NHB Center in downtown L
. A
. It had the same sweat-and-blood smell, the same bleak, overhead lighting and octagon fight ring.

There was one strange decorative note. Canvas mat covers from past cage bouts hung on the gym walls. Each bore the dried blood splatter from past contests. The Rorschach-like patterns of these old stains were memorialized by the felt-tip signatures of the combatants. Photos of various Gladiator School fighters who had performed in different events also hung on the walls.

I recognized two names from my earlier Internet research. Trent Subway and Jose Del Cristo. There was also a photo of Joe Hardwick on the wall. He was crouched in a fighting stance, bare knuckles in front of his face. His ring name was "Hammerhead."

There were six or seven fighters firing punches at heavy bags around the room. They were extremely dedicated, and none of them even paused their workouts to look at us when we entered.

"Stay here," Joe said. "I'll go get Mr. Mingo." He turned and went through a door in the back.

"I hope I don't really have to audition," Seriana said. "I don't want to have to fight one of these goons."

"Won't happen," I said. "So far we're doing great, but why don't you go hit one of those bags. Show 'em what you've got."

Seriana, in her slacks and polo shirt, walked to a heavy bag a few feet away and unleashed a variety of strikes and kicks. She was quick and efficient as her blows rang out on the leather. Now one or two of the other fighters stopped their workouts and turned to watch.

A minute later a very skinny sixty-year-old man with bushy white hair came out of the back with Joe Hardwick. He was one of those stringy Italian guys who was brown as a tobacco leaf, wearing a green silk short-sleeved shirt. He moved with a brisk, kinetic stride. An unlit cigar was stuffed in the corner of his mouth, making him look like he belonged in a Rocky movie.

As he approached us, he removed the cigar, then rocked back on his heels. He looked at Seriana still working the heavy bag, then at me, taking in my cut forehead and broken arm.

"Okay, okay. I see she can hit. Tell her to stop," the man said. Seriana quit punching the bag and turned to face us.

"This is Nate Mingo," Joe said. "He's the gym manager and our promoter."

He made no move to shake hands. When you're doing a field interview you have to make on-the-fly judgments. From his scowl and defensive body language, I could tell that
I
was going to need some leverage to open him up.

Then I spotted what looked like several old, faded prison tattoos etched on his forearms. Like Jack's, the tats were done with handmade equipment, the drawings sketchy. The color was that same strange shade of blue-green ink the penal system uses.

"No matter how good she hits, this broad ain't gonna train in mv gym," Mingo said. "Go find someplace else."

He started to turn away. I'd only spent an hour on the Internet and had very little background on this sport, but one of the things I'd read was that MMA TV events were sanctioned by the state. I was running out of time, so I took a shot.

"You guys fight on TV a lot, right?" I said. He turned back. "Spike TV? I understand those fights are all sanctioned by the California State Gaming Commission."

"Look, pal, I got things to do . . ."

"I know you're getting ready for an out-of-town fight. A challenge match with Team Ultima. That gonna be a sanctioned event?"

He studied me for a long moment before he said, "You're a fucking cop, aren't you?"

If it had to go in that direction, I was ready. I pulled out my creds. Mingo examined them quickly then handed them back.

"I don't talk to cops."

"You may want to adjust that," I said, smiling. "Where'd you do your time?"

"Go fuck yourself."

I pointed to the tattoos on his arms. "That's prison work. I can always run you, Nate, but it's gonna piss me off. You really wanta put me through that?"

"Soledad," he snapped. "It was twenty years back. I'm not on state paper anymore. My parole ran out nine years ago. Happy?"

"I got a little problem and I may need your help."

"Well, you ain't gcttin' it." He started away again.

"The way I understand this, you guys need to be sanctioned by the state gaming commission to do organized fights. Last time I checked, an ex-con couldn't be involved in any state-sanctioned gambling event. I make a few calls, you could lose your manager's license. No more Gladiator School, no more Spike TV, no more Cuban cigars."

He just glared at me.

"I'm not here to make trouble, Nate. I'm just trying to solve a problem, but if you keep this up, I'm going to have to make some moves, and then what have either of us accomplished? Nothing, right?"

Mingo didn't speak for almost half a minute. Then he put the soggy cigar back in his mouth.

"Let's talk in my office," he said.

Chapter
48

The fight between Team Ultima and Team Spartacus was being billed as "The Rage in the Cage." It was taking place at the Talking Stick Casino on the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation outside of Tucson at eight tomorrow night.

Seriana and I reported all this to the pallbearers as we sat around a picnic table at Huntington Beach about two miles down Beach Boulevard from Gladiator School.

"An Arizona Indian reservation?" Vicki said. "Why there?"

"According to Nate Mingo, the casino has an active sports book and pari-mutuel betting. Besides the challenge purse, both fight teams split a ten percent cut of the casino's action off the top."

"You think you can trust that guy?" Seriana asked.

"Mv guess is he'd rather help me than lose his license to promote fights on TV."

"You've got a bigger problem than Mingo," Sabas said. "If this figh
t i
s on an Indian reservation, you and Mrs. Scully got no jurisdiction;" He looked pointedly at Alexa then back at me. "Indian reservations have treaty arrangements with the federal government. They're sovereign territories, governed by their own tribal councils and policed by Indian cops."

"I think we can . . ."

"I know what I'm talking about," he interrupted.

"What I was about to say is we can get plenty of cooperation. I've done it before. We just check in with the Indian police chief, show our warrant, accompany him while he makes the arrest."

"I still don't get why Rick O'Shea would show up there," Diamond said. "If he's on the run, isn't that taking a big chance?"

"It's out of state," Alexa said. "Plus he knows it's going to take time for us to get a warrant and get it served in Arizona by tomorrow. That's if we ever even figured out he was going to be there."

"According to Mingo, O'Shea hasn't pulled out of his match," I added. "He'll be there or his bout is a forfeit. It's probably wav too big a payday for him to pass up. He'll take his share of the purse, then get out of the country."

Vargas finally broke the silence. "So we go to Arizona and pop him there. That's the plan?"

"No," I told them. "You guys aren't going. The Pop Dix Homicide Steering Committee is officially disbanded."

"Then let's get out of here," Sabas said.

"Just like that? No argument?" I said.

"No argument. I'm tired of fighting with you about this. Let the Indian police handle it if that's your plan. We'll just wait and get our payback at the L
. A
. arraignment."

I looked at Alexa. After a minute, she shrugged.

"Can we go now?" Sabas said. "I still have a law practice to run. I have a conference in my office at four."

Two hours later Alexa and I were back at our Venice house. I was sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen watching her prepare dinner.

"You want tomatoes and onions in this meat casserole?" she asked.

I nodded. "And garlic."

She peeled a clove then slammed the knife down on the cutting board and smashed the clove before chopping it and tossing the pieces into a saute pan with some sizzling butter.

"I don't trust Vargas," I said.

"What makes you say that? The fact that he won't look you in the eye when he's lying to you, or that nervous little stutter when he got out of the van? Or the fact that he'd probably rather serve this warrant with a bunch of g-sters from Boyle Heights?"

"All the above. Plus, he's not used to being told he can't do what he wants. None of us are. After a promising start with that guy, it's sort of come apart."

"We've got bigger problems than Sabas Vargas," Alexa said. "I think we need to bring in the FBI. Vargas is wrong that only Indian cops have jurisdiction on a reservation. The feds can also make arrests in conjunction with Indian authority.

"Not that I don't trust the Tohono Nation PD, but I'm thinking it sure wouldn't hurt to have a few federal cops with guns around." Alexa put down the knife and faced me. "Here's something else that might help. When I was talking to Chief Filosiani, he said that their local ASAC seemed very upset with those two guys. Apparently Agents Westfall and Faskin had Jack in custody a few hours after the Temecula bank heist before he even got out of Central California.

"The highway patrol picked him up in a freeway speed trap, ran him, and made the arrest. Our two local heroes had Jack in the back of their car in cuffs and were transporting him to L
. A
. to get booked when somehow Jack managed to drain their car battery by pulling out the cigarette lighter in the backseat and cross-wiring it, or dead grounding it, or some damn thing."

My respect for Jack Straw took another leap forward.

Alexa continued. "I guess the way it happened, they pulled off the road to eat, took Jack out of the car and into the restaurant in cuffs, not noticing he'd rewired the cigarette lighter. They came back an hour later and the car wouldn't start."

"Ya gotta love that Jack," I said, smiling.

She nodded. "While Westfall and Faskin had the hood up trying to figure out what was wrong, Jack took off with their cuffs still on and escaped." She smiled at me. "Needless to say, this was not met with much enthusiasm at the 11000 building on Wilshire. Westfall and Faskin are cooking over a slow fire down there."