Cobra Clutch

by Devlin, A. J. ;

  “Shut the fuck up.” Grasby tightened his grip on his pistol, which looked to be some kind of subcompact Glock. “If Nikolai thinks I’d have a moment’s hesitation taking out one of his guys, especially a smug prick like you, then he really didn’t do his homework on Bert Grasby.”

  I couldn’t believe this guy. He has the nerve to call me smug then proceeds to refer to himself in the third person? Grasby was definitely a piece of work. He was also getting an itchy trigger finger.

  “Take it easy,” I said, slowly lowering my arms. “You don’t want to do anything stupid, especially since you have me confused with somebody else.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. In fact, I’m a little surprised that you don’t recognize me.”

  Grasby cocked his pudgy head sideways like an inquisitive bulldog. I could see the recognition slowly creeping its way across his face but decided to help him the rest of the way.

  “I’m Jed Ounstead.” Grasby blinked twice but still held the gun at my chest. “The former wrestler? Ring a bell?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” hissed Grasby. “ ‘Hammerhead’ Jed. I totally didn’t recognize you without the goatee.”

  “Shaved it off after I retired.”

  “I hear that,” he said, stroking his soul patch with his index finger. “I’m always trying to find new ways to keep my look fresh.”

  “Good for you, bub. Say, how about lowering that gun now?”

  Grasby looked at the Glock like it had magically appeared in his hand. “Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry about that.” Grasby tucked the gun into his tracksuit’s waistband behind his back.

  “Who’s Nikolai?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about you, man. Tell me you’re thinking comeback.”

  “Actually, I’m here on behalf of Johnny Mamba.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Afraid not. Can you think of anyone who may have had a reason to target Ginger?”

  “Ginger?”

  “Johnny’s snake.”

  Grasby smoothed out a few creases in his velour tracksuit and swaggered closer. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You, ‘Hammerhead’ Jed Ounstead, former pro-wrestling superstar, have no interest in discussing a potential comeback or trying to negotiate a contract with my organization.”

  “Nope.”

  “And the only reason you’re here is to try and find Mamba’s disgusting slimy pet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Grasby tried to walk past me. I sidestepped quickly and blocked his path.

  “Do I need to get out my gun again?” threatened Grasby.

  “I just need you to answer a few questions.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “I think that’s the least you can do for one of your wrestlers.”

  “Man, I don’t owe Mamba shit.”

  I took a deep breath. Grasby was starting to get under my skin. “Johnny’s a good guy,” I said. “I know it may be weird, but he loves that snake more than anything and is pretty distraught without it. So how about showing a little respect?”

  “Why should I?” snapped Grasby. “He sure as shit doesn’t show any to me.”

  “Not even when he works with your new talent and helps the janitorial staff clean up after house shows?” I countered.

  “I don’t care what stories you’ve heard, Johnny Mamba is no saint. That cocky bastard walks around here like his shit doesn’t stink just because he had a ten-second run in the WWE. Well, guess what? If it weren’t for me he wouldn’t even be working.”

  “He could wrestle for another promotion if he wanted to.”

  “The fuck he could!” bellowed Grasby. “Did you know he was fired from Pure Power Wrestling? Turns out the snake gimmick was so lame and dated, the crowds in Alberta would heckle the shit out of him before up and leaving during his matches. The only reason I let him wrestle in XCCW is because he agreed to do odd jobs and work as a trainer. So don’t go thinking Mamba’s going above and beyond by showing the ropes to the rookies and helping clean up. It’s his fucking job.”

  Grasby could see the surprise on my face. I knew that Johnny wasn’t exactly top-draw talent in XCCW but I figured he was at least holding his own. The fact that Grasby threw him a bone just by hiring him made me realize that Johnny’s wrestling career was in a lot worse shape than I had originally thought.

  “But what about your upcoming pay-per-view?” I asked. “He’s on the card for a championship match.”

  “As a last minute replacement. The guy whose slot he filled pulled a hammy last week.”

  I crossed my arms across my chest and tried to make sense of Johnny’s predicament. “Look, even if he’s just jobbing, it doesn’t change the fact that Johnny is still a fixture on your roster. He has a distinguished pro-wrestling pedigree and is clearly good for your promotion’s morale. It’s also obvious that only someone associated with XCCW would know about his inheritance, cook up a scheme to hold his snake for ransom, and then actually expect Johnny to pay.”

  “So what?” said Grasby.

  “So this is your house, Grasby,” I said forcefully. “Johnny needs your help. You know these people best which means you can probably help me narrow down the list of potential suspects.”

  Grasby sneered, shaking his head so vehemently his jowls jiggled. “Don’t you get it? Mamba bailed on me. The chickenshit sent me a text last night telling me how he can’t wrestle until he gets his snake back. A fucking text! Despite everything I’ve done for him, he’s willing to leave me hanging three days before our first ever pay-per-view because he lost a pet. That guy can go fuck himself. He’s nothing but a washed up piece of shit anyway. I hope a bald eagle swooped down, grabbed his snake, and tore the fucking thing to shreds.”

  I drove my forearm into Grasby’s throat and shoved him backwards, pinning him against the wall. I plucked the gun out of his waistband with my other hand and tossed it behind me. Grasby flailed around frantically, squashing crunchy paper-mache masks behind him as he pawed at my arm. “You really need to learn some manners,” I growled.

  “What are you gonna do, Ounstead?” he wheezed. “Give me one of your famous head-butts from hell?”

  The Head-Butt From Hell was one of my signature pro-wrestling finishing moves. And while it made for entertaining wrestling, in real life I greatly preferred my dukes, which is why I cocked a fist and delivered a modest blow to Grasby’s gelatinous gut. He crumpled to the floor, a blob of sweaty flesh and cheap velour.

  As I left him lying there incapacitated I found myself wondering where his disdain for Johnny really came from. Was Grasby simply a spiteful bastard who was envious of Johnny’s past success and upset over him going MIA after losing his snake? Or was there a deeper reason for his animosity toward my friend? His indifference toward Ginger’s disappearance left me with the impression he had nothing to do with it, however, I knew it would be a mistake to overlook his lingering bitterness toward Johnny. One thing was for certain — I needed to know more about Bert Grasby.

  I left Grasby gasping for air on the floor of the arts and crafts room and made my way back to the gym. Before leaving the community centre Pocket and Tubbs introduced me to a ditzy blonde wrestler who was able to give me a lead on where I could find Stormy Daze. Apparently no one at XCCW had seen her since earlier that morning. Stormy was also not answering any calls made to her cell, despite the fact she was supposed to be at the community centre with the other XCCW wrestlers prepping for the evening’s house show. The ditzy gal didn’t have an address for Stormy, but she had the next best thing — her home telephone number and full legal name. I thanked her for her help and headed back to my truck.

  I dialed my cousin as I pulled into traffic. He picked up after a few rings. I could barely hear his voice over
the clamouring of the happy hour pub crowd.

  “How’s she cuttin’, mate?”

  “I got a name here and I need you to run it for me.”

  “Are you right bollixed? I ain’t going near Frank’s computer.”

  “It’s important, D. It has to do with Johnny.” I had filled Declan in on the details the night before. I heard him take a slurp of what could only be a pint of Guinness.

  “I dunno, boyo.”

  “There’s another Glenfiddich coming your way if you help me out.”

  “Piss off with the Glenfiddich. If I do this, I want me a bottle o’the Balvenie, the twenty-one-year-old Portwood.”

  Say what you will about my cousin, but the man liked his single malt.

  “You’re kind of robbing me blind here, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll hang this bloody phone up right now!”

  “All right, take it easy. Balvenie it is.”

  “Aye, that’ll do, then. Sorry I got to be such a shite. But after the strip Frank tore off me arse last time, I’m at least going to make it worth me while.”

  “Fair enough.”

  A husky intoxicated voice bellowed in the background. “Yo, what’s it take to get some service around here?”

  “Shut your hole, you mingin’ skegrat!” screamed Declan. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Okay, Jed, I got me pen.”

  “Name’s Bert Grasby. I’m going to need a full background check. I’m talking public, credit, property — the works.”

  “Jaysus, would you like me to track down his Ma and find out if he wet his bed as a wee lad as well?”

  “Just see what you can dig up.”

  “What about a criminal records check?”

  “We both know who I’m going to have to talk to about that.”

  Declan grunted in agreement. My pop may have been away at a security conference, but if I wanted detailed criminal records on Grasby I was going to need the old man to call in a favour with his buddies at the Vancouver Police Department. Unlike other types of background screening, all criminal records checks were processed through the Canadian Police Information Centre database that is shared by every city police department and Royal Canadian Mountain Police detachment in the country.

  “Okay, mate. I’m on the case.”

  “Thanks, D.”

  I heard a rattle and thud, like a phone being dropped, followed by my cousin shouting in the distance. “Hey, Dicky Dazzler! I’ll serve your fancy arse when I’m good and ready!” Ah, Declan. What a prince.

  The bloated and endless dark grey storm cloud that had been hovering over Greater Vancouver all day finally stopped its taunting and began to spit down rain. I cranked my wipers up to the max but after a minute the downpour was so heavy it didn’t really matter, as my visibility was limited at best. I sought refuge from the torrential assault in the nearby drive thru of a Dairy Queen, and as I ordered a large banana shake it occurred to me that there was a very good chance that I was familiar with just about every franchise location in the city.

  I parked and drank my shake slowly, the combination of ice cream and rainfall lulling my mind into a state of tranquility. My mind wandered and soon filled with thoughts of what I had encountered at XCCW. The pro-wrestling lifestyle had once been the most natural thing in the world for me, yet now it felt awkward and foreign. After the misfortune that had befallen me a couple of years ago, just setting foot near a wrestling ring had stirred up some old feelings. And the further I pursued the investigation into Ginger’s disappearance, the more exposure I would have to elements of the life I had tried so hard to leave behind.

  I was still brooding over my past when the Soundgarden song “Spoonman” started playing in my pocket. I welcomed the distraction and answered my phone immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Jed, thank God!” wailed Johnny frantically. “I don’t know what to do!”

  “Slow down, bub. What are you talking about?”

  “The kidnapper, man! He just called me with instructions!”

  FIVE

  “Johnny, calm down. Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened.”

  I heard him suck in a lungful of air and blow it out forcefully. “Okay, I was trying to take my mind off Ginger so I went to the driving range to hit some balls. I was on my second bucket when I got a call from a blocked number. I picked up and it was, like, this robot or Darth Vader voice or something. It told me that if I wanted Ginger I had to bring the money to the Vancouver Flea Market by seven o’clock.”

  I cranked the wheel and hit the gas, nearly hydroplaning as I skidded out of the Dairy Queen parking lot. I looked at my watch. 6:54 PM. I was a good ten minutes away.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “On Terminal, right by Science World.”

  “Okay, I need you to pull over immediately.”

  “Jed, he warned me not to be late — ”

  “Johnny, you have to trust me. They will not hurt Ginger. If they did, they’d have zero leverage. It’s not like she’s a child. There’s not exactly a black market for stolen pythons so they can’t fence her for ten grand somewhere else.”

  “Okay, Jed. I’m pulling into the train station right now.”

  I cut off a bus and sped through an intersection. I swerved to avoid hitting a Hummer turning left and sprayed its windshield with puddle water. The driver was less than impressed and blasted his horn for all it was worth.

  “Jed? Jed, are you there?”

  I straightened out my F-150 and kept my foot on the pedal. “I’m here. Did he say why he was bumping up the deadline?”

  “No, man. Just that this was my only chance to get Ginger back otherwise they’re going to fucking kill her!”

  I glanced at the clock on the dash — 6:57 PM. I was making good time.

  “Oh, shit!” Johnny cried. “Jed, it’s him. He’s calling on the other line.”

  I had to think fast. “Johnny, what kind of phone do you have?”

  “An iPhone, why?”

  “Okay, good. Take the call. Then when you’re on the other line — ”

  “Merge the calls!” he shouted, understanding my plan.

  I heard a click as Johnny switched to his other line. I thumbed the mute button on my iPhone so the snake-napper wouldn’t be able to hear anything on my end once the calls were connected. Five seconds passed. Then another ten. I was starting to get concerned when I heard a click followed by a digitally altered voice that sounded more like a wimpy version of the Batman villain Bane than Darth Vader.

  “ — the volleyball courts behind the flea market. Throw your phone out the window immediately. We are watching you. If we see the police or anyone else, we kill the snake. Failure to follow these orders and we kill the snake.”

  I knew Johnny would toss his phone immediately, before I got a chance to tell him I was certain they were bluffing about having him under surveillance. This operation had been strictly amateur from the get-go, and the novelty store quality voice changer had just confirmed it. I hit the button to un-mute the call, hoping to get through in time.

  “Johnny? Johnny, you there?”

  The line was dead. I pounded my steering wheel in frustration, angry with Johnny for ditching his phone and even more upset with myself for not anticipating such a request. Having Johnny get rid of his phone now was a bush league move, especially since the volleyball courts were only a couple of blocks from the flea market. If this crook had any kidnapping experience or just some common sense he would have picked up surveillance on Johnny in front of his apartment and demanded he lose his phone long before arriving at the destination for the exchange. I calmed myself and focused on the positive, which was that the more inexperienced this person was, the less chance there was of Johnny being in actual danger.
r />   I jerked the wheel to the right, causing my truck to fishtail as it careened around a corner at close to seventy kilometres per hour. The rain was coming down harder now. My driving visibility had become so bad I shouldn’t have risked taking my eyes off the road, even momentarily. Instead I opened the glove compartment and dug through several pairs of sunglasses and bottles of bodybuilding supplements until I found what I was looking for — my snub-nosed, thirty-eight-special, Colt Cobra revolver. The lightweight, double-action, six-shot pistol was a restricted firearm that I had a Possession and Acquisition Licence for due to grandfathered privileges from my old man. I popped out the swing cylinder, double-checking that I had left it fully loaded. I spun the cylinder with my thumb, snapped it shut, and looked at the weapon in my hand. It had been a long time since I had fired it. But the training that I received from my old man growing up was the kind that never went away. I didn’t know who or what was waiting for Johnny at the volleyball courts so I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  I tucked the gun in my belt behind me in the small of my back, and then spotted the Georgia viaduct in the distance. I was getting close. I zigzagged across lanes and rocketed across the flyover-like overpass, threading the needle between Rogers Arena and BC Place, the two concrete monstrosities that served as Vancouver’s hub for professional sports and big time entertainment.

  I flirted with the idea of calling Declan but decided against it. There was still no indication that the snake-napping was anything other than the work of a nonprofessional, and despite his colourful personality, my cousin was not the type of hard ass I wanted to involve unless some serious stuff was going down. Although most people knew Declan as a bartender, few were aware of his time as an IRA operative and that he was just as capable of being as lethal as he was jocular. And drastic circumstances notwithstanding, I generally preferred the less violent version of my cousin.

  I glanced at the clock on the dash — 7:05 PM. It had been nearly ten minutes since I spoke to Johnny. The elongated and oversized rustic red barn that housed Vancouver Flea Market was now visible and I floored it as I raced down Terminal Avenue. My front tire hit the median and my truck jolted as I took a sharp left turn past the market, then an immediate right, before swerving onto a straightaway. I flipped on my high beams. Fifty metres away, the light reflected off the licence plate of a dilapidated Dodge Omni parked haphazardly next to a gate that served as an entryway to the fenced in volleyball courts. The outdated car chugged as dark grey smoke puffed out of its corroded exhaust pipe. I held my breath as I noticed a prominent bumper sticker on the back of the car. It read: XCCW WRESTLING — Putting the “X” in X-treme!