Then, one morning I was out there, feeling kinda spiritual. The sun was just coming up. Good sets were rolling in from Mexico. The sky was a beautiful red-orange. I was filled with a sense of well-being. For once I was almost happy.
And then it happened again.
A little fish, a perch or a bass, came up and nibbled my toe. I sat very still and wondered what force of nature existed that would put me at one with a tiny fish in this cold, vast ocean. Was there more going on in the universe than I had ever stopped to consider?
The next morning when I woke up, I began to wonder about God.
Chapter 45
The next morning my right arm was aching less and my left wrist was almost back to its normal size. I was feeling much better.
After I dressed, I went to my closet to get a new backup gun. I had two. The S&W .38 caliber Airlight had a magnesium frame. Alexa said it was another underpowered pop gun just like my Taurus. Because I was going to serve a warrant on Rick O'Shea and because of my recent embarrassing history with him, I decided to pack heavv this morning and instead chose my Charter Arms .357 magnum Pug. It shoots 124-grain JHP ammo and will drop a charging elephant.
I called Vargas and told him that we had a warrant and that Alexa and I were going to arrest O'Shea for murder. I had checked in with him as a courtesy and to try and put it back together. I never thought that he'd give me an argument.
"The rest of us talked it over," he said. "And we all want to be there when you slam the cuffs on."
"It's a police action, Sabas. Its not a ride at Disneyland."
"Don't insult me with shit like that," he snapped. "We all did this. We did it for Pop. This is our victory as much as yours, but you're not letting us have it."
"Right." I wasn't going to argue. "Do me a favor and call Vicki. Tell her I'm on the way to her office right now to pick up her financial breakdown sheets. I'll be at Kinney and Glass in half an hour."
I hung up. I couldn't believe he was angry with me over this. He wanted to take a bunch of civilians out to stand on the sidewalk and watch an arrest for first-degree murder? Didn't he know how stupid that was?
On second thought, I guess if you have a California law degree and you're still willing on a second's notice to hit a guy in the head with a tire iron, you're not exactly going to be posing for the cover of Lawyer Magazine.
I left Alexa in our living room; she was getting ready to head to the courthouse in the Valley. I agreed to meet her there by nine thirty.
Kinney and Glass was one of those big Century City high-rise outfits. Too much chrome in the sterile marble entry, which was also hung with huge, ultraexpensive, modern paintings that looked like they'd been done by some fifth-grade class with finger paint.
Amana and Frigidaire people who walked as if they had Ping-Pong balls stuffed up their asses passed me on their way into work. While I waited for Vicki, I wondered how a hotheaded woman who kept a short-nose Bulldog in her purse could survive in such a frosty environment.
Vicki finally came out and handed me the paperwork. "Vargas thinks we should be allowed to watch this go down," she said.
"Where did you guys get this idea that law enforcement is a game with rubber guns and whistles?" I said sourly.
"Vargas thinks it's his fault Walt got murdered. He's blaming himself."
"Yeah, I get that 'cause I'm blaming myself too. But if I took any of you guys out there and O'Shea went hot and injured or killed someone, it would go down very hard. Ill stream some video on my iPhone, and we'll all watch it in a bar later, but I'm not taking you out there."
"No, I think you're right," she said. "I agree with you, Shane. We're not cops. We're . . . we're . . . what the hell are we?"
"Pallbearers," I said.
I made it to the courthouse in thirty-five minutes, which was great time. Alexa and I showed the judge the redone autopsy from Oakcrest, Vicki's spreadsheets, and the corresponding deposit slips from O'Shea's personal bank account and explained how this material was the motive for Pop's homicide. The judge agreed we had sufficient evidence and signed arrest warrants for felony business fraud and first-degree murder.
We left my car at the courthouse and took Alexa's because I was still having trouble driving. We exited the freeway in Calabasas, and I gave Alexa directions to O'Shea's large Spanish-style house on Lupine Lane. When we pulled up, there was a black and white parked on the side with two uniformed officers leaning against their front fender, waiting.
Given my history with O'Shea, I normally would have used a SWAT warrant-delivery team, but it usually takes a day to set that up, so we'd called the L. A. sheriff's department. As I walked up to the uniforms, I was hoping they would be enough backup.
I told the two officers how we wanted to serve the warrant. "This guy is a professional MMA fighter. If you don't think he can hit, take a close look at me. Every bit of this is his doing."
"We'll stay frosty," the lead officer, a big linebacker-sized deputy named Davila, assured me.
"Okay. Let's go hook him up."
We entered the property through the side gate and walked across the lawn to a path that led to the front porch. There was no sign of the maroon Escalade, but it was only a few minutes past 10:00 A. M., and I was hoping that it was still in the garage and that O'Shea was sleeping in.
I stood next to Deputy Davila, who rang the bell while Alexa and the other blue walked down the back drive to cover the rear entrance. Nothing happened.
We rang again.
Still no answer.
"This is a no-knock murder warrant," I told Davila. "Go ahead and kick it."
Then I stepped back so he could do the honors. I'd done my share of solid door kick-ins, and the last thing I needed right now was to add a sprained ankle to my growing list of injuries.
The deputy and I both unholstered, and then he let fly with two kicks up by the brass handle. The big oak door flew inward. No alarm sounded.
"Police!" I yelled out. Then we moved into the house.
Nothing. The downstairs looked like it had been done by a decorator with nothing out of place, like an expensive condo model.
"Let's clear this place," I instructed.
We let Alexa and the second deputy in through the back door, and began going room to room, covering each other, stepping inside and calling "clear," until we had checked the entire first level.
Then we went up the stairs. The second floor was completely empty of furniture. There was no sign of Rick O'Shea.
The master bedroom contained only a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and nothing else. I opened the walk-in closet, and it was obvious that O'Shea had left in a hurry. Hangers were strewn on the floor. He had also cleaned out his medicine cabinet and most of the dresser drawers.
"Shit," I said softly. "Bet he took off right after he saw my badge."
We finished searching the house and went downstairs to the front porch, where we all stood looking out at the half-acre front lawn.
"You need us for anything else, Lieutenant?" Deputy Davila asked Alexa.
"Nope. Thanks for the assist," she replied.
They walked back to their squad car and drove off.
"Want to hear plan B?" Alexa asked.
"We don't have a plan B."
"I do," she said. "I think I should go to Eugene Mesa's party on Sunday. I've been invited. There's a chance O'Shea will show up."
It was a good thought, but I couldn't protect her there because they all knew me and there was no way in hell I was going to let her go alone.
But as she'd already told me, she was my boss. That meant if I was going to prevent her from going to that party, I was going to have to come up with a much better idea.
Chapter 46
We all met again in Sabas's conference room, with its depressing view of the weed-choked backyard and empty pool. Five pallbearers plus Alexa were gathered around his folding table, sitting on uncomfortable metal chairs.
"I don't think it's safe for you to go to F. C. Mes
as party alone," Sabas said after Alexa told him her idea. "Besides, my guess is O'Shea's probably on the run, heading to Mexico."
I didn't think he was in Mexico, and I'd spent the last hour working on a better plan.
"Alexa told us that Team Ultima has a challenge fight coming up and that it's out of town somewhere," I said. "When is that?"
"Don't know. Soon," she said.
"Suppose we could get in touch with that other bunch--team-whatever."
"Spartacus," Alexa said.
"Right. Team Spartacus. We check them out, see if they'll let us ride under their wing to that challenge match, wherever it is. Since it s out of town and because there's a big purse, mv guess is O'Shea won't miss that fight. We'll have a SWAT team in reserve, and once they're all there, we make our move."
Diamond said, "You really think Rick O'Shea is gonna show up at that fight?"
"Yeah," I replied.
"Is he stupid?" Vicki asked.
"Very," Alexa said.
Everyone turned and looked at me, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, so I ran it down. "We got a warrant on Rick O'Shea, but as far as I'm concerned he's just one of many. I think all the guys who train at the NHB Gym are dirtv. Chris Calabro and all the others who are running nonprofits are probably also embezzling from their group homes. That's how they're paying their bills. I don't know how much E. C. Mesa has to do with this, but if you ask me, he's involved."
"But what ties Mesa in, besides the fact the man owns that gym and manages its fighters?" Diamond asked. "That's hardly against the law."
"In police work you learn to trust your hunches, and my hunch says he's in this. I just don't have the connection yet."
As I looked around the table, I could sense that I was losing them. I was sitting here, wrapped in tape and fiberglass, looking like an extra in a war movie, trying to get them to follow me. I could subtly feel Vicki, Seriana, and Diamond turning from me toward Vargas. "Let's take it a step at a time," I said. "We start with Team Spartacus. We find out where they train, go talk to them."
Vicki and Seriana, who had become our unofficial phone committee, started making calls. It didn't take long to find the gym.
Team Spartacus had an address on Atlanta Avenue in Huntington Beach. They worked out of a private gym named, appropriately enough, Gladiator School. After a short argument with Sabas, I agreed to let everyone come as long as either Alexa or I did all the talking. He nodded, but didn't comment.
We headed out of the conference room and stood quietly as Vargas gathered his things.
"I gotta pee," Vicki announced.
While his three chica office warriors glared at me, all of the women, including Alexa, trooped to the bathroom in girl formation, leaving me and Sabas facing each other.
"I couldn't be doing any worse than you," he reminded me.
"Good point," I admitted. "But I feel myself on an upward trajectory."
After the women rejoined us, we started through the front door. As we walked down the path outside, Alexa put something into my left hand. It was a .38 bullet. Somebody had filed a deep X on the nose.
"Where did you get this?" I whispered.
She pointed at Vicki, who was heading down the path a few yards ahead, clutching her purse. "After she came out of the bathroom, I found it on the floor under the toilet," Alexa said softly. "I think she was in there reloading her Bulldog with homemade dumdums."
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?"
the Pallbearers (2010) Page 18
