Stephen Cannell - The Pallbearers

It was a big, artfully lit building with a huge five-story center section that was designed in a modern pueblo theme. Two large hotel wings stretched out on each side of the main structure and contained the thousand or more rooms our driver, Arthur, had mentioned.

The hotel casino was modern with clean lines, but along the roof of the main building were architectural cement parapets with decorative wooden poles extending from them, reminiscent of an Indian sweat lodge. The resort was modern and aesthetically pleasing but with a definite tribal flavor.

In the center of the circular drive by the front entrance was a fountain with a large lit statue of an Indian chieftain holding a crooked talking stick high above his war bonnet as water cascaded down, splashing on his bronzed head and shoulders.

A billboard nearby announced, THE MAGIC OF CHRISS ANGEL IN THE TOHONO ROOM-MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY AND THE RAGE IN THE CAGE AT THE TALKING STICK EVENT CENTER 8:00 P. M. SATURDAY

We pulled to a stop and got out. While we were standing under the huge porte cochere waiting for Alexa to pay Arthur, an overly polite, heavyset man in a dark suit with Indian features approached.

"Welcome to the Talking Stick Hotel and Casino," he said. 'Tin Graham, your casino host. May I direct you inside or help you to find anything?"

"I think we'll just check in and get to bed," I said.

Alexa moved up to join us, and Graham led us to the registration desk.

The lobby was almost deserted at this hour, with only a few tables working in the adjoining casino.

There were four of us, so it was cheaper to rent a two-bedroom suite instead of three separate rooms. In order to avoid detection, we had already decided to take the suite under Seriana's name. She showed her ID, we were registered, and Alexa paid for one night in cash.

Because we had no luggage other than briefcases and purses, we followed a bellman, carrying our own gear down a first-floor hallway carpeted with a new, Indian-style patterned rug.

We stopped in front of 1477, which had a brass plaque that read: THE PINTQ SUITE

The bellman opened the room and showed us inside. I tipped him, then closed the door as he left.

The two-bedroom, ground-floor suite was done in desert-sand colors and furnished with expensive, plushly upholstered, Italian reproduction furniture.

"Not bad," Vicki said.

The others trooped out onto the patio, which adjoined the beautiful, semilit golf course, while I called the front desk and asked for Rick O'Shea's room. He wasn't registered. Neither was Diamond Peterson.

They refused to give me any information about Team Ultima, saying I should talk to the event center in the morning.

After I hung up, I went out on the patio to join the others.

I said, "It's almost four. We're not going to learn anything tonight. Let's get a few hours' sleep and start working on it at eight tomorrow."

"What about Diamond?" Vicki said.

Alexa said, "We won't find out anything tonight. Nobody's even up to talk to."

We selected our rooms, and I went to the writing desk, picked up the cordless phone, and set the wake-up call for 8:00 A. M.

After I finished, I replaced the phone next to the heavy leather folder that held the room-service menu and hotel literature.

On the folder's front cover, embossed in gold, I saw the same little logo of a mesa with a circle around it that I'd seen on the roof of the building on Wilshire Boulevard.

I picked up a brochure.

The Talking Stick Hotel and Casino was a Eugene C. Mesa resort.

It suddenly made a lot more sense. I now knew why Mesa brought this challenge match all the way out here. He was also getting a casino cut of the action.

After I showed the others, Seriana said we were bivouaced in enemy territory. There was nothing we could do to change it, so we went to bed.

I couldn't sleep. I was churned up with worry about Diamond, and the fact that E. C. Mesa was popping up everywhere.

I decided to wait until everybody else was asleep and go on a scouting mission. I wanted to get a better feel for this place.

Alexa and I had the main bedroom. Seriana shared the suite's second room with Vicki. When I finally heard Alexa's even, steady breathing, I got carefully out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and quietly dressed in the darkened living room.

I started by going back to the main desk. According to the room clerk, nobody named Sabas Vargas was registered. After the call from Jack telling me he was living in a reservation trailer, I didn't expect him to be registered either. He wasn't.

As long as I was up, I decided to take a look at the Talking Stick Event Center. To get there, I had to walk through the almost-empty casino. I made a slow tour of that glitzy gambling oasis, looking at the few people who were still playing, but saw no familiar faces.

The event center was on the west side of the casino, located in a large new annex. A big sign by the main entrance announced "The Rage in the Cage" later that night.

Six fighters from Team Spartacus were billed with their pictures along with six from Team Ultima. Rick O'Shea was not among them. Brian Bravo was listed in his place.

Since Alexa told me Brian was being cut from the fight club, it seemed strange he would be here, unless he was just acting as a placeholder for O'Shea.

The massive room was at least twice the size of two basketball courts, and at this time of night was completely empty. It was outfitted with fixed overhead lighting, a Jumbotron, and had state-of-the-art metal detectors at each entrance.

The event center had been cleverly designed with two second-story decks that ran all the way around the entire room. The floor seating could be moved to accommodate proscenium-arch productions for concerts and plays or to feature an arena-style configuration for sporting events.

I checked the seven exits and walked down a supply corridor that led to a concrete loading dock and staging area in the back of the annex. Band equipment and scenery could be loaded into the event room through this corridor.

After I had a pretty good idea of the layout, I still wasn't ready for bed. I found a place in the quiet lobby where I could think.

I still had Rick O'Shea's arrest warrant in my pocket. I had been intending to go to the tribal police and get them to help me serve it. However, now that I knew this whole resort was owned by E. C. Mesa, I wasn't sure that was such a hot idea anymore. Unless, that is, I could get an updated players' report.

I dug into my pocket with my left hand, got my cell phone, then dialed Sally Quinn.

"This better be fucking great, Shane," she said, obviously reading my name on her LCD screen.

"I need someone to give me the name of a cop I can trust with my life at the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation. It's just outside of Tucson."

"You need what?" her voice getting sharper as she came awake.

"I have a judge's warrant for a prime murder suspect, but my doer is friends with the guy who owns this resort. I don't want to ask the reservation cops for help serving the warrant only to have them give me up to the perp."

"How do you spell it? That Indian name."

I gave her the spelling.

"Call you right back."

I hung up and looked around at the lush decor of the casino and hotel lobby. This whole opulent resort was like a bad version of Escape from New York, walled off from the poverty and outlaws that surrounded it.

Then I remembered Alexa telling me that the Mesa Indians had spent millions of dollars on border issues last year. Since there are no coincidences in law enforcement, I wondered, how does a man named E. C. Mesa, who has a fascination for Indian motorcycles, own a lush resort on a Mesa Indian reservation right on the Southwest's main drug corridor?