The Pallbearers

Chapter 33

While I waited for Alexa to get home, I spent an hour on the computer researching MMA fighting.

She arrived at a little past six. After I showed her what Jack had left in our mailbox and informed her that the plate on the Rolls checked back to Eugene C. Mesa, I poured each of us a scotch, and we settled into our chairs in the backyard to deal with it.

"Fucking Straw," I vented. "How do I get a leash on that guy?"

"Better question is, What does it all mean?" Alexa countered.

"That cigar-box board is a classic-an antique, the kind Duke Kahanamoku rode in the nineteen thirties in Hawaii. Nobody surfs on those anymore. As far as I'm concerned, it's no coincidence that thing turns up in Mesa's garage."

"If nobody rides one, then why on earth would he have it?" she asked.

"I've been mulling that, and the only thing I can come up with is maybe E. G. Mesa used to surf with Pop. I remember when I was a kid all kinds of random guys used to show up on that beach. Walt adopted everyone. Lotta people wanted to try and ride his rhino. Usually one wave convinced them to give it up. But maybe Walt showed Mesa how to use that oversized log, and, like Pop, he somehow got into it."

"And maybe, that's the connection between Creative Solutions and the Mesa Group," Alexa offered. "Eugene Mesa and Pop became surf buddies and later, when Pop needs money, E. C. sets up Creative Solutions to take over when Pop can't carry the financial pressure of Huntington House by himself anymore."

I nodded. "Yeah, maybe." It still didn't feel quite right, but who knows?

As we sat and sipped our drinks, Alexa kept peeking over, checking me out. She was still worried about the effect all of this was having on me. But I was through my depressed, sentimental period. I was now just kick-ass angry. I wanted to get whoever did this to Pop. The idea that they might have also framed him as a thief made me even madder.

"We still don't know what ties all these MMA fighters into this," I said, thinking out loud.

"Maybe this will help," Alexa ventured. She opened her slim wafer briefcase and pulled out a handwritten sheet with forty license plate numbers on it.

"These are the cars that Seriana and I found parked outside the nonprofit offices we visited. A lot of them probably were just using the lot and have nothing to do with this. We're gonna have to run them all, then check the names against that Rolodex that Jack stole and see who matches up."

It was a big job. We decided to skip dinner and our second drink and get right to it. The RTO on the horseshoe in the communications center began sounding frustrated with us as we kept reading off new plates for her to run.

"Damn good thing I'm a division commander," Alexa said, grinning, during one of our breaks.

I was jotting down names and addresses on index cards and began to notice the same address-1386 Avalon Terrace, Wilmington-kept showing up a lot. When I finished alphabetizing the cards, we began going through the gym Rolodex, looking for matches, eliminating the other names.

Here's what we ended up with.

Besides Rick O'Shea, who was the executive director of Creative Solutions and lived in a million-dollar house in Calabasas, and Christian Calabro, who held the same position at Bridge to Tomorrow and lived in North Hollywood, four of the remaining matches were also listed as living at 1386 Avalon Terrace in Wilmington.

They included the executive director of Hopeful Journey, Raymond "Stingray" Jackson, and Dane Vanderheiden, "The Striking Viking," who ran the nonprofit in Torrance.

There was someone named Jason Scott, a new name that I hadn't come across before. He was listed as running Life Promise. The last name was Gary White, referred to at NHB as "The Great" White. He was the director of Pure Emotions.

"Okay, so that gym is the nexus," Alexa said. "Wonder why?"

I pickcd up the phone in the den and called Vicki Lavicki. She answered on the first ring.

"Lavicki," she half shouted into the receiver. Her voice nearly split my eardrum. The woman had not one ounce of social rhythm or personal subtlety.

"How you coming with the computer run on No Holds Barred?" I asked.

"It's a small private gym," she said. "Basically, a fight club. Eight guys on the roster. They're managed by something called Team Ultima, Inc., which is also the name of the corporation that owns the gym.

"The address for Team Ultima is a post-office box in Delaware.

I'm trying to get the list of directors, but because Delaware is a tax haven, their corporations are tough to penetrate and it's gonna take some time.

"Also, I've been trying to catch up on this MMA phenomena. I've read some recent Internet stories that say some of these fighters at Team Ultima are starting to show up in televised events on Spike TV and are getting some pretty big purses. Six figures and up. O'Shea and Calabro seem to be the gym's two big stars."

I read Vicki the names that Alexa and I had culled from the pilfered Rolodex.

Vicki said, "Yep. All of them plus two more. There's a guy called Brian Bravo and somebody named Ivan Tronhead' Brown."

I thanked her and hung up. Then Alexa and I ran Bravo and Brown through the Department of Motor Vehicles. They were also listed as living at that same address in Wilmington.

After we hung up, it was still early, only a little past ten in the evening.

"Whatta you suppose is at 1386 Avalon Terrace?" I asked Alexa.

"Guess we better go take a look," she answered.