I felt a tinge of guilt for checking up on my old friend so soon after our meeting but reminded myself that it had been years since I had last seen him. Even though we went all the way back to pro-wrestling school together, I wasn’t about to neglect what my old man calls “Private Eye 101” — know your client. People can change and sometimes it happens fast. I knew this from experience as well. However, since the information I found indicated that Johnny had indeed been moving around Canada from wrestling promotion to promotion just like he had said, I did a web search for XCCW.
The league was part of the National Wrestling Alliance and operated under the NWA’s Pacific Northwest banner. A flash animation in the top left hand corner of the XCCW homepage advertised a house show at a Russian community centre in West Vancouver the next day. I jotted down the address and then continued exploring the website. The Upcoming Events page promoted a Battle Royale for the XCCW heavyweight championship. The show was also set to be XCCW’s first ever online pay-per-view event.
In addition to the Battle Royale, the pay-per-view card also hyped several other bouts including a Bra and Panties match featuring two scantily clad, female wrestlers and a Last Man Standing match for the XCCW Hardcore Championship between Johnny and an obese, barrel-chested, bearded grappler by the name of Brutus Bonebreaker.
I leaned back in the chair and took a big gulp of Guinness. It didn’t take long for the memories to come flooding back. My head filled with flashes of gruelling training sessions, endless road trips, and dingy hotels — all of the unglamorous realities that come with a career in professional wrestling. I thought I had left that life behind me for good. Over two years had gone by since I had left. Yet somehow it felt like only yesterday. I found myself wishing that my career had ended for a different reason, like getting hurt. At least with an injury there was a chance for rehabilitation. There was no coming back from what had happened to me.
I downed the rest of my pint and cut short my trip down memory lane. I cleared the web browser history and emptied the cache, careful to leave no trace before logging off the computer. I meticulously recreated my old man’s cluttered desktop and buried the keyboard and mouse under the numerous case files, covering my tracks so he would be none the wiser.
Since there was not much else I could do until visiting XCCW the next day, and because I wasn’t scheduled to work the door at Tonix nightclub until the weekend, I decided to head off in search of some eighteen-year-old scotch.
THREE
I awoke to searing pain. I cracked open my eyelids, only to have my irises blinded by light. After fighting back a wave of nausea, my vision settled on a near nude figure in the distance.
“Top o’the morning to you, princess. Actually, I guess it’d be top o’the afternoon.”
Sporting a jockstrap and a pair of aviator sunglasses, Declan alternated between puffs of a cigarette and spoonfuls of cereal while lounging on his patio that overlooked the hustle and bustle of Vancouver’s upscale Yaletown neighbourhood.
“We got right scuttered last night, didn’t we, mate?” he said, scratching an itch on his scalp full of close-cropped hair. “I’m telling you, that eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich is the shite.” I rolled off the couch and stumbled toward the kitchen. “Hey, if you got to chuff, do it in me bloody toilet.”
I ignored Declan and turned on the faucet. I ran the water until it was cold, then washed my face and rinsed my mouth, gargling excessively in a desperate attempt to cleanse my palate of its foul single malt aftertaste. I steadied myself against the countertop as I dried my face with a dishtowel. Declan just grinned and kept slurping up his breakfast. I grabbed the open box of Lucky Charms and held it up.
“You do realize that as a full-blooded Irishman you’re only perpetuating a stereotype by eating this crap.”
“Sod off. They’re magically delicious.”
After using the restroom I returned to the kitchen fully dressed to find Declan furiously digging through the box of cereal. “I don’t even want to ask.”
Declan pointed toward a caption on the box, which advertised a free Batman mini-PEZ dispenser inside. “I want me bloody prize.”
My cousin’s sinewy triceps flexed as he aggressively searched for the Caped Crusader, causing the prominent tattoo on his arm to move. A rising fist was inked against the backdrop of the green, white, and orange of the Irish flag, and written beneath in Gaelic were the words Tiocfaidh ár lá, which translates into “our day will come.” The tat was an emblem of the IRA. It was also a permanent reminder of Declan’s former life, something he didn’t like to talk about. I could definitely relate.
Declan cursed in Gaelic, his search remaining fruitless. Despite my headache I couldn’t help but smirk as I found the sight of an angry bare-assed Irishman desperately searching for a children’s toy quite humorous.
“I swear to Christ I’m takin’ this box o’shite back to the market if I’ve been screwed out o’me — aha!”
Clutching the Batman mini-PEZ dispenser, Declan yanked his hand out of the cereal box and thrust his fist in the air victoriously, littering the countertop with marshmallow yellow moons and red balloons. I grabbed my jacket off the bar stool and raided his fridge for a bottle of water.
“Off to save the day then, yeah?” Declan asked.
“That snake’s not going to return itself,” I replied.
“Aye, well, if you piss off some hardchaws during your search and need me to rescue your dainty arse, you know where I’ll be.”
“Good thing I got the number for that Thai rub’n’tug massage parlour you like so much on speed dial.”
“Get up the yard, ya Bombay Shitehawk.”
“I love you too, D.”
I stopped off at home and rooted through my medicine cabinet until I found a Costco-size bottle of Advil. I doubled the recommended dosage and chased it with a litre of water before taking a hot shower. I put on a fresh change of clothes, whipped myself up a turkey–cranberry sandwich, and read the sports section in The Vancouver Sun. Finally, after double-checking the start time for the Thursday night show, I left a few hours early for the West Vancouver location where XCCW was based.
I parked on the street and made my way down the sidewalk on West 4th, passing a slew of specialty fashion shops, a yoga studio, and a newly opened doggy spa. I nearly collided with a gaggle of hipsters as they stumbled out of an herbal smoke shop, and I was pretty sure the whiff of cannabis I picked up on wasn’t coming from their hemp clothing. All and all it was pretty par for the course for an evening stroll through Kitsilano, which was well known for being one of Vancouver’s funkiest and most eclectic neighbourhoods.
The dilapidated building XCCW operated out of was a Russian community centre, and the dated outdoor marquee was just one of several markers that poorly hid the fact that the place had once been a local cinema. My nostrils were immediately assaulted by the scent of musty wood and stale popcorn upon entering the building, and the pungent mix of odours only grew stronger as I made my way down a dark hallway toward the gymnasium. With its bright orange basketball rims and parquet floor, the gym looked as if it had been preserved in a time capsule since the seventies. Several wrestlers were gathered in the centre of the gym, grunting as they assembled a regulation size pro-wrestling ring. A skinny teenager bopped his head to the beat of his iPod shuffle while arranging folding chairs around three sides of the ring. The gym’s space was limited, so there was only room for two rows of about fifteen chairs on each side of the ring, making for nearly a hundred seats. The fourth side of the wrestling ring backed onto a stage. A small ramp on a decline angle connected the stage to the ring and served as an entryway for the XCCW performers. It also gave the wrestlers the opportunity to appear before the crowd with some flair, since strutting through the faux velvet stage curtains and down the ramp made their entrances much more theatrical.
“Well, tickle
my taint and call me Tania,” said a shrill voice. “You gotta be kidding me with this shit.”
I looked around for the source of the vulgarity and came up short. Literally. A three-foot dwarf in a white linen suit strutted toward me, his angular face scrunched up in a big grin.
“There a problem?” I asked.
“You’re ‘Hammerhead’ Jed Ounstead.”
“Once upon a time, bub.”
“Where’s your fuckin’ two-by-four, bro?”
Back in the day I had earned the nickname “Hammerhead Jed” due to my penchant for breaking a two-by-four piece of Western red cedar over my head after pinning an opponent. The crowd used to eat it up. It also might explain why I’m not very good at crossword puzzles.
“Left it in my truck,” I replied.
“That’s cool, I got ya,” the dwarf said. The little man stood on his tiptoes and offered me a fist bump. I returned the gesture and he enthusiastically pounded his tiny knuckles into mine. “Tell me you’re joining XCCW, bro.” Before I could answer he was hollering across the gym. “Yo, Ula! Get over here!”
The parquet floor vibrated as a mammoth Samoan man lumbered toward us, his belly fat rolling like an ocean wave. I made him for three-fifty and change, easy. He wore a pink T-shirt underneath a crisp blue blazer and white linen pants. Polynesian tattoos covered his neck and cheeks. The Samoan’s bulbous face lit up the moment he recognized me.
“Aznuts! ‘Hammerhead’ Jed! Whassup, brah?” the behemoth bellowed.
The Samoan’s thick sausage fingers gripped my hand and pumped it furiously. The little man and the giant were quite the sight, and when I noticed their matching sock-less loafers, I realized their peculiar attire was part of their wrestling gimmick.
“Bro, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill when you debut,” chirped the dwarf. “Crowd’ll pop so loud it’ll be sick. Let me guess, your coming out party’s the Battle Royale, right?”
“I’m still retired.”
“Damn, bro, you got me all excited and shit,” bemoaned the dwarf. “What are you doing here then?”
“Johnny Mamba’s snake,” I said solemnly.
Both the dwarf and the Samoan shook their heads and frowned. “That shit with Ginger is whack, yo,” said the dwarf. “Me and Ula still can’t believe it. Where’s Mamba at, anyway?”
“He’s taking some time off,” I replied. “Do you guys know Johnny well?”
“Hell yeah, bro. We tight. The three of us used to wrestle in triple threat matches till Mamba switched over to the Hardcore division. He ain’t never mentioned us to you?”
I shook my head. “Who are you guys, anyway?”
They exchanged a distressed look, clearly upset that I had no idea who they were. The dwarf scoffed and spread his hands. “Uh, only the best tag-team in XCCW and the entire National Wrestling Alliance.”
“I don’t follow wrestling anymore.”
The little man was not impressed. “We’re ‘Pocket and Tubbs,’ bro! Like Miami Vice except with twice the spice!”
They were both awaiting my response with baited breath. “That … ” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “is one awesome gimmick.”
“Bro, I know, right?” the dwarf said proudly.
“But which one of you is Tubbs?”
They were about as prepared for that question as Kanye West would be for a coherent thought. After a moment, Pocket clued in and got the joke. “Ha! That’s fuckin’ hilarious!”
Tubbs clasped a meaty paw down on my shoulder. “Dis ‘Hammerhead’ Jed, he talk funny stories.”
“Fuckin’ rights,” agreed Pocket, before initiating another round of fist bumping.
“Listen, guys, what can you tell me about Ginger’s disappearance?” I finally asked.
“We didn’t even hear about it till yesterday, bro. I guess it happened after practice or something. But me and Ula, we always cut out early so we were long gone.”
“How’d you get word then?”
“Stormy tell us,” said Tubbs.
“Who’s that?”
“Stormy Daze, bro. Mamba’s girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” chimed in Tubbs.
“Shit, that’s right,” said Pocket. “I keep forgetting they broke up.”
“How long ago was that?”
Pocket shrugged. “Not sure. But it was recent.”
“This Stormy, is she a wrestler?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah, bro. She’s the damn XCCW Women’s champ.”
I made a mental note to talk to Johnny about his ex.
“Did she tell you that there’s been a ransom demand?”
“No, but our boss did this morning. Fuckin’ prick screamed at us for half-an-hour cuz he’s pissed that Mamba’s MIA, especially with the pay-per-view coming up.”
“And who’s your boss?”
“Bert Grasby,” snapped Pocket, spitting out the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He’s the owner of XCCW.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Dat mahu be here somewhere,” said Tubbs.
Pocket snickered and slapped Tubbs on a beefy calf. “Yeah, probably backstage greasing up some poor rookie with baby oil!”
Pocket and Tubbs had themselves a good laugh while I bumped Grasby to the top of my interview list. “Were either of you aware that Johnny Mamba recently came into some money?”
“Everybody knew, bro. He’s always yapping about how he’s gonna buy Ginger some fancy new … terror-mun? Terry-yum?”
“Terrarium, brah,” said Ula.
“That’s it!” chirped Pocket excitedly, snapping his fingers. “It’s like a giant aquarium for snakes but with no water. Anyways, Johnny was gonna custom build one of those things with all these special plants and caves and shit. I told him he needed to buy himself a sweet new ride but he didn’t want to hear it.”
“One last thing, guys,” I said. “Is there anybody that you can think of who might have a grudge against Johnny?”
Pocket and Tubbs both shook their heads emphatically. “Hell no, bro. Mamba’s a cool cat. You know what this business is like. Chock-full of cocksuckers and motherfuckers. But Mamba’s different. That guy will beat the shit out of his body in the ring to entertain the crowd, then stick around to work with the rookies, and even help the janitor clean up.”
“They don’ make ’em like Johnny boy no more,” said Tubbs.
I thanked them both for their time and gave them my number. They promised if they remembered anything else they would give me a call. Pocket seemed almost flattered, and I had a feeling I was going to hear from my new knee-high acquaintance one way or the other.
I walked past a sticky-looking concession stand as I left the gymnasium, heading into the bowels of the community centre. I encountered a frumpy woman with a hairnet unloading crates of potato chips and canned soda. I asked her if she had seen Bert Grasby and she grumbled something in Russian before directing me toward an arts and crafts room. I opened the door and ducked underneath numerous paper-mache masks dangling from the ceiling, inadvertently barging in on what I can only describe as a rather vigorous stretching session.
A ripped young wrestler sporting shiny boots, Speedo-style trunks and single-digit body fat percentage lay on a mat while another man stood over him driving his shoulder into the back of the kid’s knee. Although I had seen trainers perform this type of hamstring stretch on athletes countless times before, the way this pasty, pot-bellied man with the bad comb-over was doing it made me feel like I had just stumbled into the opening scene of a twenty-year-old gay porno.
“What the fuck, asshole? Ever heard of knocking?” barked the butterball.
“You Grasby?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?” The paunchy man adjusted himself, trying to hide t
he bulge in his velour Adidas track pants. The ripped wrestler sprang to his feet behind his boss.
“I need a word with you,” I said. The ripped wrestler crossed his arms and tried to look tough.
“You don’t talk to Mr. Grasby unless he says so, dickweed.”
I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “Listen, kid, you’re pretty built and all, but for future reference, it’s a lot easier to intimidate someone when you’re not wearing neon tassels around your arms.” The kid looked at the colourful shoelace-like tassels tightly cinched around his biceps and blushed.
“Enough,” said Grasby. “Dylan, go finish stretching in the break room.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Grasby.”
The kid glared at me as he strutted by. Maybe if he had been paying attention to where he was going he wouldn’t have gotten one of his arm tassels caught on the metal hinge on the door frame, because suddenly his entire body jerked backwards like he was a puppy being leash trained. The kid threw a hissy fit until he ripped the tassel free, then stormed off, slamming the door behind him. I turned back to face Grasby, quite amused with his stretching buddy’s exit. That’s when I saw the gun levelled at my chest. I didn’t find that nearly as amusing.
FOUR
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your goddamn head off.”
“I can give you ten,” I quipped, holding my hands in the air.
“I made it clear to Nikolai that I found another supplier,” snarled Grasby. “Sending punks like you to disrupt my show is not going to make me change my mind.”
“I don’t know anyone named Nikolai. And I’m no punk.”
“You look like one to me.”
I flashed a million dollar smile. “Look at these pearly whites. How many goons-for-hire do you know who get dental?”
Cobra Clutch Page 2
