by Linda Ladd
Chapter Four
In the bright afternoon sunshine, The Knock Down Drag Out looked as if more than a few people had been knocked down and dragged out, all right. Ramshackle, rusted, seedy, it definitely needed a caretaker or two by the looks of the four feet of snow on the sagging corrugated tin roof. There was a house trailer on the same lot, held up on concrete blocks and of equally squalid description. A car’s motor was hanging off a giant oak tree limb in the front of the trailer and a chicken-wire dog pen holding six snarling pit bulls, who all, to a dog, looked cold, miserable, and murderous. They started barking and salivating at the sight of Claire and Bud as soon as they climbed out of Bud’s Bronco. Probably thought they were lunch on the hoof.
Out on the shoulder of a two-lane highway running through Lebanon, four old beat-up pickup trucks sat unoccupied because the parking lot had not yet been cleared, even after two full days of heavy snowfall. A copper-colored Mercedes sat alone across the road, late model and shiny and expensive, all of which Claire found highly interesting. Hmm. Maybe a scruple-empty somebody was making beaucoup money off the young idiots who went inside a chain-link cage and beat each other to bloody meat each and every night. Maybe she wanted to talk to him.
Bud glanced over at the yapping, howling critters who probably considered both of them delicious-looking Whoppers with Cheese. “Well, these guys can’t be all bad. They’re dog lovers.”
“Or they run a dog fighting operation,” Claire said. “Hope so. There’s nothing I like to bust more than jerks who abuse animals.”
They slugged their way through knee-high drifts to the front of the building and stared at the dented front door. Maybe they used it as a battering ram for practicing their head butts. That wouldn’t surprise Claire. The snow had been shoveled slightly around the entrance, but only in a narrow path from the ersatz fight club to the seedy trailer and highly agitated dogs. So they climbed over some more impressive snowbanks until they reached the cleared-off part.
“This bites, all right, but not as much as standing out in intersections dodging out-of-control cars,” Bud said. “I hate winter. I love summer. I love Florida. I love the tropics.”
“Just think of the good things about winter, Bud. You know, Christmas and snowmen and sleigh bells and hot tubs.”
“Yeah, right. All that’s fine and dandy, but Christmas is long over, and we’re freezing our butts off day and night. And we don’t all have hot tubs in our living room.”
“You can use mine anytime you want. I told you that.”
“Yeah, that’ll be real cozy. You and me and Nick. I hate to think of what I’d have to witness.”
Claire laughed. She couldn’t imagine him being in the tub with them, either. Not after their little romp last night. “Okay, just remember what we’re here for. Somebody around here might’ve beaten that poor kid to death, possibly with various and sundry deadly weapons. The perpetrator could very well be inside. Don’t start anything. They’re bruisers and trained fighters, and we’re too cold to be on top of our game.”
Bud looked at her, highly incredulous. “Me, start things? Ha! You’re the one who usually throws the first punch.”
“C’mon, I only do that when I have to. And I can tell you right now. I’m not going to incite some ultimate fighters into a bout of fisticuffs. I’m not that dumb, and I don’t want to have to shoot anybody this early in the case.”
“Hey, I know. Just hit ’em with that big ring Nick gave you. That oughta put out their lights, if the glare doesn’t blind them first.” Bud laughed at his own cleverness. “Maybe we shoulda brought along a Brink’s truck to keep it safe.”
“Ha-ha. You’re just jealous, is all.” But Claire shouldn’t have worn it on her finger. That’s all she’d gotten all day long from her colleagues at the office, jokes about the size of her glaringly giant diamond solitaire engagement ring. She knew better, of course. She’d only put it on her finger that morning in order to please Black, who was surreptitiously watching to see where she’d wear it and all the while trying to hide his keen interest, but interested he had been. However, there were limits to how long she could endure being the butt of engagement ring jokes, even good-natured ones. She was quickly reaching hers. The hidden-on-a-chain-around-her-neck idea was sounding better all the time.
Unfortunately, Bud was not finished with his jabs, probably trying to get his mind off the beauteous and newly arrived Brianna. “Yeah, I guess all I need is a rich girlfriend. A female version of Nick, maybe. Now that’s a scenario I could go for. Bud Davis, adored by a filthy rich woman and loved to death in a hot tub. Do I ever like the sound of that, man alive, whoo-hoo.”
Well, that hit pretty damn close to home. “Very funny. And it’s not my money, if you recall. It’s Black’s money. I have to earn a paycheck, just like you do. Long hours, cold hours, cold-blooded murderers, the whole nine yards.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all that before. Hell, I could buy a brand-new house with that rock you’re wearing. Or a brand-new designer wardrobe. Something Italian maybe. Outta Milan. Oh, yeah, Milan duds. That’s what I’d buy first with it, if my rich lady gave me her credit card. And she would.”
“Would you just shut up about the damn ring already, or I’m gonna take it off.”
Bud laughed. “Better not. Nick’ll get mad and not shower you with cash anymore. He might even ban you from his private jet. Oooooh, how could you stand it?”
“Just shut it, would you?” Claire usually just ignored his friendly joshing, almost getting used to it by now. Down deep, though, she didn’t like those kinds of jokes. She usually didn’t like snooty, filthy rich people, either, avoided them like the plague, in fact. But Black was different, sort of. At least he was generous and not stingy and uppity like most of them, and he had earned every dime of the money he had. But she wasn’t rich or entitled or anything else remotely resembling it. She worked hard for a living, just like Bud and Shaggy and Buck and everybody else she knew. Black worked hard for his money, too, damn it.
Thankfully, Bud changed the subject back to work. “Something tells me this isn’t the primo address for the A-list cage fighters that we watch on TV.”
“No kidding.”
“Ever been in this kind of place?”
“Nope. Thank goodness.”
“Okay, take a real deep breath. I think you’re gonna need it once we walk in that door.”
As it turned out, he was dead on. It was steamy hot inside, which was the only good thing about it. It smelled bad, of sweat and testosterone and the two big bloodhounds lying on the floor beside the door. Something was cooking. Some kind of meat was frying in a skillet, smoky, unappetizing, at least to Claire. The club was comprised of one big room with two round cages inside, both with padded floors and plastic wire sides. Two morons were now inside, practicing their craft by pummeling the hell out of each other sans boxing gloves or shoes. Lord have mercy, and thank God she had been born with a brain.
“Hope I don’t get blood on my jacket,” Bud said. “I just got it dry cleaned. Twenty bucks and change.”
Bud worried about such eventualities because there was indeed a lot of blood flying around. Nobody seemed to notice that or the fact that two law enforcement officers had entered the building. All were merrily intent on the bloodletting. If this was practice, Claire would hate to see the real thing. She had a feeling that she was going to have to watch a lot of this stuff before they solved their case. Wonderful.
“These guys are crazy,” Bud said softly. “I wonder how many of them end up with brain damage. That’s what I’d worry about.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
At one side of the room and behind a long bar made out of carpenter’s trestles and wide wood planks, a man was cooking something in an electric skillet. It smelled like beef steak, maybe, sizzling in serious amounts of lard. The chef was watching the sparring young men, too, incongruously turning the meat with a long fork while wearing an expensive three-piece black suit. He
had a white towel over his arm à la the waiters at Two Cedars, the fancy-schmancy restaurant in Black’s Cedar Bend Lodge. When he noticed them, he stared at them a moment and then gave them a big smile. “These guys are always hungry for meat after they fight.”
Yeah, probably raw hamburger. She was surprised he was cooking it. She glanced at the cages, in one of which was a kid sitting on the other one’s chest, hitting him in the head. She frowned. “Yeah? If they have any teeth left to chew it with.”
The man laughed, unfortunately not offended. He looked to be around forty years old, graying at the temples with wavy salt-and-pepper locks that hung to his collar. He had a thick accent which indicated that he did not grow up within a thousand miles of mid Missouri. Oh, yeah, he definitely hailed from Brooklyn or the Bronx or Poland, maybe. He wasn’t that bad looking, except that both ears slightly resembled cauliflower blossoms, both in size and color, thus indicating a healthy knowledge of all things brutal. But he was pleasant enough when he said, “What can I do for you officers on this cold bright beautiful day?”
“How’d you know who we were?” Bud asked, always the curious detective.
“You got the look.”
Claire didn’t inquire further, because she didn’t give a damn. She pulled out the chain with her badge and held it up for him. “We’re Canton County Sheriff’s detectives. I’m Detective Morgan. This is Detective Davis.”
“That can’t be real,” he said and gave her an amused little smirk.
Claire frowned. She didn’t quite cotton to that remark. “The badges are real all right. We got real weapons, too, if you’d like to see them pointed at you.”
“I meant that ring you got on. God, it’s the size of a freakin’ Fig Newton. What’s a matter wit’ you, girl? Everybody’s gonna know right off that it’s a fake. It’s goddamn gaudy. You gotta tell your guy to get you somethin’ real instead of that glass trinket so you ain’t embarrassin’ yourself like this in front of people who know the real thing when they see it. Better for you if it’s real, I’m tellin’ you, even if it’s little bitty. You’re hookin’ up with a cheapskate, trust me. That thing must be twenty carats, at the very least, all fake and made outta glass and silver plate, probably.”
Bud barked out a genuine laugh and then cut it off and looked warily at Claire.
Claire fought the urge to pull her weapon on the smug, ring-appraising imbecile. Hell, she probably couldn’t get her Glock out without her cheap, Fig Newton-sized trinket obstructing her draw time. And Black had told her that it was only fifteen carats, anyway, which showed how much that moron knew about flawless white diamonds, and it sure as hell wasn’t as big as any Fig Newton, either. A Cheez-It, maybe, or a Frosted Miniwheat, or probably more like a Peanut M&M squared off some, but no cookie or cracker any bigger than that. And Black said it was set in platinum, not silver plate anything. So why did everybody she meet find it necessary to exaggerate about Black’s damn ring? It was getting downright ridiculous. With some effort having to be exerted, she restrained herself. She presented him with a tight rendition of a false smile. He was just stupid. She had to remember that. It was almost cute how stupid he was.
“We’re not really here to discuss your opinion of my jewelry, sir. We’re here concerning a homicide investigation.”
That obviously took him aback. “Homicide? Who got killed?”
“Is now a good time to ask you a few questions?”
“Like what?”
“Like what’s your name and your business here?”
He took plenty of time turning over another steak before answering. “Name’s Sonny Randazzo. Dazz, for short. And I own this place. Keep it running out here in the sticks so my scouts can find my fight company some raw talent to develop.”
Claire watched him fork up a huge sirloin steak and carefully transfer it to a paper towel covered plate. Behind her, one of the contestants in the ring screamed. It sounded rather painful, and she tried not to look, but couldn’t help herself. The fighter was writhing around on the mat, moaning and groaning and a good amount of blood gushing out of his nose. The other guy was being glad-handed by his handlers. High fives even. Sick, sick, and more sick, oh, yeah. But back to business.
“Well, Dazz, by the looks of that Mercedes outside, I’d say you can afford to buy your boys over there a pair of boxing gloves. Maybe even a face guard and mouthpiece, to boot. You know, just to cut down on broken bones and black eyes.”
“What are you, anyways, detective, a softie? Just like a girl to say somethin’ like that. My fighters are as tough as nails. Those kids don’t need a goddamn thing inside that ring except their hands and their feet. They got those four deadly weapons. Don’t need nothing else.”
“Wow, somehow the term blatant exploitation occurs to me.”
“Don’t kid yourself, lady. They beg me to let them fight.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. This guy was seriously chewing up her reserve of police politeness. She fought an urge to smash him in the face with Black’s gaudy, cheapo, embarrassing glass ring.
Bud said, “I wouldn’t provoke her like that, if I were you. She’s not as soft as you think she is.”
“Ha! What’s this sweet little lady gonna do, hit me with her big fake ring?”
Okay, that did it. The ring was going back on the chain and around her neck and hidden under her sweatshirt, as soon as they got back in the car. But hey, this guy was just asking for it. “Well, I tell you one thing this little lady’s gonna do to you, Dazz, she’s gonna run you in to the Canton County Sheriff’s Department so that you’ll cooperate in a homicide investigation or sit in a cell until you do.”
“Uh-oh, now I’m shakin’ in my Italian loafers. And unlike that ring, mine are the genuine article. Straight outta Rome, Italy.”
Bud jerked a look down to see if they really were real, no doubt, and then he looked at Claire and shook his head. “Those are cheap knockoffs, man. Somebody took you for a ride.”
“No, they’re not. I got them in Memphis last week, right out of the box.”
“Yeah, right.”
Oh, for God’s sake, Claire thought, can this interview get any more stupid? “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk, Mr. Randazzo? Or do you need to turn off your skillet and get your coat on?”
“Okay, okay, we can talk back in my office. Hey, Woodrow, come up here and finish cooking these steaks for the boys. I got business.”
A little old guy came rushing up. He looked like he probably had cauliflower ears, too, under his knitted dark blue sock hat. He was wizened, to say the least. She didn’t use wizened much in official descriptions, but he fit that moniker big-time. He looked around ninety plus, grizzled as all get out, faded blue eyes, gold front tooth in an otherwise rather nice smile. He didn’t say anything but he nodded an acknowledgment of their presence and started checking on Randazzo’s meat.
“Follow me, officers,” Dazz said.
Well, at least he didn’t call himself Dazzle or Dazzler—that would’ve been a little much, even for a guy of his obnoxiousness level. His office was walled off from the bloody beat downs going on at the moment, which probably occurred every instant the establishment was open. Inside Dazz’s personal space, it looked like a showroom at Pottery Barn, especially when lined up against the hillbilly setup and sawdust on the floors outside his door.
“Please take a chair. And that’s real leather, by the way.”
They all sat down. Nobody said anything. Nobody was very impressed with the leather, either, real or otherwise. Nobody wanted to be there. Especially Claire.
Loafers Aficionado Dazz said, “Can I get you a drink? Bourbon? Scotch? Beer?”
“We’re on duty, sir.” Claire hated him. She really, really did. Even after five minutes, her you-loathsome-pig-you barometer was pushing its needle into the extreme disgust and annoyance range. She bet he beat his wife, too. “Is your wife well, Dazz?”
“My wife? Yeah, I guess. I ain’t seen her in couple of weeks.
Been out on the road with my fighters.”
“What fighters?”
“Not those guys outside. They’re just training for bare knuckles, tryin’ to get a start in the legit business. I decided to give ’em a chance, if and when Woody thinks they’re ready.”
“So you do train your fighters?”
“Oh, yeah. They need to know all sorts of moves. It’s mixed martial arts, you know. Not just street brawling. There’s a real art to it.”
Could’ve fooled me, Claire thought, but she said again, “What fighters?”
“Well, I got three or four that I usually travel with out here in these parts. A few other guys come along sometimes. I’ve got a big operation outta New Jersey. Top-notch. Lots of contenders.”
“Right,” said Claire, going in for try number three. “What fighters?”
“Paulie Parker, Frankie Velez, Malachi Fitch, Shorty Dunlop, to name a few of the best. I got a second tier, too.”
“Where are these guys now?”
“They’ve probably already landed in St. Louis. We got a gig there on Friday and Saturday. We were in KC last week, won all our bouts, too. I gave them time off to, well, you know.”
“To what? Heal up? Get over their concussions? Buy themselves some boxing gloves?”
Bud laughed.
Dazz shook his head. “You don’t like our sport much, I take it?”
“I don’t care to watch exploited young men beating each other up, no.”
“I take offense to that, detective.”
“You should. It was meant harshly.”
He frowned. Claire frowned. Bud frowned, probably because she was frowning and he knew what that meant. She wasn’t in a good mood anymore. Her joy at the sunshine and bright day and Black being home was long gone. Gone to hell, in fact. Something told her that her loathing was starting to show. But the phony jerk sitting across from them made her feel woozy with disregard. Bud decided to take over, which was probably a good thing.
“Okay, Randazzo. Let’s cut the crap. Do you know where Paulie Parker is right now?”
