Hard Case VI: The Killer Inside (John Harding Book 6) (5 page)

I made a gesture at the slate gray suit I wore at his behest. “I put on a suit and tie. Even Marla whistled at me when I came in. That prick Earl came out of the game room just so he could ask me if I was coming out of the closet. What the hell more do you want?”

“Watch your language too. I don’t want you saying anything that will get The Berserker looking for payback on fight night. Be nice.”

I gulped half of my Beam, relying on the hardcore brother to make Tommy’s nagging more palatable. Everyone in The Warehouse knew we were there to meet someone important because I never wear a suit. Tommy often does. He’s the business end of our meet and greet. My brothers here who wear the blue and the shield were giving me Godfather bows in deference to our Oaktown Cartel neighborhood wins. We were taking the heat off of them, which in this violent city run by some of the most chicken shit weasels in the country, they were glad to have help in any way it arrived. Marla smiled at me, and refilled the Beam.

“You look very nice, Godfather.”

“Thanks Marla, but I’m not the Godfather. I’m the Godfather’s pug.”

Marla patted my hand. “That’s right. I forgot. I heard some real tasty rumors about last night’s neighborhood witness protection action. Rumor has it you and Lynn reformed the 49
th
Street Mob. That girl! She has a baby in April, and here it is barely June, and already she’s knife fighting in the streets. When’s Al’s last day in school?”

“This coming week’s her last. She wants to work at Oakland Investigations with her Mom on and off during the summer. Her last soccer game was this afternoon. She’s a little burned out with the sports for the time being. I’m taking her and Lora to Pier 39 for clam chowder on the ferry after the business meeting.”

“That sounds wonderful. Did they win today?”

“No, but Al scored two goals, and Cruella Deville didn’t kill anyone so it was a good day.”

Marla enjoyed my Crue dig. Then her eyes widened. “Don’t you dare sign to fight this guy, Godfather. Do something with him, Tommy.”

“I tried, Mar,” Tommy said, as we turned to find out what spooked our bartender.

I chuckled. This is what comes of having so many events in life happening in clumps. I confess I don’t watch UFC fights except once in a while when the guys come to my house. They throw down a few while we watch a much publicized event. I’d never heard of The Berserker before Tommy mentioned him wanting me as a fill in. This guy was huge. The Warehouse Bar and Restaurant patrons all quieted at the sight of The Berserker. He dressed in all black for our meeting, a lot like we Oakland Cartel members dress with black slacks, pullover black shirt, and black leather jacket. Berserker ducked to go through the entryway. Almost white blonde hair cut very short with a slightly darker, well-trimmed quarter inch of beard, highlighted his darkly tanned face. He had Viking tats across his face like they do on that Viking TV show. Berserker looked like a Viking, and man, was he bloody wide.

Alexi Fiialkov looked like a dwarf next to him. His manager reminded me of the old fight promoter I constantly compare my arch enemy Ray Alexander to, Don King. He was big too, but looked puny next to his fighter. Berserker grinned at me. I gave him a little wave. I’ll tell you one thing, I could sure understand his opponent backing out of the fight. I don’t know if his scheduled opponent actually did get hurt in a training incident, but Berserker would be the opponent to get hurt in a training incident for. Alexi brought them to our end of the bar where we held court concerning matches and contracts.

“John Harding and Tommy Sands,” Alexi said. “I’d like you to meet Rutger Northman and Floyd Donner, his manager.”

We all shook hands without the sometimes distasteful addition of a competition to see who could squash a hand first.

“Thank you for taking this fight on such short notice, John,” Floyd Donner said with what sounded like real gratitude in his voice. “We had only a few more days before the fight would have been called off. It would have hurt the UFC in the Vegas venue for quite some time.”

“I saw ‘Rattler’ fight,” Berserker said in a heavily accented bass tone. It sounded like a Norwegian accent. “Very good fight. Floyd find out you fight in streets too. It would be bad for us if you get hurt before our match.”

He’s right. “I will be extra careful. I understand how important this fight is for you and the UFC. Truth be told, we have to fight other opponents to be ready in the Octagon for each other anyway. I do understand your point about needless injury though.”

“You kill friend of mine in Las Vegas.”

There was only one of those, and that’s a shocker. “Van Rankin was your friend? I didn’t think he had any friends.”

Rutger shrugged with a good natured grin. It made his Viking tats crinkle in the lighting. This guy looked like he should have a shield strapped across his shoulder while leaning on one of those broadswords. “Van and I train together in Europe. He was not always bad tempered big mouth. Alexi told me what Van said to you. That is bad business. I watched kill moment many times, John. You smiled when Van’s neck broke.”

“No… really?” Yeah… I probably did.

“It was very unfortunate,” Tommy broke in. “I studied the contract and we’re agreeable to the terms. The payout is very generous.”

“If we couldn’t get John to fight, we would have taken a big hit,” Floyd admitted. “You two look savvy enough to know even the top heavyweights are ducking Rutger, including your last UFC opponent: Rattler. My fighter hasn’t fought in six months because we couldn’t get a match with a ranked contender. We need this Vegas match to go on as scheduled. That’s why Rutger mentioned the so called tune-up fights you do on the side. Please don’t get hurt before Vegas.”

“I do have to make sure John is in shape to fight Rutger,” Tommy replied. “I can’t just have him show on fight night in one piece. He has to be in excellent physical condition for a fight with Rutger.”

“It not make difference,” Rutger said. “Be careful, John. Train hard, but be careful.”

Not make difference, huh? Well alrighty’ then. “I will take care of myself, Rutger.”

“We’re prepared to sign,” Tommy said. “I see you brought a briefcase, Floyd. Did you want to do it now?”

Floyd looked at his fighter and Ruger nodded. In a moment, Tommy had the contracts in hand. Once he made certain they were the same as he had been offered on line, we both signed. It was unusual to do this in a bar, but damn nice of them to come here to get it done. We offered to buy them dinner or a drink, but they were all business, which was a nice change from my last couple of contract dealings. I could tell Floyd was a lot like Tommy. We all shook hands once again without comment, and they left. Alexi seemed happiest of all, probably because he brought the participants together. All eyes in the bar watched The Berserker leave. Earl was the first to rush around from the game room with his partner ‘Rique right behind him.

“John. Don’t do this. You haven’t cleaned up Oakland for us yet. At least put off your octagon death until the gangs in the city have been pacified.”

He was smiling because Earl Taylor knew me. I didn’t listen to advice on my fight decisions so he and his partner ‘Rique Rodriguez would be ragging on me from now until after the fight. They were read in on my extracurricular activities for all Homeland Security problems. “Thanks for your concern, Earl. How’s the fallout from last night?”

“Not bad if a dangerous witness threatening gangbanger remains missing,” Earl whispered.

“I don’t believe that will be a problem.”

“So we’ve heard. Did you go bankrupt or something? There has to be another reason for you to be fighting that guy who was just here. I know. Tommy bet you the guy would relieve you of what little brain you have left twenty seconds after the fight starts, and you just have to prove him wrong, right?”

Tommy of course was enjoying Earl’s take on my fight reasoning. The truth of the matter for my hesitation to fire back was I didn’t have a good reason… damn it! After seeing Rutger, all I could think of was walking into the octagon to face him at the Mandalay Bay with the crowd noise deafening, and the big Viking crinkling his face tats at me. Explaining a passion like that for combat always sounds stupid, so I keep my mouth shut, and let them yuck it up about my derangement syndrome. Marla, in the meantime, walked over to refresh my Beam brother. It would be my last, because I had a nice buzz going, and a ferry trip ahead with my lovely wife and daughter.

“Can we leave it at the fact I like the Mandalay Bay?”

Earl clapped me on the shoulder. “Sure John. Are you going to keep challenging the gangs and playing in the Bay with Jaws’ cousins?”

“We’re planning to cut back on the gang assimilation unless something very ripe falls into our laps,” Tommy answered for me. “John has only been out of the Bay training for a couple weeks. Before that, he was in the greatest shape I’ve ever seen him. I gave him the retirement talk. He loves the whole gig from beginning to end in Vegas. The rest of us do too, except for watching him get his face rearranged.”

“Your face was beginning to return to normal after that Marko guy nearly blinded you,” ‘Rique porks me. “I’m surprised after your last adventure in stupid-land you’d be visiting again so soon afterwards.”

“We call it Idiot’s Island… not stupid-land. Keep talking ‘Rique and I’m going to get you a ticket.”

My threat drew appreciative laughter from our small group. The bar patrons, many of them Oakland PD who knew me, tossed out a number of verbal gems in relation to the Viking’s appearance. Jeff Furlong, one of the Oakland PD Blue approaches with a serious looking character wearing a turned around black jacket with a small square of white paper taped at the center front under his neck. He clasped his hands momentarily with head bowed slightly.

“I brought Father O’Shea with me to give you last rights, Dark Lord,” Jeff informs me.

The fake Father O’Shea makes the sign of the cross while mumbling something that sounded like last rights mangled in Latin. His performance entertained all within hearing. It dawned on me The Warehouse should start paying me on entertainment value. It seems lately I’ve been getting roasted every time I walk through the door. I stopped Marla from giving me a refill with a wave off.

“I’m done, Mar. I can’t take anymore abuse. First, I get a retirement speech from Tommy, then a Viking informs me it won’t matter how well I train because I don’t have a chance. Final insult comes in the form of a pathetically fake Padre giving me last rites in Latin so bad it sounded more like the theme song from the Mickey Mouse Club.”

“Don’t let Lora get a look at the Viking, Champ,” Marla cautioned. “If she gets curious about your opponent, stall her until she forgets what she asked.”

“I’ll be fine tonight. With the ferry ride, and Pier 39 sights and sounds, she won’t be laboring over the Viking question. Rutger was impressive. Those face tats were creepy good.”

“Get a good look at the Bay, DL,” Tommy joined in the Cheeseburger broil. “You’ll be right at home on Monday in the banana suit. God only knows what you’d have to do to beat Eric the Red.”

“Don’t give him any nicknames, T. His real name’s enough. How cool is Rutger Northman? Hey… if I get whupped, it will be by a real Viking.”

“Yeah, DL,” Tommy replied amidst our audience enjoyment of the one liners, “I’ll get that engraved on your tombstone – ‘Here lies the Dark Lord, beaten to a pulp by a thousand year old Viking. Go on. Get out of here, but remember what Marla said about keeping Lora in the dark concerning your opponent. That’s good advice.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but Lora and Al will be fine. I took on the Viking’s friend Van Rankin. Lora saw him and didn’t flinch. Maybe we need some positive thinking around here instead of organizing a burial detail every time I fight.”

“You’re right, DL,” Tommy agreed. “I’m positive that no amount of time in the Bay will keep you from sleeping with the fishes.”

“That’s just mean.”

* * *

On the ride to the Jack London Square Ferry Terminal I received the silent treatment. Lora and Al, until the ride, gave me one syllable answers for any question. Lora drove us in our new soccer mom SUV without comment. I thought maybe I had a couple too many Bud and Beam brothers, and Lora thought I was smoked. That was not the case, but I may have smelled like it even after brushing my teeth and gargling. They knew I’d be having a couple anyway because of going into the Bay, so I didn’t think my drinking led to the sounds of silence. Al ignored me with her i-thingy phone and earmuffs, probably listening to the great ‘Beeper’, which reminded me her blackmail terms time limit for no Justin Bieber jokes was over. It was a mystery I decided to let ferment while I still had a buzz from my time at The Warehouse. What good would come of verbal investigation to solve a mystery I was probably better off not knowing about. Lora, sensing by my silence I would not be playing detective at my own family roast, started the ball rolling.

“Al found some video clips of The Berserker. We were curious about the fighter you were meeting for a contract signing.”

Uh oh. At least I didn’t follow Tommy and Marla’s advice, playing ignorant. “How did he do in the video clips? I haven’t seen him fight yet.”

Al ripped her earmuffs off at my innocent question. “He’s a monster Viking, Dad, and you know it!”

I smiled over the seat at Al. “He does have a cool name and face tats. His real name is Rutger Northman. Is that cool or what?”