'Excellent. Let's tell them I'm your fight manager and that you're looking to start a professional career and want to train here. We have to get to the guy in charge. The promoter. Once we're talking to him, I'll take it from there.'
Vargas didn't say anything because he had stopped talking to me.
I motioned to Seriana and she nodded, so I knocked on the wood door while the others took cover. After a moment, it was cracked open an inch. A huge black guy in workout sweats peered out at us.
'Yeah?' he said.
'Is this Gladiator School?' I asked. 'It's the right address, but there's no sign.'
'Yeah.'
'She's interested in training here.' I pointed at Seriana. 'I manage her. I think it's time for her to turn pro.'
'We're a private gym,' the man said, but he was smiling at Seriana. He liked what he saw. 'We only train current professionals,' he added.
'What's your name?' Seriana asked, giving him one of her rare smiles. He seemed to melt under it.
'Joe Hardwick.'
'Seriana Cotton. I'm trained in jujitsu, tae kwon do, and tai chi. I've had two amateur fights and won 'em both. Could I at least talk to somebody about a tryout?'
Joe Hardwick looked her over, more or less ignoring me. He wanted to let her in, but apparently there were rules he had to follow. 'Only team members are supposed to be in here. But okay, I guess you being a fighter makes it an exception. Come on in. Ill get Mr. Mingo.'
The Gladiator School was a slightly larger version of the NHB Center in downtown L. A. It had the same sweat-and-blood smell, the same bleak, overhead lighting and octagon fight ring.
There was one strange decorative note. Canvas mat covers from past cage bouts hung on the gym walls. Each bore the dried blood splatter from past contests. The Rorschach-like patterns of these old stains were memorialized by the felt-tip signatures of the combatants. Photos of various Gladiator School fighters who had performed in different events also hung on the walls.
I recognized two names from my earlier Internet research. Trent Subway and Jose Del Cristo. There was also a photo of Joe Hardwick on the wall. He was crouched in a fighting stance, bare knuckles in front of his face. His ring name was 'Hammerhead.'
There were six or seven fighters firing punches at heavy bags around the room. They were extremely dedicated, and none of them even paused their workouts to look at us when we entered.
'Stay here,' Joe said. 'I'll go get Mr. Mingo.' He turned and went through a door in the back.
'I hope I don't really have to audition,' Seriana said. 'I don't want to have to fight one of these goons.'
'Won't happen,' I said. 'So far we're doing great, but why don't you go hit one of those bags. Show 'em what you've got.'
Seriana, in her slacks and polo shirt, walked to a heavy bag a few feet away and unleashed a variety of strikes and kicks. She was quick and efficient as her blows rang out on the leather. Now one or two of the other fighters stopped their workouts and turned to watch.
A minute later a very skinny sixty-year-old man with bushy white hair came out of the back with Joe Hardwick. He was one of those stringy Italian guys who was brown as a tobacco leaf, wearing a green silk short- sleeved shirt. He moved with a brisk, kinetic stride. An unlit cigar was stuffed in the corner of his mouth, making him look like he belonged in a Rocky movie.
As he approached us, he removed the cigar, then rocked back on his heels. He looked at Seriana still working the heavy bag, then at me, taking in my cut forehead and broken arm.
'Okay, okay. I see she can hit. Tell her to stop,' the man said. Seriana quit punching the bag and turned to face us.
'This is Nate Mingo,' Joe said. 'He's the gym manager and our promoter.'
He made no move to shake hands. When you're doing a field interview you have to make on-the-fly judgments. From his scowl and defensive body language, I could tell that I was going to need some leverage to open him up.
Then I spotted what looked like several old, faded prison tattoos etched on his forearms. Like Jack's, the tats were done with handmade equipment, the drawings sketchy. The color was that same strange shade of blue-green ink the penal system uses.
'No matter how good she hits, this broad ain't gonna train in mv gym,' Mingo said. 'Go find someplace else.'
He started to turn away. I'd only spent an hour on the Internet and had very little background on this sport, but one of the things I'd read was that MMA TV events were sanctioned by the state. I was running out of time, so I took a shot.
'You guys fight on TV a lot, right?' I said. He turned back. 'Spike TV? I understand those fights are all sanctioned by the California State Gaming Commission.'
'Look, pal, I got things to do…'
'I know you're getting ready for an out-of-town fight. A challenge match with Team Ultima. That gonna be a sanctioned event?'
He studied me for a long moment before he said, 'You're a fucking cop, aren't you?'
If it had to go in that direction, I was ready. I pulled out my creds. Mingo examined them quickly then handed them back.
'I don't talk to cops.'
'You may want to adjust that,' I said, smiling. 'Where'd you do your time?'
'Go fuck yourself.'
I pointed to the tattoos on his arms. 'That's prison work. I can always run you, Nate, but it's gonna piss me off. You really wanta put me through that?'
'Soledad,' he snapped. 'It was twenty years back. I'm not on state paper anymore. My parole ran out nine years ago. Happy?'
'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.'
