the Pallbearers (2010)

by Stephen - Scully 09 Cannell

  "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 fight is 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."

  "And you think I should use this?" I said, smiling.

  "No," she replied sarcastically. "Give it to TMZ or the National Enquirer, why don't you?"

  Chapter 49

  "What's this all about?" Kurt Westfall growled as I slid into a Dennvs restaurant window booth directly across from chunk); red-faced Leo Faskin. It was a little past nine the same night. We were at Denny's because it was right across from the federal building on Wilshire, and they said 011 the phone they were hungry.

  Since these two guys had already made it very clear they didn't like me, it didn't surprise me they'd already ordered. But I'd just eaten anyway, and if I played this right, maybe I could get them to lose their appetites.

  I waved the waitress off as Leo Faskin poured about a half a pound of sugar into his coffee and Westfall shifted his string-bean body, trying to find a comfortable spot in the booth for his bony ass.

  "Guvs, I think what we need is a come-to-Jesus meeting," I said pleasantly.

  "What we need is a fuck you meeting," Westfall shot back.

  "C mon, Kurt, that's a little extreme," I said, holding his gaze.

  Agent Faskin leaned forward. "We been told Chief Filosiani wants us to back off, and for some reason, our wussy ASAC s going along. That means we're on the sidelines. What more do you want?"

  "Here's the full and complete update 011 Jack Straw," I said. "Contrary to what you were told, I don't exactly have custody of him anymore."

  "We know that, Scully," Westfall said. "You took him awav from those cops on Wilshire last Wednesday night, and before sunup he gave you the slip. You been running all over L. A. like a blind rat trying to find him and so far don't have a clue. We're just waiting for this bag of shit to land 011 you where it belongs."

  "I hope you guys have been playing fair and aren't abusing the Patriot Act, listening in 011 my phone calls."

  Faskin set down the sugar and slid it angrily across the table, where it hit some napkins and stopped abruptly. "We don't have to tap
your phones to know what an incompetent piece of shit you are."

  "Have we finished with the fuck-you part ot the meeting yet?"

  "No we haven't," Westfall said. "That guy, Straw, popped two federal banks in Central California. He stole ten grand from one, fourteen from the other. He knocked out a sixty-vear-old security guard during the Temecula heist. Poor old guy had to get twenty stitches. Straw is a bleeding sore with a yellow sheet that goes back ten years. He should be sitting in our cooler right now, but you cut him loose from Acosta and Moon and, dumb asshole that you are, promptly lost him. And that, my friend, is the full and complete update 011 Jack Straw."

  "You left out the part where you two brain trusts let him hot-wire your backseat cigarette lighter and escape up in Temecula."

  They both just sat glowering, their faces getting redder.

  I leaned forward. "In the interest of lowering your blood pressure, I might be in a position to help. I know your ASAC is grinding you up over losing Jack. I also know firsthand what turds these administration guys can be. All they gotta do is come in late and make sure the Internet is connected. Field guys like us, were the ones that do the real work, and if things don't go perfect, we always end up taking the heat."

  "What do you want?" Westfall said. He'd clearly had enough of me.

  "Even though I don't have physical custody, I know where Jack is. I'm willing to help you two get him back."

  "Where is he?" Westfall asked.

  "We're gonna need to work out some terms and conditions first."

  Faskin said, "Hey, dickwad, if you've lost custody of Straw like you just said and you know where he is but don't tell us, then you're an accessory after the fact in those two bank heists."

  "That's a slight exaggeration, don't you think?" I smiled blandly at him.

  Just then the waitress brought their orders. Leo Faskin had ordered a patty melt with fries. Kurt Westfall had a cheese omelet with double hash browns. The Denny's high-cholesterol, artery-clogger special at taxpayer expense.

  "Okay, so what's the pitch?" Westfall said. He seemed the more rational of the two.

  "I want you guys to agree that if I get Jack back for you, we let bygones be bygones. You don't start making trouble for me after the fact at Parker Center, filing a bunch of interagency disciplinary requests."

  "What else?"

  "You go to Tucson, Arizona, on the midnight flight tonight. You hook up with the local feds there, wait for my call. Once I've got Jack in custody, I'll notify you, and we can make arrangements to turn him back over to the FBI."

  "Why do we need to include the Tucson bureau?" Westfall asked. He had caught a whiff of my deception. There was nothing I could do but keep going.

  "We need them because, while doable, getting Jack back may not be as easy as it appears on the surface. At some point I might need a scooch of backup."

  "We're not gonna fly all the way to Tucson, scare up a federal posse without knowing why, and then hang around in some hotel 'til you call us," Faskin said.

  "Fellas, I can deliver Jack, but I've got some department issues of my own I'm dealing with. I promise, if you go to Tucson and wait for my call, this time tomorrow we can all grab castanets and sing the Miranda at Jack's custody hearing."

  They both started to pick listlessly at their food. I'd finally managed to ruin their appetites.

  I got up and stood looking down at them.

  "Is that gonna be a yes?" I said.

  "Get the fuck away from us," Faskin replied.

  "It's a yes," Westfall finally answered, then handed me his card.

  Chapter 50

  By the time I got home it was after ten o'clock. As I was undressing for bed, I filled Alexa in on what had transpired with Faskin and Westfall. When I finished, she told me she'd been on the Internet since I'd left doing research on the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation.

  "The Tohono Indians are one of the Arizona Mesa Tribes, like the Hopis and Apaches. They're extremely poor, and most of their reservation is a rough, unsettled place," she said. "They've got a big Mexican illegal-immigration and drug-smuggling problem. This isn't just a footnote, it's a huge deal. The seven Mesa tribes spent ten million last year on border problems."

  "Really?" I stopped undressing and looked over at her.

  "The Tohono reservation is a big place," she went on. "About the size of Connecticut. It spans a seventy-five-mile border with Mexico, 244

  and because its on both sides of the border, its become a billion-dollar-a-year smuggling corridor. I checked with our drug-enforcement guys downtown, and they know all about Tohono O odham. Homeland sends out briefing reports on it about once a month.

  "According to Captain Summerland, there are over a hundred and sixty crossing points. Thirty of those have no barriers at all. The coyotes are running drugs and braceros unchecked.

  "The Mexicans who are being smuggled in are so hungry and poor, they're looting everything the Indians own that isn't tied down. Stealing livestock and vehicles. Getting into gun fights with the Indian property owners. The tribal police are completely overrun with these shootings. According to Captain Summerland, it's the biggest corridor for illegal immigration and drugs in the U. S."

  I sat on the bed and looked at her. "So does the drug and immigration thing tie in to Pop's murder somehow, or is it just a coincidence?"

  "Aren't you the one who always says there are no coincidences in law enforcement?"

  "So what's going on then?"

  "I don't know. I called the main desk at the Talking Stick Hotel and Casino. I told them I was planning to come there on my vacation but was concerned because I'd read on the Internet that there were gunfights taking place between Indian landowners and smugglers. They assured me that the Talking Stick Resort is walled off and totally safe.

  "The reservation has built a nine-foot-high barrier all the way around the two-hundred-acre hotel and golf course. The resort is heavily patrolled, and there are absolutely no guns allowed on the premises."

  "Does that include us?"

  "I think so. I asked, and she said no exceptions."

  I sat there for a long moment, trying to absorb it.

  "Drugs," I said softly, trying to get that to somehow jibe. How did a mill ion-dollar embezzlement at Huntington House that led to Walt's murder also link to a billion-dollar drug corridor on an Arizona Indian reservation? I couldn't see the connection. My guess was, there wasn't one. But that didn't change the fact that, if I wanted to bust O'Shea, I had to go there. Making that arrest without jurisdiction on Tohono O'odham land only made it about ten times more difficult.

  I finished getting undressed, then got into bed. Alexa joined me, and we turned off the lights.

  "This doesn't feel right, does it?" she finally said in the dark.

  "No," I said softly. "It doesn't."

  As I lay there I kept turning it over in my mind. E. C. Mesa's connection to Pop's murder had always bothered me. I had other questions as well. Why would a rich, influential guy who buys and sells companies entertain himself with such a violent hobby as MMA fighting? Of course, there was nothing that said a multimillionaire couldn't have a fascination with combat arts, but nonetheless, it felt strange that he was hanging with O'Shea and Calabro and all the other thugs in that gym.

  I also wondered why he was arranging challenge matches for his fight team two states away in Arizona, in a casino that sat on one of the biggest smuggling corridors on the U. S.-Mexican border. I didn't like where this seemed to be heading.

  Instead of answers I was just turning up more questions, which is never a good sign this late in an investigation.

  I finally forced my mind to stop dancing with it and tried to get some sleep. I was almost there when the bedside phone jangled. I rolled over and answered it.

  "Scully?" a familiar voice said.

  "Jack?"

  Alexa propped herself up and looked over at me.

  "Dude, we got trouble."

  "Tell me."

 
"I'm in Arizona . . ."

  "At the Talking Stick Casino?"

  There was a moment, then Jack said, "Yeah. How'd you know?"

  "I'm all-seeing. Talk to me, Jack."

  "I'm with Team Ultima. I'm their unofficial roadie or gofer or some damn thing. You owe me for this, dude. These guys are a buncha steroid-popping morons. It's like hanging with the Sasquatch 'lowel Snap team. They're here in Arizona training for an event match tomorrow.

  "At eight o'clock tonight I'm playing craps with a few of them in the casino and in walks Diamond Peterson. She's looking for O'Shea. He didn't come to Arizona with us so I didn't think he was here. But Chris called him 011 a cell, and ten minutes later in he walks.

  "Once he and Diamond hook up, they have a big screaming match. About as subtle as an inmate wedding. Security comes. It finally got calmed down, and O'Shea leaves with Diamond in tow. I don't know where he took her because I'm stuck getting beer and pretzels for these shitheads. I had to wait 'til they finally crashed half an hour ago so I could sneak away and call."

  "What is it?" Alexa asked.

  I covered the receiver with my left hand. "Jack's at the Talking Stick. Diamond just showed looking for O'Shea, who's also there. She may be in trouble."

  Alexa was out of bed and getting dressed before I finished the last sentence.

  "Okay, Jack. You got a number where I can call you back?"

  "I'm not giving you my fucking number. These guys are all over me. You call and they pick it up, I'm toast. Just take care of this. I'm not staying in the same place with most of them anyway cause there's not enough room. These fuckheads have me and Brian Bravo sleeping in a reservation trailer. A total shit hole. Here comes Calabro. Gotta go." And he hung up.

  I slammed down the receiver and started grabbing clothes. I still hadn't mastered getting dressed with one arm, so Alexa was way ahead of me.

  "You think Westfall and Faskin are in Tucson yet?" she asked.

  "I don't know. They should be, but I'm not sending those two donkeys in unsupervised."

  Alexa was completely dressed while I was still fumbling with the laces of my tennis shoes. I was having trouble getting all ten fingers to work together.