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Authors: Liberty Thunderbolt,Zac Robinson

Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One) (5 page)

BOOK: Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One)
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Chapter 11

M
arshall Weathers was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and blue jeans that were masked by a grubby white apron. It had been his favorite attire for many years.

The music low and slow, a few regulars were perched in their regular spots, sipping beer, blowing swirling torrents of smoke in the air, throwing darts, the usual stuff that regulars do.

With a worn rag to match his apron, Marshall made lazy circles on the already clean Oak bar top. He joked that his bald head was brown not because of his ethnicity or even the Nevada sun, but from the two dim tavern lights that tossed a ringed glow on each corner of the Oak. “Stand under these low-shine lights all day every day and your head will turn dark like mine,” he’d tell his regulars with a laugh.

This place was his life. He figured there was more out there in the big world, but he didn’t need to see it. The ex-linebacker turned bar owner gazed at one of the TV screens,
SportsCenter
was on with the sound turned down, he read some of the sub-titles and blanked out on the rest. The black door rattled open announcing the presence of a new face. As usual, it turned out to be a familiar one.

The burly man was in his early fifties, but time hadn’t been good to him. He walked with a limp as if his legs strained to carry his two hundred or so pounds, and his dome was quickly reaching Marshall’s state of hairlessness. His face heavy, his jaw and chin round, his eyes dark brown, and in the center of it all was a flat, bent nose. He offered a weary smile, nodded to his bar acquaintances, and hobbled toward his seat.

The man slipped onto his stool. Marshall slid him a beer and they shook hands. Marshall actually knew his full name, Teddy “Bear” Haynes. Most people simply called him Bear, and that was how he wanted it. He’d gotten the nickname from a couple punks his dad was training when he was a kid. He hated it from the start, especially when his old man, Jack “Hammer” Haynes, laughed and thought it was fitting.

Marshall remembered the night Bear told him the story. “All I wanted was to fight like my pops,” he’d said, “I gave everything I had to do that, but I was cursed with slow feet and hands and ended up with a crappy nickname too. It hurt me deep, especially when he continued to distance himself from me. He treated the better boxers like they were his sons and it tore me up.”

Bear had about 14 beers in him when he told Marshall the story, and after three big gulps he already had one in him on this night. He sighed then wiped the corner of his mouth. “How’s my two thousand dollar savior been doing?”

“About thirty years older and thirty pounds heavier than I was back then,” Marshall said.

“Yeah, 1984 was a long time ago, but I swear I remember that hit like it was yesterday. And then you recovered the fumble...fucking beautiful, Marshall.”

Bear was talking about a fumble Marshall caused that didn’t even necessarily save the game, but it ensured UNLV beat the point spread. Marshall knew that Bear wasn’t even supposed to be betting on the team because its hometown was Las Vegas, but growing up the son of a prize fighter in the city of sin made a lot of things possible, not all of them good.

Marshall slid his buddy another cold one and Bear leaned forward to check the marks on the post. “No new tourists in the last couple days?”

“Nope, just the regulars.”

Marshall’s Tavern was only a few minutes from Show Vegas, as Marshall liked to call it, but it didn’t see too many tourists. All they had to do was head East on Flamingo past UNLV, past the Desert Springs Hospital, and then under the Las Vegas Expressway until they found South Nellis Boulevard. After a left they just had to get by an old RV Park before arriving at the rundown strip mall that had seen its heyday right along with Marshall in the early 80s. The little bar served as the joint in the L-shaped building. It was flanked by a hardware store on one side and an empty space on the other.

Tourists had made it to Marshall’s only nine times in all his years. He knew the exact dates because they were etched into the pole that Bear had just gotten done looking at. The man took a much smaller gulp of his second beer. “Why do you still have that clipping up?” he nodded to the yellowed paper next to the tourist dates.

It was an article about the ’84 season, and Marshall had highlighted his old coach’s words. “We had great kids. Some became doctors, some lawyers, and some police lieutenants.” He also highlighted the part that read, “There are always going to be a few who don’t take advantage of the opportunity you give them.”

“I don’t know. Reminds me of those days I guess.” He didn’t think Bear would understand that it was really because it reminded him that it could be better and it could be worse. His life in the middle was fine with him.

“Reminds me that I loved you before I ever knew you thanks to that fumble recovery,” Bear said.

Marshall smiled and nodded, then wiped a wet spot off the bar.

The men continued to visit and Bear downed one cold draft after another. The few regulars headed back to reality and before long only the two friends remained. It was straight up three o’clock in the morning when Marshall turned all the televisions to the Canadian Fight Network. They were the only ones showing Courage and Heart Fighting Championships in Seoul, Korea. Luckily for Bear his two thousand dollar savior had a satellite that caught more sports action than just about all the big casino sports books. Marshall enjoyed cagefighting, or as Bear called it, mixed martial arts. But it was Bear who had much more than a passing interest, and as any good bar owner did Marshall catered to his best client.

“I’m surprised you didn’t fly out to Korea, Bear.”

“It’s something like a twelve hour flight, and expensive as hell.”

The men watched the first televised fight, an early armbar finish. Then a Brazilian and a Russian threw hands for only nineteen seconds because the Russian knocked the Brazilian out cold.

Rodrigo Cortez was next. Bear knew him personally and watched with interest as he had no problems taking care of Chu.

Bear perked up as he watched Brooke Simms throttle her opponent. More than once Marshall said, “Damn, she can mount me any day.” And after it was all over he said, “I’d love for her to rear naked choke me!”

“You’re lucky she’s on the other side of the world,” Bear said. “If she heard you she’d probably kick your ass up and down Nellis Boulevard.”

“I’ve got a hundred pounds on her, I could take her easy,” Marshall said as he slapped his slightly rounding belly.

Both men moved to the edge of their stools when Tristan Holmes sprang into action. He was Bear’s bread and butter. A loss would be demoralizing in more ways than one. It didn’t take long though for the crooked-nosed Bear to breathe a sigh of relief, Holmes handled his business with a fair amount of ease.

Bear looked at the clock, 4:38 AM, which meant the swing fight would be shown. He was tired and debated whether to get an extra twenty minutes of sleep or drink another beer.

He chose the beer and watched as the fight from earlier in the night showed a handsome nervous looking kid named Bretten “Minuteman” Maris walk to the ring with an already taped up Rodrigo Cortez. “This rookie looks a little out of his league,” Bear said. “Cho is going to beat him down.”

“Yeah and what’s with that stupid nickname, seems it can only be associated with bad experiences, especially when screwing.”

Both men laughed at the remark, but they weren’t laughing over the next fifteen minutes as they watched one of the gutsiest and most entertaining fights ever. Bear had not been interested in the Maris/Cho fight. He stayed to watch thanks to laziness. He was already on the stool and another beer was better than lumbering to his car. After the bout he was ecstatic with his lazy self. He thought just maybe he’d found a diamond in the rough in the form of Bretten Maris, and maybe this diamond could make him a lot more than two thousand dollars one day.

Chapter 12

D
etective Westingham stretched his long arm out over the sea of files, papers, and the donut-crumb-riddled keyboard and dropped the receiver back in its place. He then glanced down at the photo one more time. It was the one he’d first looked at almost six months ago, Nick Maris dead in the sun a hundred yards off highway 93.

He’d just gotten off the phone with Maris’ mother. He didn’t really have to call her, but felt it was right. The case was still open and he wanted her to know that he had not forgotten about her or her son. He hated making these calls, so much so that he didn’t even imagine using his Humphrey Bogart voice this time.

He took his eyes off the photo of Maris and settled them on another young man. This picture was much more recent. Raydell Richardson had been found about 30 miles to the southwest of Maris, just off the 165 by Eldorado Mountain. There wasn’t much out there except dirt and brush. Raydell, or Ray as his friends called him, seemed like a rough character. He was well over six feet tall and his arms looked like tattoo-covered pythons hanging from rounded shoulders, but he didn’t have a rap sheet. As a matter of fact, other than drinking a little too much on the weekends and trying his luck at the Craps table a little too often Ray didn’t seem to have any real vices.

Of course Westingham had just met Ray days ago, so more vices might turn up. Earlier in the day he’d made the drive down south for the second time. He walked around the scene, hands in pockets, long slow strides as his coat flapped in the dirty breeze. Ray had been beaten up real good and stabbed in the leg. It seemed he got away for a spell. He made it a hundred yards or so before collapsing.

After that it looked as if one of his killers stayed back a few steps while the other choked Ray to death with a belt. Oddly enough, the man who stayed back a few feet had been shuffling his feet backwards.

Nick Maris and Ray Richardson didn’t seem to have much in common. They were about the same age and physically imposing, but didn’t run in the same circles. It wasn’t the victims, but the way they had been killed that got Westingham thinking. Obviously they’d both been killed by two strong men who liked to pull their chairs right up to death’s table and dig in. They were both strangled and they weren’t found too far apart. Not a lot of similarities, but enough that it tickled Westingham’s brain.

He compared both crime scenes and came up cold. Raydell wasn’t driving a car like Nick Maris was. The killers apparently drove him to his death. The same shoe print was found at each scene, and that was a thin thread that tied the murders together. Unfortunately it was the only thread.

Westingham noted to look for any connections at all between Maris and Richardson. Even a sliver might lead to these two unknown killers. That is if there were just two killers and not four.

Chapter 13

T
wo weeks after Courage and Heart Fighting Championships Bretten was mostly healed. He’d spent the last week training hard, like a lackadaisical college student who crams because he is smashed in the face with the reality that semester exams are in three short days.

No more time to cram. Bretten’s beat up Chrysler Le Baron whizzed past a large wooden sign that read in faded letters:
Enid
Home of Vance Air Force Base. He glanced to his right and said, “2714 East Grand right?”

Just beyond the sign, the road rose from the ground to make way for trains. The Chrysler crested the overpass and the flat landscape of Enid came into view. Rodrigo said, “Yep, 2714. Our new town, bro.”

On the way up from Oklahoma City, where Bretten picked Rodrigo up the night before, Bretten told Rodrigo about his brother, Nick. It had been almost half a year, but it was still hard to talk about. Bretten’s mom had told him that the detective called to say the case was still open, but he wasn’t hopeful. Bretten wanted the killers found, wanted to confront them and throttle them like he throttled Bobby Baker and the others.

Rodrigo listened like he’d been Bretten’s friend for much longer than a couple weeks. He didn’t ask questions and when the time was right he simply said, “I’m sorry.”

Bretten could tell he meant it, and he appreciated it. He thought of this opportunity and wondered if it would give him a chance to start getting over his brother’s murder. If he could train at a topnotch school then maybe he could really make a go of this mixed martial arts thing.

Now with the Chrysler on the down slope of the overpass Rodrigo continued. “Hope they’ve got some good eats. I’m starving.”

“I might be too nervous for food,” Bretten said, “but Whit told us to be there at eleven. We’ve got almost an hour.”

“I doubt we will have to train today, probably just get settled, but if we do train we don’t want full stomachs...what am I saying, let’s eat,” Rodrigo said.

They headed north on Van Buren and came to what appeared to be another main street, Owen K. Garriot. “It says we go straight for four more lights then make a right, three blocks and we can’t miss it.”

On the way they spotted a Taco Mayo and whipped into the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later the full-bellied fighters circled around a ramshackle old building. If the strip mall that housed
Marshall’s Tavern
in Las Vegas had seen its glory days in the 80s, this place was easily its grandfather. The structure was erected long before the term strip mall became part of the vernacular.

In the 50s it had probably been a bustling stretch with the five or six shops alive with smiling salesman. Now though, its red bricks were faded to orange. The windows that once displayed shoes, hats, or who knows what else, were now dressed in such a dark tint that not even the most curious could see through them. The northernmost door was decorated with a simple white arrow that beckoned any intruders to keep heading south. The next entrance displayed a similar arrow, and so did the next two. Finally, the southernmost door invited entry with a little sign that read, Whit’s Gym Mixed Martial Arts.

“This place looks like a dump,” Rodrigo said.

“Yeah, look at the door, nothing about Whit being a champion fighter, nothing about some of the bad asses who train here.”

“And I don’t see any special deals for new customers either, just plain old Whit’s Gym.”

“Maybe anything more is unnecessary,” Bretten said. “And maybe he doesn’t want amateurs, just fools like us who are willing to do this for a living.”

All the parking places were filled, so Bretten cranked the wheel to the right around the building and into the alleyway. The asphalt gave way to a thick gray paste, a mixture of gravel, dirt and rain water. The car found a giant pothole that rattled both men.

They crept past two parked cars and then five gigantic tractor tires neatly lined up end to end, and found an opening against the orange-red brick.

Bretten shut off the engine and took a steadying breath. “You ready to do this?”

“Real knowledge is in the root. That’s where there’s depth. The branches are superficial.”

“Let me guess, Bruce Lee.”

“Of course, at least my own version of him. But think about it. In this dilapidated old building we can find the root, real knowledge, we can become so much more, so much better fighters than we are now.”

Bretten pushed open his car door, “The root...either we find it or get chopped to the ground in the process.”

“Either way it will be an adventure dude.”

* * *

Bags in hand, they walked past the huge tires and dodged rain-filled pot holes along the way. The back entrance was an oversized metal door, propped open a smidge by a rock. The fighters planned on walking around to the front, but just above a head-sized indention, stenciled in faded green, was
Fighters Only
.

Rodrigo imagined a great back alley fight in which Whit slammed an unruly fighter’s head into the door. Bretten’s imagination flashed to a distraught fighter bashing his fist into it and creating the dent and a broken hand at the same time. Nothing as spectacular happened. Two years ago the guy delivering the tractor tires got a little sideways in the narrow alley and backed the flatbed into the door.

Rodrigo pushed open the imagination-instigating metal. It swung freely for a foot, caught on the floor, scraped indignantly, and then broke free with a little more coaxing. The young men were in a hallway. Warm air and the sound of heavy bags being hit, sparring, weights clanging, and the faint smell of sweat and leather smacked them in the faces

Bretten closed the door and they walked down the hallway. The first opening on the left was a tiny bathroom. The second was an office, a single occupant sat behind a desk mashing his fingertips into a keyboard. The slender man showed a head of tight gray curls, his neck long, Adam’s apple large and surrounded by hundreds of tiny creases. He wore a plaid shirt, its wrinkles matched his neck, and a light film of sweat covered his dark complexion. He looked up at them. “Cortez and Maris?”

Rodrigo and Bretten nodded accordingly. “Yes sir,” Bretten said.

“I’m Doc, gym manager. Head down the hall and make a left, go past the locker room and you’ll see the gym on the right. Whit’s probably at the cage.”

They thanked Doc and he went back to typing before the two had a chance to start off. As they reached the first turn they heard him yell in an excited, crackled voice, “Gauntlet!”

Both men raised their eyebrows at each other and pushed past the locker rooms into the gym, “What the hell? Is that old man psycho?” Bretten said.

Rodrigo just shrugged as they took in the gym. Stretched before them sat a giant state of the art training center that was masked beautifully by the building’s facade. Lines of long Thai heavy bags, tear drop heavy bags, body snatcher bags, double end and speed bags all hung from the ceiling. Three men snapped punches, kicks, elbows, and knees into their bags.

Along the back wall a line of red, blue, and black grappling dummies stood at soldier-like attention appearing to guard over an open span of matted flooring. At the time only two sweat-caked men rolled on the mat with another looking on, but it had room for twenty to wrestle comfortably.

Bretten and Rodrigo nodded to the three men as they walked between them and the dummy soldiers. Rodrigo leaned over to Bretten. “That’s Bobby Newcomb and Darnell Woods on the mat.”

Newcomb, as white as sunshine with a thick jaw covered by a scruffy blonde beard, was the former UCC heavyweight champion. The young light heavyweight Woods’ skin tone was the opposite of Newcomb’s, and his thick arms spilled out of his drenched shirt. He was only a victory or two away from vying for the UCC belt.

A sense of excitement burst from Bretten’s chest and poured over his whole body. “I can’t believe it dude. I barely started fighting and now I’m going to be training under the same roof as these guys. Guys I’ve watched on TV for years.”

Rodrigo heard the tension in Bretten’s voice. “Remember, we are like water, here to find the root. We are walking the path just like them.”

“Damn Cortez, between all the water and roots I don’t know if I’m a fighter or a gardener.”

Rodrigo laughed and then jabbed Bretten in the side. On their way to the full-sized cage they walked past a full-sized boxing ring where a man shadow boxed. The cage was obviously the current focal point. Two men were sparring, two more were inside the fence shouting instructions, and a couple others were watching from the outside.

Beyond the cage sat a row of treadmills, bikes, and elliptical gliders, and beyond those an array of benches, dumbbells, and weight equipment stood sentinel over four large Olympic-style power racks. In one of those, Brooke Simms, clad in sweats, wrestling shoes, and a tight tank top was pulling 225 pounds off the floor with perfect dead lift form. Her taut back muscles and the way her hair fell over her neck as she lifted the weight was so sexy. Another girl stood behind her with hands on hips encouraging her to keep working. Bretten had the urge to head over to the weights, but he stood with Rodrigo and watched the action in the cage.

One of the men hollered, “Ten seconds,” and the fighters got in one last flurry. The coaches stepped in and instructed the fighters while the action was still fresh on their minds.

Bretten glanced over at Brooke. The girls had noticed them and Bretten caught Brooke eyeing him furtively as she said something to her friend. Whit then looked over and saw his two new recruits. He headed out the cage door and walked over. “What’s up pups? Glad you decided to give it a shot.”

Bretten and Rodrigo responded with their own appreciation for the opportunity.

“I see you guys brought your gear. We’re about done with the session so why don’t you two get changed out? Doc hooked you up with a couple lockers in the pro section of the locker room.”

Both turned to head back to the locker room. A voice bellowed, “Gauntlet!”

And then another, “Gauntlet!”

Whit said to the fighters around the cage, “Get finished up then set up the gauntlet.”

“What the hell is the gauntlet?” Bretten whispered to Rodrigo.

“I’ve heard about it, some kind of workout to prove our worth as fighters. It’s supposed to be hell, but it can’t be too bad though.”

“You knew about this?” Bretten said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t think it was too important, besides I thought it was just a myth. I didn’t want to get your worrying ass all worked up for nothing.”

“If we make it through this, I’m going to kick the crap out of you Rodrigo.”

“You know you still love me, just remember to be like water and find the root young grasshoppah,” Rodrigo said.

“Now a grasshopper too, I’d definitely rather be gardening right now.”

The grasshopper reference was from the 70s television series, Kung Fu, starring David Carradine as Caine. Rodrigo knew every episode by heart and heard Master Po call Caine grasshoppah on numerous occasions. “It is grasshoppah, Maris, grasshoppah.”

The men passed the last of the grappling dummies and former UCC Heavyweight champion Bobby Newcomb stood up, spread his muscular arms, crunched his fists, arched his back until he glared at the ceiling, and howled at the top of his lungs. “Gauntlet!”

The gym exploded. The men in the cage shook it violently and joined in with the prolonged howl, even the cute girl reading a magazine at the front desk let out a little howl of her own.

BOOK: Caged Love: MMA Contemporary Suspense (Book One)
5.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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