Page 46 of The Right Garza
I shift along the seat to the edge and he helps me out, then shuts the door and hits the key fob to auto-lock.
“Is this one of those fights you can bet on?”
“No clue,” he answers.
“It would be cool if I could bet and make a quick grand,” I muse as we walk through the packed parking lot toward a dome-shaped building with orange and blue running lights.
“You like fast money, don’t you?”
I snort. “Anyone who claims they don’t is a filthy liar.”
We find Maggie at the entrance of the building chatting up two thick-necked bouncers. “Got your tags,” she says, waving them in the air.
Trent takes them and secures one of the plastic tags around my wrist before putting the other on his.
“Does Tripp know we’re coming?” I ask as we enter the building. A rush of noise assaults us, growing louder the further in we get.
“Don’t think so.”
Taking my hand, he tucks me to his side, which I’m grateful for because the crowd in here is thicker than the bouncers’ necks. A fight seems to be in session at the moment, as there are intermittent blasts of cheers mixed with boos along with echoing commentary.
“Is this one of those official kind of professional fights—like UFC—or is it a just-for-entertainment thing?”
“The latter.”
After a rough and bumpy navigation, we eventually make it to our section. A long stretch of space raised about two feet above normal level, sectioned off by a low gate and a guard that had to be at least 300 pounds. There are tables and chairs and only a scatter of patrons.
“V.I.P., baby!” Maggie exclaims over the noise. “Thanks for letting me get the good tickets, Trent, because down theredoes notlook fun.”
“Or safe,” I add, taking a seat at one of the small tables.
“Exactly why I don’t come to these things,” Trent complains as he moves to stand behind my chair, almost protectively.
A tall, tattooed man, the kind that looks like he could handle himself against a group of bandits in a dark alley, comes up to our table and asks us if we’re having beers. He’s wearing a shirt with the same logo that’s on the building outside and flipping an empty tray, so I assume he’s staff.
“Yes,please,” Maggie answers.
From behind me, Trent asks, “Bottles or cups?”
“Cups,” the man answers. “For your safety, we don’t serve the bottles.”
“In that case, bring the beers here, un-opened, along with the cups. We’ll open and pour, and you can take the bottles back. Heineken.”
Tall and Tattooed doesn’t like this idea, judging from his small scowl. “I don’t think—”
“That’s what works for us,” Trent curtails. “Otherwise, no beers.”
With a tight smile, the man turns and leaves.
I twist in my chair to glare up at Trent. “Controlling much?”
He gives me a bored blink. “Think you’d know by now not to drink anything that wasn’t open and poured in front of you.”
For Pete’s sake. “What do think they do to the beers here, Trent?”
“I’d rather not find out.”
Maggie and I give up hope on getting boozed-up, thanks to Mr. Killjoy, and focus on the fight instead. We didn’t expect Tall and Tattooed to return, so we’re shocked when he actually does with a tray holding three Heinekens and three plastic cups, though he seems none too pleased about it.
