Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book Two)

by Thunderbolt, Liberty

  “I think you are right Millsap,” Doc said. “Fighting forces people to take an honest look at themselves. Maybe that is a good thing, maybe not.”

  “I don’t have time to look at myself or search,” Marty said. “I don’t really know what you damn new-age fighters are talking about. My life revolves around growing and harvesting wheat. I guess my search was over when I was about seven years old. That’s the first time I helped my dad with wheat harvest, and wheat and baseball, is my life. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “Maybe you are lucky to live like that,” Marita said to Marty, “but maybe life would’ve offered more if you would’ve had a choice?”

  “I didn’t need any other choices. I love growing and harvesting wheat, and I love baseball. I’m content.”

  Bretten was surprised when Rodrigo spoke. “I grew up with a stripper mom who was in and out of the house. I’ve been searching for freedom from other people’s decisions since I was fourteen years old.”

  They all listened as he told his story. “Now I think I’ve been searching for something that I can’t even define. I don’t even know what freedom is. I’ve been free to make my own choices and do whatever I want for years, but I still fall back on the excuse that I grew up with no dad and an unreliable mom, like that is the reason for my current life...”

  “But it’s not?” Doc asked.

  “I don’t think so. My life, and I think it’s pretty successful, is the way it is because of the choices I’ve made. I have to hold myself accountable.”

  “I hold myself accountable,” Brettten said. “Less than a year ago I let down a whole bunch of people.”

  He went on to tell the group of the World Series, of him dropping the final out. “You know I’ve always been able to excel at whatever I chose, was called the family hero, but I always manage to screw it up one way or another. It was hell afterward. I could tell the other players looked at me with pity and anger, and I couldn’t blame them. They’d given so much to get to that point and in one instant I destroyed their dreams.

  “The drop was bad, but then right after I got home my mom called. My brother, Nick, had been killed. He lived in Las Vegas and was driving back home. Somebody killed him on the side of the road for no reason.”

  Many in the group said sorry and consoled Bretten for his loss. It was the first time he’d told anybody about Nick, except for Rodrigo and Brooke. He missed her. She’d been gone for a few days and he thought of her constantly.

  Bretten continued. “When younger, Nick was always in trouble, but he was cleaning himself up. It’s just not fair. And here I am, supposed to be the hero and I don’t know what to do about it other than fight. I know I couldn’t have done anything, but I have a hard time believing in myself. I’m nuts right?”

  “I don’t think so Bretten,” said the insurance salesman Jed. “We are all probably a little scared of success. For me it means a bigger house, nicer cars, more baggage that I really don’t need, but I keep striving for it anyway.”

  The conversation shifted to success and what it meant. They offered their takes on what success was and decided it was a very individual precept. And that maybe many of them were searching for their own understanding of what it meant to be successful.

  Finally, Doc wrapped it up. “Well guys this has been interesting. Thank you all for such candid input, but we are out of time. I know that Jed has clients to see, Marty has a farm waiting, and the rest of you have a day of training waiting on you.”

  The group broke up and Bretten and Rodrigo found themselves warming up for the day. The discussion hung with them though. Both experienced a sense of maturing, or at least a shift in how they saw themselves.

  “I’m really sorry about your brother,” Rodrigo said. Then he playfully punched Bretten on the arm. “Dang bro, I didn’t know you were our hero.”

  Bretten held up his fist. “Excuse me Mr. ‘Oh I need freedom, but I don’t know what it is.’ Better shut up or this right hand is going to give you a little freedom...from consciousness.”

  “Oh, I’m shaking. I’d better toss something to you so you’ll drop it.”

  Bretten nodded. “So that’s how it is,” and gave chase. The two ran around the gym while everyone else laughed.

  Eventually the fun was over and it was time for the fighters to get back to work. But thoughts of searching and success were with them the rest of the day. Even though Coach Whit wasn’t there to push them, they went all out. They were here. They were fighters because they chose to be. It was their life and they didn’t need anybody to crack a whip to make them give one hundred percent.

  Chapter Ten

  Detective Westingham climbed out of his cruiser. His jacket whipped in the desert wind. He pulled it off and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He then snatched the crime scene report off the dashboard and squinted to the west. The sun was somewhere over the Pacific and getting lower by the minute.

  He walked a few steps and looked at the photos of the Toyota Celica’s paint scrapes on the rock, and chunks of tire on the highway. There was still a light line of blue on the rock, the final remnants of Nick Maris’ last minutes on earth. Westingham made his way over to the faded paint and rubbed his long fingers over it. He tried to picture exactly what had taken place, tried to gain some insight that had so far eluded him.

  After a moment of consideration, he walked along the same path Maris’ killer took as he carried his body away from Highway 93. He studied the photos with each awkward step, especially the ones with the footprints.

  The investigators had confirmed that one of the two sets of prints were a match to prints found at Raydell Richardson’s murder. It appeared that at least one of the two men was involved in both killings, either that or a very big coincidence placed the same type of shoes on the same size of foot on two different killers. Highly unlikely.

  Westingham had just come from the site of Raydell’s horrible death some 30 miles away.It was the third time he’d made the trip to each location since he’d showed the men’s photos around in hopes of connecting Nick Maris and Raydell Richardson. He hadn’t had any luck with that, and he wasn’t struck with any divine inspiration during his first two visits. Still, he decided to give it another try.

  Of course there was no visible sign that Nick’s body had ever been in the spot on which Westingham now stood, but he bent over and scooped up some course sand then let it slide through his fingers. He stood and turned a slow circle then closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sky. He again tried to picture what happened, tried to see the faces of the killers, tried to imagine every detail of what went down.

  A gust of wind brought him out of his odd meditation and one of the photos blew out of the file. It tumbled along the ground before catching on a bush. Westingham hustled after it and leaned over to grab it, but paused. He thought of his favorite detective, Sam Spade, thought of the more recent Thomas Magnum, and he even flashed to Jessica Fletcher of Murder, She Wrote. This would be the time when a clue would be found that would miraculously break the case.

  Westingham took a step back and rubbed a hand over his red hair. He surveyed the area and felt a little foolish for doing so. This wasn’t one of his movies or TV shows. It was real life and real death, but he looked for a moment anyway.

  No clue jumped out at him. The photo started to move with the next gust of wind and Westingham seized it before it got away from him.

  He made his way back to the car and pictured his colleagues laughing behind his back for his odd ways. He really didn’t care, those odd ways often led to putting bad guys in jail. Often, but not always.

  As he shifted the car into gear, he was struck with a thought. The murders were similar, but different, and he had been unable to put his finger on it but something seemed off. Richardson was driven, signifying that he possibly knew the men. Maris was ambushed. Why did that happen? Was he chosen at random?

  Something about the club where Maris worked kept scratching at Westingham
’s brain. He’d gone through the video surveillance and found nothing, but…but what? What was he missing?

  “Aha,” he said to himself as he looked into the mirror. “I wonder if Maris hung out at the club on his days off.”

  Chapter 11

  Bear gulped his beer and excitedly talked to Marshall. A man, not a regular or tourist, sat only three stools away. Normally this would’ve bothered Bear. Not tonight. Tonight he was returning to his stomping grounds a triumphant hero, and the unknown individual was unimportant in his mind.

  “You should’ve seen it, Marshall.”

  “Whoa, first tell me about Bricktown. How was the nightlife?”

  “It was good, nothing special, drank a few beers at Toby Keith’s bar then headed back to the hotel.”

  “Bump into any hotties at the hotel bar?”

  “The opposite, a couple of fat ass football coaches. Anyway, the next day I got to the gym in my best suit. Even managed to not spill anything on it. Met with Bretten and Rodrigo and both fighters were in awe of my performance.”

  “What do you mean performance? You dance for ‘em Bear?”

  “No you idiot, I mean my presentation. Remember, I worked with McGee, my website guy to get it all set up? Anyway, I showed them their web sites complete with all I could offer, and that’s quite a lot. They were both sucked in. I could tell I had them.”

  “And you got both of them right?”

  “Yep, and after they signed I was so fired up I decided to get to work immediately. That’s why I haven’t been here all week. Instead of flying out the next morning I drove to Dallas.”

  “Dallas, what’s down there besides the Cowboys?”

  “Only one of the most deep-pocketed promotions in the sport. I know you’ve heard of Lane Wells, the billionaire businessman? He is a huge sports fan and loves cagefighting. He started up a promotion. They’ve had a few events named after his television network, Superior Resolution Viewing. His SRV fights are new but becoming pretty popular. The first event sold over eight thousand tickets, and he doesn’t have to worry about TV contracts or pay per view since he has his own network.”

  “So did you talk to this Wells guy?”

  “Oh hell no. He has his money, not his hand in the business. I did talk to his top talent scout. They have an event scheduled not too far off with a fairly stacked card. Not anything like the UCC’s, but still solid. I really wanted to get the Maris kid in front of him, so I showed the fight from Korea. He was impressed, but the card is full.”

  “So the visit turned out worthless? You could’ve been here shooting the shit with me and instead you were wasting your time in Dallas.” Marshall joked.

  “Mr. Bartender, don’t you own this place, have a little bit of business savvy? Seems you still have a lot to learn. Really you should go with me on one of these trips.

  “You see there are two welterweight fights, the weight Maris fights at, scheduled on the card. If any one of those four guys can’t fight for whatever reason, I was promised a call for Maris to step in as a replacement.”

  “Are you going to tell the kid about the possible fight?”

  “Nope, he’s already training for a fight at Champions of the Cage in Oklahoma. As soon as he signed I got the promoter, the guy I had the meeting with the night before, on the phone and pushed both him and the Cortez kid hard. Like all small promotions he’s begging for talent, so he jumped at the chance with good terms. Their event is a couple weeks after SRV Fights in Dallas. No need to make Maris consider changing his preparation unless it is absolutely necessary. For as tough as they are, sometimes these cagefighters are fickle.”

  Marshall scoffed. “Fickle? That’s a funny word coming out of your mouth. Shouldn’t you hold your pinky up when you use words like that?”

  “Oh shut up Marshall, believe it or not, I have a high vocabulary...obviously not like Don King’s prestigious abundance of loquacious musings, but you know...by the way I don’t know what the hell I just said.”

  Both men laughed and Bear downed his beer. Marshall wiped the counter and poured two more, one for his friend and another for the dour stranger a few stools away. Even though the man was almost within arm’s reach he seemed alone, lost in thought.

  “So now with all these possible big time fighters with you I guess you’re going to have to kick it up a notch,” Marshall said.

  “Yep, I am. This might be a big opportunity. If I can get things rolling in the right direction I’ll be rolling in the money.”

  “Congratulations, Bear. I’ve said it a lot lately and don’t want to jinx it, but things are really looking up.”

  Chapter 12

  Harold Winstatt rocked gently with the waves. The sun’s rays bounced off the undulating water turning the surface into a glistening diamond field. He felt the effects of that same sun on his reddening neck, but didn’t care. He sat on his still docked boat and stared at his beer. He figured his beloved Cruiser was the best place to get away, but since Harold was all alone he couldn’t bring himself to take it out onto Lake Mead.

  He was still struggling to pay off Mr. Smith. Every chance he got he sent the man money, but it was never enough. And yes he was still gambling, was actually up fifteen hundred dollars over the last few days, but couldn’t catch fire, have that one weekend to end all this.

  Yesterday he’d called Sherry. “I miss you girls so much. Are you thinking of coming home soon, please? It is awful here without you.”

  “I don’t know Harold, this has been hard on us too. I don’t know if I can uproot Amanda again. Not now that she is settled into school and playing soccer.”

  “So what do you mean Sherry? Just like that, no matter what I do you are staying in Phoenix until at least June? What if I told you I was not gambling and had paid my debt?”

  “Well, have you stopped, Harold? Are you...we debt free?”

  Harold silently cursed himself. He’d unintentionally backed himself right into a corner. “Well...uh no.”

  “No, what do you mean Harold, you haven’t managed either?”

  “It’s difficult. I’ve been paying that bastard as much as I can, not spending any extra money, but it barely takes a chunk out of the debt.”

  “Ten thousand dollars? It shouldn’t be too hard for you to scrounge that together.”

  He was going to have to come clean and entirely explain the situation. He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “I actually borrowed more than ten thousand. After the first time I went back and got another ten.”

  “You did what? After or before I left?”

  “The day of actually. I panicked and desperately tried to get out of the hole quickly, but it didn’t work. And then the man keeps adding on vig, or interest. The debt is rising almost as fast as I’m paying.”

  “Dear God Harold, maybe you should go to the police.”

  “And what would I tell them? I borrowed money illegally from a guy and agreed to pay an excruciatingly high interest, and now I can’t pay so I need your help.”

  “You don’t have to be a smart ass Harold. Really you’re in no position. I’m worried about you, your safety. This man could be dangerous, and even though I’m mad I still love you.”

  “You might be right, but I am taking care of the situation.”

  “How much do you still owe, and have you stopped gambling?”

  Again, he hated his answer but decided to be forthcoming, “I still owe around twenty thousand, and I am still gambling. It may be an avenue to get out of this mess. I won fifteen hundred dollars this week.”

  “And you will lose fifteen hundred or more next week. Don’t you get it, Harold? And twenty thousand dollars, Jesus you haven’t even made a dent. Where has your money been going?”

  He couldn’t tell her the exact amount the debt had grown to, “I know, I know Sherry, but I’m just searching for all angles. I’ve made a little headway, but like I said earlier, the interest this guy expects is ridiculous.”

  “I love you,
Amanda loves you, and we both pray you will be alright, but surely you can understand there is no way we are coming back to that craziness, not until you get it straightened out.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry, I screwed up so bad. I will try to fix it. I want both of you back.”

  They hung up, and both cried. Harold because of self-pity, and Sherry because of sadness.

  After gathering himself with a washcloth and splash of warm water he’d climbed into his Honda and drove around Henderson and East Las Vegas. He should’ve been out looking for a second job. Instead his course was aimless until he finally circled back toward his house. On the way he passed a tiny bar in an old strip mall on Nellis. He’d driven by it numerous times, but on this occasion whipped into the parking lot and settled into the dreary slow-paced watering hole called Marshall’s Tavern. The man behind the counter, black, bald and in his early fifties was friendly enough and proficient in his job. Harold drank and stared into space, lost in thought.

  More than a couple of times the loud, burly man sitting three stools away burst into his thoughts. He was excited about something and obviously friends with the bartender. Harold needed a break from his own life so he began eavesdropping on the conversation.

  Harold had rarely even heard the terminology, but the man kept mentioning cagefighting and mixed martial arts, he was involved in some fashion. It sounded intriguing, but Harold considered his respite for the evening, the big talkative man, to be quite a loser.

  Here he sat probably more nights than not in this hole in the wall getting plastered and telling stories. But as Harold listened he became more interested in the man’s tale. He’d just returned...someplace where he had a big meeting...it went well...he was doubling his efforts...The man still seemed like a bum, but Harold caught himself thinking how nice it would be to trade lives. To be excited about his job again, to have someone to talk with even if it was a bartender, and most importantly to not be in debt up to his ears to a dangerous man.