Wearing Purple (Oz Blackstone Mystery)

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘As a newcomer, in my first really big match, I had to job. It was in my contract. I beat up the champ, he beat me up, I beat him up again, until finally he got me in his figure-four leg lock, and I tapped out.’ He beat me to the question. ‘Submitted man; I quit.’

  Everett whistled, a soft sound for him. ‘I’ll never forget that moment, when they rang the bell. I’d never lost in my life before, anywhere, yet here I was tapping out to a forty-one-year-old guy I could have thrown from mid-ring into the third row. That’s when I learned what makes pro wrestling great.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked him, fascinated.

  ‘Tradition, Oz. Our game is a form of performance art, a form of dance, if you like. That old champ and I rehearsed our match until we were move-perfect, and together we put on a great show. I lay there on that mat, my leg not so much as aching from the finishing hold, and I realised that although they didn’t know it, the marks were cheering for us both. It might not look it, but pro wrestlers are team players. We rely on each other for our physical safety and for our creative performance, and our overriding tradition is that no one is as big as the organisation of which he’s a part . . . or should attempt to be, ever. When it’s your turn to lose, you do it with class, and skill.

  ‘Six months later, the old champ and I had a rematch, and I won the belt. A year later, he took it back, when he hit me with a chair while his manager argued with the referee. Finally, in the last year of my contract, I beat him twice in succession.’

  The one-time Diamond chuckled. ‘I was still a heel, though. Until contract renewal came up, that is. By the time it did, Championship Wrestling Incorporated had made me an offer. They were showing me big dough. No way I’d ever have gone there, for reasons of my own, but it did waken me up to how much I was worth.

  ‘So, five years ago, I said to Michael Fanucci, the President of Triple W, “Look, you guys gave me my break, so I owe you some loyalty. But that cuts both ways. I’ll stay with you for one and a half million a year, plus I want reasonable creative control.” That meant having a say in the style and outcome of my matches. “And I want to be a face, with copyright ownership of my new persona and a share of marketing income.”

  ‘I wasn’t being greedy, just realistic. Michael said yes to all three, in as many seconds. I took a six-month sabbatical, to rest up and to learn some new moves. When I came back, I was Daze, and man, I was great. For the next three years, I was the main man . . . not always the champ, because we had to keep the story-lines attractive . . . but always Numero Uno with the fans.’

  All of a sudden a question begged to be asked. I plucked up my courage and spoke it out. ‘In that case, Daze, what exactly are you doing in Glasgow?’

  Darth Vader never laughed in Star Wars, but if he had, he would have sounded just like Everett. ‘Advancing the frontiers, man,’ he rumbled.

  ‘When my second contract was up, two years ago, I could have signed another for double the money, but both Michael and I could smell staleness a year down the road. Instead, I took a chance. I had done a few European tours in my six years in the business, and I reckoned I had spotted an opportunity.

  ‘I’m not as dumb as I look. Remember, Oz, I went to college. I did a law degree, then an MBA. I decided that I would set up my own Sports Entertainment company. Michael saw to it that Triple W took ten per cent of the equity in redeemable shares, and he loaned me some working capital. With his backing, I did deals with most of the European satellite broadcasters to supply them with shows, shot live in front of European audiences.’

  He smiled at me. ‘Why am I in Glasgow? I based the operation here, on the motorway system and not far from the airport, because it was the best location package I was offered anywhere in Europe.

  ‘I had competition for the deal; there was talk of an orchestra from Italy putting in a rival bid for the package. I won though; I guess your Government took a look at the sort of revenue my business can generate as opposed to a symphony orchestra, which runs break-even at best for most of the time.

  ‘All that was two years ago. We ain’t looked back since. I’ve repaid the loan capital already.’

  ‘Great. Now, to come back to the point. What’s your problem?’

  He frowned, carving great lines in his brown forehead. ‘Like I said, man, someone’s out to get me. Every cent I’ve ever made is tied up in this company, and someone is trying to bring it down. Before I explain, I’d like you to come visit me; get a feel for our organisation.’ He paused, and leaned forward, looming at me again.

  ‘Well, are you going to help me?’

  As he finished I heard a key turn in the Yale lock. No way did I want him to have to go over the whole thing again. ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll come to see you at ten tomorrow.’

  To my surprise, he looked almost childishly grateful as he handed me his business card. I glanced at the multi coloured logo ‘GWA’, and at the gold lettering, ‘Everett Davis, President’.

  ‘That’s good, man,’ he said.

  I don’t know why, but I asked him if he’d like to stay for dinner.

  ‘Thanks Oz,’ he boomed, as my astonished wife appeared in the doorway. ‘No offence, but I don’t reckon you’d have enough food.’

  Chapter 2

  Jan and I had always liked high places.

  When we were kids, one of our treats was to take the pleasure boat from the harbour to the May Island, climb up to the top of a grassy rise and sit there, on the edge of the cliffs, gazing back across the Forth to Fife. The long rugged island was in the background of our wedding photos, when they were taken in the front garden of my dad’s big house overlooking the sea.

  I’ll never forget the look on either of their faces when the two of us walked into the kitchen, together, and told them . . . my Honorary Auntie Mary and Mac the Dentist, on the point of marriage themselves . . . that they were going to be step-mother and step-father respectively. They didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or hide under the table. After my mum’s death, and later, after Jan’s dad’s departure with his new lady, they had stayed put in Anstruther, getting on with their lives, and gradually getting closer together. Janet and I had done the opposite; we had left the East Neuk and had grown gradually away from each other, until finally, each of us with new partners, we had been brought in different ways to recognise that we really were inseparable.

  Yes, we had loved . . . the other ones . . . But we were us; we were something else. When we thought about it, as we explained to our respective parents, we had never really been apart, and we couldn’t bear to be, either.

  My dad has always had an eye for a bargain. So, once he had got over the shock, there was nothing for it but we had to have a double wedding. ‘Look what we’ll save on the receptions, son.’ I wasn’t so sure, but Jan surprised me by being all for it; so, decision made, they rearranged their nuptials to coincide with ours. We put the whole thing together very quickly. Three weeks later, the local minister married us in the Craw’s Nest Hotel. It was only a short distance from the house. But Auntie Mary, Jan, and my sister Ellie, their joint Matron of Honour, put their feet down when my dad suggested that we all just walk there in procession, to save on the cars.

  We were the talk of the village, of course. There was an outbreak of gossip, the rumour mill deciding that Jan was up the duff, although a splinter group put forward the suggestion in the butcher’s one Saturday morning that she wasn’t but that Mary was. ‘Ken these drugs they have noo, Mrs McGarrity!’ Eventually, my dad put a stop to it by telling a succession of patients, one after the other for a full week - once they were in his chair and he had their full attention, as is his way - that there would be no new Blackstone prams in town for a while. And outside his house, never.

  Our joint wedding made the front page of the local paper, and we’d have made the nationals too, if Mac the Dentist hadn’t threatened the editor - another patient - with mortal agonies under the drill if he even dreamed of selling the story on.

  It
all happened so fast that only after the wedding did Jan and I get round to looking for a place to live. However, it didn’t take us long before we found it . . . or did it find us?

  Given our country upbringing, and our love of dramatic views, why the hell, one might ask, should Jan and I have chosen Glasgow, a hemmed-in hybrid city whose charm is mostly at ground level, in which to set up our first home as Mr and Mrs Blackstone? The answer began with the fact that each of us had excess emotional baggage, one way or another, through in Edinburgh. Much as we loved our Old Town loft, which had been in the past my home and Jan’s refuge, we decided that we must have a new place for our new beginning. We were both self-employed, with clients spread across the central belt, so we could live as conveniently on the River Clyde as on the Forth.

  And then, to seal the deal, there was the apartment itself.

  Even on a horrible, grey November Saturday it called out to us as we drove along Sauchiehall Street with Jonathan and Colin in the back seat, all of us beginning the journey back to Fife after a fruitless morning of house-hunting and a trip to the Glasgow Transport Museum. ‘Look up there,’ said Jan, pointing to her left from the passenger seat. Normally I’m a firm believer in watching the road while I’m driving, but this was the wife who was talking to me, so for once, I risked a quick glance.

  She was gazing at a tall, square, stone tower rising from a chunky, rectangular building up on the crest of the hill. It was one of the many treasures which stand out on the bumpy Glasgow skyline. I pulled the Ozmobile across the inside lane and stopped on the yellow line. We looked up at the imposing structure.

  ‘Very nice, my love,’ I said, ‘but it looks like some sort of church to me.’

  ‘In that case, why’s there a For Sale sign towards the top of the tower?’

  I leaned forward and took a closer look. As usual, she was right: Jan always did have long vision like a hawk. ‘It looks interesting,’ she said. ‘Come on, Oz, get us up there. Let’s take a closer look.’

  It wasn’t easy getting there, thanks to the one-way system, but eventually we made it. I had to admit, the place looked really impressive close up. And yes, it had been converted into flats: converted from what, we could not tell, but in terms of size it looked more like a cathedral than a mere church.

  The ‘For Sale’ sign was on the third of what appeared to be four levels in the tower itself. A hell of a long way up in other words, and there was no sign of a lift, but there was no holding Jan by this time . . . or me for that matter. We bribed the boys to stay in the Ozmobile with the promise of chips and stepped into the porch, which was at the other end of the building from the tower, and where we found that a row of entry buzzers and a video camera were set into the wall. Beside one we saw a note reading, ‘For Sale, viewing 2-5, weekends.’ I checked my watch; it was four o’clock.

  Jan pressed the button, and after a few seconds a woman’s voice crackled from the speaker. ‘Come to see the flat? Just step inside, and I’ll come for you. It’s a bit awkward first time.’

  She was right: I’ve been on shorter training runs than the walk from the porch to the front door. But as soon as we stepped inside we had forgotten all about it; we were sold. For the third time in my life, I fell in love at first sight . . . this time with a house.

  The place was what the Edinburgh estate agents would call a ‘double upper flat’, meaning that it wasn’t a flat at all, but on two levels. The small entrance hall was lit by glass panels in the main door, and by another fully glazed one at the far end. A bit pokey, we thought, until we stepped into the living room . . . and into the City of Glasgow itself.

  The first thing to strike us were the tall, wide, insulated windows on three sides of the great apartment, reaching from the polished wooden floor almost up to the high ceilings. Even in the dying light of the winter afternoon, the view they gave was sensational. From where we stood, as we looked straight ahead, cars flooded incessantly over the Kingston Bridge, the Clyde crossing. To our right we saw the great baroque tower of the University, and set beneath it the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum and the Kelvin Hall. To our left, Sauchiehall Street and Bath Street ran away up towards George Square and the City Chambers.

  The owner didn’t need to show us the recently fitted kitchen, or the three bedrooms at the top of the spiral staircase, the largest with its en-suite shower-room. She didn’t need to tell us about the cable television and the private off-street parking places. We let her though, for she was dead keen. She was trying to sell the place even harder than we were trying to buy it.

  ‘I’m sorry about the climb up here from the street,’ she said, as she finished her tour. ‘That’s what puts people off, I think.’ She looked at Jan hopefully, woman to woman.

  I’ve never known any one who played their cards closer to her chest than my wife. On that afternoon she had them stuck right up her jumper. She was absolutely poker-faced as the lady handed her the specifications. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I can understand that.’

  I did my best to follow suit. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered solemnly as we left. ‘We’ll think about it.’

  We thought about it all the way to the car. Inside the Ozmobile, Jan looked at me, still unsmiling. ‘Just one thing, darlin’,’ she said. Her rich voice, which was made to impart extra meaning to every word, was at its throatiest.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Absolutely no bloody iguanas. Okay?’

  The deal was done inside a week. It’s amazing how fast the professionals involved in house-buying can move if you really press them . . . or in the case of surveyors, if you promise them enough alcohol. The place was expensive, but nothing we couldn’t afford. I still had a cash pile left from my share of an earlier adventure, and we sold the loft to my pal Ali, the demon grocer, without even having to advertise it.

  I’ll never forget the day we moved in. We stood there arm in arm, before the curtains went up, or the first of the furniture was delivered, looking all around us at the bright sunny morning outside, feeling like guardians of the city.

  Jan was standing on the very same spot as I returned from showing the black giant down to the entrance door. Only she wasn’t looking out; she was staring at me, still stunned by the sheer awesome presence of our visitor. ‘Who the hell was that?’ she gasped. ‘Or what?’

  ‘I introduced you, didn’t I? That was Everett. He’s my new client; I’m going to do some work for him.’

  ‘That’s a lawyer?’ she asked.

  I smiled as I slipped my arms around her waist, drawing her to me. ‘As a matter of fact, he is. But that’s not what he does now. I tell you, honey, our place in the affections of our nephews is secure.

  ‘See the big fella down there?’ I nodded at the window. ‘He’s their favourite wrestler!’

  Chapter 3

  From the outside, the headquarters of the Global Wrestling Alliance . . . ‘The trading identity of Everett Davis Sports Entertainment plc,’ as it said on the big man’s business card . . . looked like any other shed on the Craigton Industrial Estate.

  Even the cars in the senior executives’ parking area were similar to those in the unit which faced it across the street, a mix of BMWs, big Fords and Toyotas. The two exceptions were a gleaming new Range Rover, which I guessed was the only car there that could accommodate Everett Davis’ bulk, and a plain white Winnebago camper van.

  Inside, though, it was a different world. As soon as I stepped through the glass front door, I was face to face with my client, only this time he was in full wrestling gear. Life-size - maybe even larger than life - cardboard cutouts of Daze and his fellow superstars lined the reception area, towering over the chairs and coffee tables set out for visitors.

  Happily, the receptionist was real, and normal sized too, a pleasant dark-haired girl with a Glasgow accent. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ I answered, still feeling oddly intimidated by the two-dimensional bruisers. ‘Oz Blackstone, here to see Mr Davis.’
>
  ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’ She gave me a friendly grin. ‘Great name for a wrestler, that. You’re maybe a bit on the lightly built side though.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m the middleweight champion of Pittenweem,’ I retorted, as she left her office, through a door which it occurred to me was inordinately high, just like all the others I could see.

  Less than a minute later, my client appeared in one of them. He had three or four inches clearance above his head so I guessed that seven foot six was the normal lintel height in his head office, and that the whole place had been designed around him. Unlike the day before he was informally dressed, in jeans and a tee-shirt . . . but not a Marks and Spencer job; this one had his own face emblazoned on it, above a slogan which read ‘Ultimate Force’. Wearing that, the gentle guy who had sat in my home cum office the day before looked rather different. For openers, he seemed even bigger: his muscles seemed to be fighting for position inside the shirt. The designer specs had gone too. Instead his eyes shone in an odd way; tinted contacts, I supposed. Oh yes, and then there was his hair: for some reason flecks of gold dust seemed to have been combed through it.

  The voice was the same, though, deep, warm and molasses friendly, as he thrust out a great hand. ‘Hi, Oz. Welcome to the wacky world of the GWA. Come on through.’ He caught me looking at his hair and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t dress like this all the time, I just been shooting an insert.’

  Without further explanation, he opened the door, standing aside to leave me room to step into a wide corridor. I should have known better by this time, but still I almost jumped out of my skin. The guy who stood behind him might not have been as awesome as Daze, yet he had his own aura, and it was plain terrifying. He looked to be around six feet eight . . . tall, wide and deep. His dyed blond hair was cropped short, just like his nose, which seemed to be flattened into his head, he had wee eyes which reminded me of something I once saw eating turnips in a field near Crail, and his pink ears looked as if they had been made out of plasticine by a drunk. He was in the same wrestling gear as his cardboard image in reception, black tights, gold boots and a bright orange vest, with white lightning flashes all over it, all set off by a piece of white leather headgear which looked more like a scrum cap than anything else. The only thing which didn’t match the cut-out was the massive gilded leather belt which somehow made it all the way around his waist.