by Rex Burns
18
Salazar hung around for half an hour or so to watch Colonel Crush and Major Mayhem throw each other across the ring. Before he left, he reminded them that they had the potential to be the greatest tag team in the Western Hemisphere (and Japan, he said, where they could make a lot of money) if they listened to what he told them. The Colonel showed the Major the best way to land, not merely to avoid injury, but, more important, to get the biggest noise out of the ring’s deck and the strings of metal washers underneath. “Most decks are plywood set a couple inches above a metal frame. That way, when you hit, you get some bounce and the washers make a lot of noise.” The Colonel demonstrated the proper form for knee drops—“Take up the weight with your own heel, see? Like this”; the clothesline—“You don’t do anything, just stick your arm out and let me run into it”; the forehead butt—“This one’s kind of tricky. It’s all in where you put your hands and thumbs, and you don’t want to mess up unless you really want to hurt somebody.” He coached Raiford through other moves, first slowly and alone, then faster, until finally he joined Raiford and they went through them like the intricate steps of a folk dance.
After a lesson on some of the more universal hand signals that told the opponent what throw to expect, they combined the gesture and its move. A series of routines varied the throws until Raiford had them reflexively memorized and both men were sweating heavily.
“Next time,” the Colonel said, gasping for breath as they hung on the top rope, “we’ll work on high spots—flying scissor kick off the top rope and such.”
“I can’t … wait.”
“Hey, we’re just getting started. We got finishing moves, too. Like the Power Bomb. You really got to sell finishing moves because they, you know, finish off your opponent. They really got to look good. And you’ll want to wear a wristband—that’s where you hide your razor. Some people use their belt or the top of their boot. But the place I like is in here along the back of my arm. I don’t want it cutting any veins if my wrist gets bent down hard.”
“A razor? You mean like in razor blade?”
“Yeah. For juice.”
The Major, still panting, pushed himself off the rope. “Maybe you better explain that a little.”
The Colonel ran his fingertip across the purple nicks on his forehead just below the hairline. “Blood. Fans go nuts when they see real blood. You set it up so the other guy gets the audience’s attention, you know, he argues with the ref or screams at some fan. Then you juice a little like this.” He put both hands up to his face as if reeling with pain. The Major watched two of the colonel’s fingers slip under the wristband and then wipe quickly across his forehead. “That quick. It’ll sting at first. You got to cut deep at first until you get some scar tissue built up. Then you hardly feel it and it bleeds easier, too.”
“Juice.”
“Yeah. Scalp cuts, they bleed like mad. After a while, a little nick and you got all the juice you need. But you don’t want to do it too much. Just for the special treats, you know?”
“I’ll remember that.”
“We can work it into our routine after a while. But first we’ll be doing mostly prelims. Developing the audience for the bigger matches later on. That’s where the card builds up to the juice. Every thing on the card is timing for the story line.” The Colonel grinned, teeth large and uneven beneath his mustaches. “No premature juicing, you know what I mean?” They climbed wearily out of the ring. Dark stains of sweat marking their tights. “But, hey, you learn real fast—you’re a good athlete. It won’t be long before we move down the card. You’re going real good.”
“Thanks, George.” Raiford followed the man to the shower and stood soaking in the hot water to steam soreness out of stretched, abraded, and twisted flesh. “You’ve been in the ring a long time?”
“Nah. Just four or five years. Some of these people been wrestling fifteen, twenty years. They develop a following, you know? Name recognition, endorsements. Even if they don’t hit it as big as Hulk Hogan, they still make a good, steady living.”
“So why are you starting all over with me?”
“I used to wrestle as Terrible Tony Titan. Ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“That’s why I’m starting over.” He added, “Salazar said I’d do better as part of a tag team, and I don’t have much to lose. I’ve invested enough time in the business, so I thought, what the hell, I’ll give it a try.”
“But why a new man? Why not get a partner who already knows the game?”
“Somebody who knows the game wouldn’t pay me to teach them!” George laughed and then frowned as he scrubbed soap in an armpit. “Besides, I’ve had a hard time finding a partner.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m gay. That’s why.”
Raiford stared through the thin veil of water at the figure an arm’s length away. “Gay? As in … um … .”
“Homosexual. But you got nothing to worry about. I’ve been married to the same guy for fifteen years.”
“Married?”
“In a church even. He’s been very active in the movement to legalize domestic partners.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” Raiford finished his shower and slowly wrapped his towel firmly about his waist. “So the other wrestlers know this and don’t want to be your partner?”
“I don’t go around bragging about it. But I’m not ashamed of it, either. A lot of people just can’t handle it, is all. But, hey, I’m not the only gay wrestler in the game. In fact, my first manager had a casting couch in his office. Tried to get me on it.” George spat something. “He was a real pig.”
Raiford, his back to the man who was toweling himself dry, tucked his shirt into his pants and zipped up. “So why don’t you have a partner of your—ah—persuasion?”
“The ones I know, I don’t like. Besides”—George, too, was modestly dressing behind the open door of his locker—“there’s HIV.”
“AIDS?” Raiford thought about that. “What do you mean?”
“Suppose I had a tag partner who didn’t practice safe sex? You work out with somebody every day, the risk goes up. I mean even in the ring, it’s good to be careful, you know? That’s why there’s no spitting anymore.” George finished buttoning his clothes and looked over the locker door. “They outlawed juicing for a while, but the Nielsen went down, so it’s back. Just don’t smear it on anybody else.” He added, “You got to watch it with straights, anymore, too. Anybody can get AIDS. But if you got a tag partner active in the high-risk population, you’re really asking for trouble.”
On the way out the narrow passageway to the building’s back door, George said, “And another thing, some of the story lines call for gay wrestlers now—men and women. Political correctness, I guess, but they mostly make them the scumbags. Capitalize on the audience’s homophobia.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to contribute to that.” They paused in the parking lot. “You’re not too comfortable with this, right?”
Raiford shrugged. “Well, I have to admit—”
“No problem. But like I say, I’m married. Happily. And we’ve both been tested HIV negative and plan to stay that way.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Raiford knew of gays in every walk of life, but he had never wrestled with one.
“This tag team is strictly business,” said George. “Our private lives are strictly separate from what goes on in the ring. Not many people outside the game know I’m gay, but you want to take time to think it over, right?”
“I have to admit it surprised me.”
“What I’m saying is, you don’t have to sweat a lot of people thinking you’re gay just because I am—wrestlers all got an image, and mostly it’s nothing like what they are outside the ring.”
“I won’t quit for that reason, if it’s worrying you.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. The
last guy Salazar tried couldn’t take the idea and did quit.” He stood by the open door of his Isuzu Trooper. “Salazar didn’t want me to tell you, but if we’re going to be a team, something that important shouldn’t be hidden.”
Raiford agreed. “I’d rather hear it from you now than from somebody else later. You take any heat from the other wrestlers?”
He shrugged. “It’s happened. Mostly, it’s from guys unsure of their own sexuality, you know? When I was the Terrible Titan, I used to wear a gladiator costume into the ring. One time this wrestler yelled out—and this was on television, man—‘That ain’t a glad-he-ate-her, it’s a glad-he-ate-him!’ ” George shook his head.
“You pop the guy?”
“Broke his back. I didn’t have any trouble after that.” Another shrug. “But like I say, now they have scripts for gay wrestlers, even story lines with the babyface’s girlfriend getting hit on by butch women wrestlers. Look, Jim, this is a big chance for me to get my career going, and I aim to give it my best shot. If we can work together on it, we both might make it. That’s the only thing I’m interested in.”
“Fair enough.”
“Good. Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime. Anthony’s a real good cook—makes great Italian food.”
Raiford watched the square rear of the vehicle, listing slightly to the driver’s side, disappear into the late evening glare.
The offices of W. Ellis Huggins, attorney at law, were on Bannock Street in an area that was zoned for business but still had a few residences scattered among the commercial activities. A small wooden sign with Old West lettering said law offices, and beneath that, Huggins’s name. The building was a residential cottage whose change to commercial use consisted of a coat of bright blue paint. The small houses on each side were still used for families, and their paint had been left by the landlord to thin down to the color of the wood beneath. The idea was to let the property depreciate in tax value while rents increased because there were fewer and fewer places near downtown for the families of those who worked in the service and janitorial jobs. It added up to a bigger profit margin. Apparently, Huggins paid enough rent to justify this cottage’s new tax assessment. Which, Julie figured as she entered the living room with its stained and faded wallpaper and muslin drapes, probably had not gone up much.
“May I help you?” The very young woman who looked up from the computer screen pulled an earphone out of a spiral of brown hair and smiled.
Julie introduced herself. “Mr. Huggins said I could drop by.”
“Oh, sure! I’ll buzz him.” She pushed a button on the corner of her desk. “He’ll be right out. You want to sit down, you can.” She turned back to the glowing screen and plugged the earphone back in before pressing the keys with labored care. A new high school class ring glittered on her hand.
“Miss Campbell. Come in, please.” Huggins had blond hair that swept back in waves from a high forehead to curl at the top of his collar. He smiled under a pair of tinted wire-frame glasses and motioned toward his office. A new desk, a new leather swivel chair for clients. Two plain bookcases filled one wall where a dresser probably stood when the office had been a bedroom. Julie recognized the worn spines of the books as the Colorado Revised Statutes, and suspected that these same volumes had been in the offices of other fledgling attorneys before Huggins bought them. He settled behind his desk. “On the telephone, you mentioned something concerning American West Sports and Entertainment?”
Julie nodded. She had told Huggins that she wished to talk with him about the rumored tie between the FWO and the newly formed American West. “Mr. Schmanski told me there was a deal in the works.”
“Yes, I am in negotiation with Mr. Schmanski on behalf of American West. But we haven’t arrived at any definitive stage yet. May I ask what your interest is in possible dealings between FWO and American West?”
To call herself a casual observer or a reporter probably wouldn’t make a friend of Mr. Huggins, Esquire. “I’ve been hired by a client active in the local wrestling scene. He’d like to speak with the principal officers of American West before they sign with FWO. He believes some mutual profit could develop from combining his established local promotion with their projected one.”
“I am authorized to receive any and all communications directed toward the American West Corporation.” Huggins leaned back into the swivel chair’s springs. The man’s fingers—pink, stubby, and deeply wrinkled at the knuckles—made a little tent under his nose. “Just what does your client want to offer that might be of interest to my client?”
“Years of experience in professional wrestling and a thorough knowledge of the Denver area, which would be vital to any newcomer to the region. He also has an established and highly successful wrestling school and gymnasium. More to the point, he has a number of promising young local wrestlers already under contract. They have a large following of local fans. If you could tell me who the company officers are, I’d be happy to put him in touch with them.”
“American West is a private corporation made up of silent partners, Miss Campbell.” Huggins’s voice was patient. “They’re silent because they want to protect their privacy. That’s why I’m the authorized spokesman. Any deal your client wants to offer, he can discuss with me and I will present the matter to the corporate board.” He paused, then, “Does your client have a name?”
“Otto Lidke. Owner of Rocky Ringside Wrestling.”
“Oh?” Huggins stared at her for a long moment. Then he carefully made a note of the name. “And you’ve come here with his authorization?”
“I’m working on a case for him. I come here in conjunction with that.”
“What kind of case?”
“Mr. Lidke has been threatened, his property attacked, and his partner murdered.”
“Murdered? A man was murdered?”
“Joe Palombino.” Julie watched Huggins’s eyes behind his tinted lenses. “Mr. Lidke thinks someone is trying to prevent him from developing his wrestling promotion.”
“That’s not a very compelling argument for a partnership with American West, Miss Campbell.”
“The potential profit could add up to a great deal of money, Mr. Huggins. Perhaps someone sees my client as a competitor for that profit. That same someone might perceive American West as a competitor, as well. But together, Rocky Ringside and American West might stand up to a corporation as big as, say, the FWO.”
“Are you implying that the FWO—Mr. Schmanski and his people—are responsible for murder?”
“Not at all. I’m just using that organization as an example.” Julie scooted away from that line of argument. “You must know that wrestling promotions require a license and that your principals’ names will have to be divulged to get that license.”
“Are you attempting to give me legal advice, Miss Campbell?”
“I’m attempting to discover why you won’t further your clients’ best interests by letting me present them with my client’s proposal.”
“Consider yourself to have presented it, Miss Campbell. I will inform them of your visit—I certainly will.” The man stood. A gold Phi Beta Kappa key swung brightly across his dark vest. “Meanwhile, I have a busy schedule. If my client wishes to pursue relations with your client, I will be in touch. Good day.”
Dead end. Julie sat in her car and tried to think of ways around Counselor Huggins. There was no obvious reason why the principals of American West should want anonymity. As a detective, Julie had learned that occasionally people did some weird things for no reason at all, but more often the reason was money. Always cherche la money. Yet there was nothing shameful in making money on a wrestling promotion. And unlike a gaming license, a ticket to promote sporting or entertainment events wasn’t restricted nearly as much. If, for example, one of the principals had a history of ties to the underworld, it would make no difference as long as it wasn’t a betting sport.
So why the secrecy?
Huggins could be on the telephone right now talking to the principals. Julie eyed the robin’s egg blue cottage with its old-fashioned sash windows and shrubbery lining the walk and foundation. It wouldn’t be difficult to go in and plant a bug. Risky and illegal, but not difficult. It was something to consider.
Meanwhile, it was well after two. Julie swerved through light midafternoon traffic toward Smith Road and the office of Save-On Rent-A-Car. The woman who had checked out the car that had followed her home last night should be on duty by now.
Her name was Sarah and she frowned as she listened to Julie’s request. “498 AVF?”
“Yes. To a man called ‘John Wilson’ of Tucson, Arizona. But the address is a phony, and I suspect the name is, too.”
She turned to a computer, fingers dark against the rattling keys. “That vehicle came back this morning to our Convenient Check-In over at DIA. The customer had twenty-four hours left on his rental.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Lady, do you know how many people I see in a day?”
“Anything at all about him—tall, short? Color of hair? Any facial hair or jewelry?”
She let out a long breath and stared somewhere at the ceiling. “498 AVF—well, let me see… . It was an afternoon rental, that I remember. He wasn’t too tall.” She chewed her lip. “I can’t remember if he was bald—he wore one of these flat caps. You know the kind, have a little brim up here. Sean Connery wore one in that movie he was in …”
“Did he have a beard or mustache?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Heavyset? Thin?”
“Suit he was wearing didn’t fit well.” She shook his head. “That’s about all I do remember.”
On her way back across town, Julie tried to fit the information into some kind of pattern. Despite Caitlin Morgan’s belief that her boss didn’t suspect anything, Julie had expected the clerk to describe Chertok. But that man would never wear ill-fitting clothes. He could have had someone else rent the car: used an accomplice, hired someone. That would also explain Chertok’s apparent lack of knowledge about Julie’s visit to Caitlin’s house—the accomplice following Julie might not know where Chertok’s secretary lived. But suppose he reported to Chertok the various places that Julie had visited? And included Caitlin’s address? That thought made Julie feel the push of time at her back.
