The Pallbearers

Chapter 35

The party broke up a little past 2:00 A. M. Men and women started coming off the front porch. I saw Rick O'Shea exit. He had a pretty dark-haired girl in a Hooters T-shirt clinging to his arm. They got into his Escalade, and he revved the engine like a teenager before slamming it into gear and squealing away from the curb.

The partygoers were streaming out of the house, heading to their vehicles. Motorcycles and old cars with dented fenders started firing up all over the street. Alexa and I ducked down as they roared past. I noticed they all turned east at the end of the block.

I pulled my head up and spotted the short, middle-aged man with the hair plugs who had been out by the pool in Jack's video leaving the house with Chris Calabro. E. C. Mesa.

He looked slightly ridiculous the way he was dressed. A clumpy, middle-aged guy with obvious hair implants wearing a too-tight biker jacket, torn jeans, and three-inch Cuban-heeled boots. He and Calabro got on the last two Indian motorcycles and racked the starters.

Jack exited the house a few feet behind them, mounted his Harley, and jumped down on his starter. The two Indians roared across the lawn and bounced over the curb, with Jack just a few yards behind.

I ducked down quickly, but Jack saw me. A big, slimy lugie gobbed onto our side window as he roared passed.

"Thanks, Jack." I turned to Alexa and said, "Let s go."

"Where?"

"Everybody turned east at the end of the block. I'm no mathematician, but that defies even my meager understanding of the law of probability. Gotta all be going to the same place. The party ain't over yet."

Alexa put the car in gear and swung a U-turn. When we got to Alameda Street, everyone was about three blocks ahead just making a left. I could see the taillight of Jack's trailing Harley as it made the turn.

We hurried to catch up. Either Alexa was closing the gap or Jack's Harley was slowing, because as we sped down Alameda and made the next left, I could see we were much closer. It was soon obvious that Jack was deliberately dropping back. I rolled down the window as we came alongside.

"Get out of here, Scully!" he shouted over the roar of his engine.

"You're under arrest!" I yelled back.

Jack shook his head in disgust, then powered ahead.

We followed the party as it turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, heading east, and crossed the Los Angeles River into the coastal town of Signal Hill.

We continued along the PCH into Long Beach and were soon in a run-down industrial section of town a few blocks from the San Gabriel River. Up ahead the motorcycles and cars were turning into the parking lot of a big, wooden, red barn-shaped building. As we neared, I could read the neon-lit sign on the roof:

HAYLOFT BAR amp; NIGHTCLUB

The parking lot was about half full of cars and a smattering of Harley choppers. The party crowd we'd been following all pulled in and began backing and filling in the gravel lot, sending up clouds of dust that reflected in everybody's headlights.

As we rolled past, I heard car doors slamming and saw the tough-looking men from Avalon Terrace, along with their dates, walking toward a barn-sized front door. Alexa and I came to a stop a block past the club.

As soon as she parked, Alexa leaned across me to rummage in the glove box, quickly pulling out the little palm-sized Beretta Bobcat. Then she grabbed a box of. 25 caliber ammo from a hiding place I hadn't found under her seat and began thumbing cartridges into the clip.

"Don't go all Jane Wayne on me," I said, watching her load the gun, then slam the clip home.

"Hey, pilgrim, I know how you plan your work. I'm going in there with you."

"Let's just settle down for a minute and talk this over."

"You talk it over." She got out of the BMW and headed up the street toward the parking lot.

"Shit," I said, and scrambled out after her.

We knelt behind some bushes a hundred yards from the Hayloft. It was now two thirty in the morning, and according to California law, the nightclub should have already been closed.

Then, as we watched, the neon sign on the roof flickered off. We could still hear the distant sound of a crowd cheering loudly.

"What on earth are they doing in there?" Alexa said.

"Underground fight."

"I'm sorry?"

"I read up on this stuff on the Internet before you got home. The younger, upcoming MMA fighters start their careers in unsanctioned bare-knuckle events. They're known as underground fights and they take place in gyms or bars after hours. Lots of MMA fighters, including Rampage Jackson, the ex-champ, got their start like that."

"A bar fight?" She looked at me. "I gotta see this." She started to rise.

I grabbed her arm. "Get back here."

She shook me off, then pulled her shirt out, unbuttoned the bottom, hiked it up, and knotted it. Of course, she's already a ten, but in navel-baring mode, she was a twelve.

"Alexa, I forbid this."

"I'm your boss, dummkopf."

Man, do I love this hard-headed woman.

"Okay, okay. Then at least let's get a plan of action."

"I already got it. The putz with the hair plugs has gotta be E. C. Mesa. I'm gonna seduce that little gnome. Take his temperature."

"Okay, that's not bad. You target him and see what you can find out. I'll be close by." I pulled out my Taurus snubbie. Alexa frowned at the light, magnesium-framed. 38.

"We're better off not pulling these two little pop guns. They could die laughing. Put it away. I know how to do this." As I reholstered, she stuck the Bobcat down into her boot, then pulled her pant leg over it.

"Ready?" she asked.

"If something happens to you, I will start a riot. So be careful."

"Shane, I ran the Patrol Division in Southwest for eighteen months. Thats the toughest division in the city. Stop mothering me"

Then she headed straight across the gravel lot toward the front door of the Hayloft.