Cobra Clutch

by Devlin, A. J. ;

  TWENTY-TWO

  The XCCW Slam Academy was a professional wrestling camp that ran classes every Tuesday night at the Hyde Creek Recreation Centre in Port Coquitlam, a suburb about forty minutes outside of Vancouver. I drove past two trains as I neared the rec centre, which wasn’t much of a surprise considering the city was known for being bisected by the Canadian Pacific Railway. The rec centre was located at the end of a semi-secluded street on a green belt, and lofty evergreen trees that hid a babbling brook surrounded the entire building.

  Pocket and Tubbs had agreed to meet me at the Slam Academy after I contacted them through their email address that was listed on the XCCW website. They initially offered to stop by the pub on Wednesday but I had a lot of questions and wasn’t about to wait around to ask them. Since this was the first time I was going to be on XCCW turf since the street fight with Grasby’s goons, I wasn’t about to take any chances. As a result Declan had agreed to accompany me, despite the fact he hadn’t left downtown in years. I tried to prepare Declan for Pocket and Tubbs and their unusual appearance as we walked past the indoor swimming pool toward the gymnasium.

  “You mean he’s a wee little midget man?” Declan asked incredulously.

  “I believe the appropriate term is dwarf,” I replied.

  “Do you think the tiny fella might know some lady dwarves?”

  “I don’t know, D, maybe. Why?”

  “They’re on me list.”

  “What list?”

  “Me shagging bucket list. All the different types o’birds I want to have a go at before me arse starts pushing up clovers. And a wee little midget gal ranks surprisingly high, right in between a gymnast and an amputee.”

  “You’ve got some serious issues.”

  “Aye.”

  “Just stay sharp,” I cautioned. “Grasby and his gang may be around.”

  We entered the gym to find dozens of teenage boys lining up to leap off of the second rope turnbuckle of a wrestling ring and practice their aerial moves on a dummy lying flat on the canvas mat. Pocket and Tubbs stood ringside coaching as a skinny blonde kid performed an uncoordinated flying elbow drop.

  “C’mon, Kyle. You got to stick that shit,” barked Pocket. Kyle nodded obediently before sliding out of the ring and hustling to the back of the line. When Pocket saw me he nudged Tubbs and clapped his hands. “Take five, guys,” he announced.

  The teenage wrestlers broke off into groups to hydrate and chat. Several of the boys gawked at me and I heard my former wrestling moniker repeatedly thrown around in hushed conversations.

  “You feel like showing them a few pointers, bro?” asked Pocket. “I remember you had a sweet suplex back in the day and these kids are hurting when it comes to their fundamentals.”

  “I think my suplex days are behind me.”

  “Who be dis buggah, ‘Hammerhead’ Jed?” asked Tubbs as he eyed my cousin.

  Declan stared at me in disbelief.

  “Did this fat bastard just call me a bugger?”

  Tubbs emitted a low growl and Pocket stepped forward. “It’s Hawaiian pidgin, bro. ‘Buggah’ means ‘guy.’ Now apologize.”

  “For what?” asked Declan.

  “Making fun of Ula,” said Pocket, patting Tubbs’ calf soothingly. “He’s a little sensitive about his weight.”

  “Apparently not enough to cut back on the roasted pig.”

  “Declan,” I said, in a scolding tone.

  “Who the fuck is this Mick, Jed?” demanded Pocket.

  “This is my cous — ”

  “Mick?” exclaimed Declan. “Why you poxy little bollocks. I take fuckin’ shites bigger than you.”

  “Fuck you, bro!” shouted Pocket as he sprung forward and took a swing at Declan’s groin.

  Declan leapt back at the last moment and Pocket’s small fist connected with the inside of his thigh. My cousin retaliated immediately. Before I could stop him Declan slammed a palm into Pocket’s chest and shoved him backwards. The little man let out a loud “oomph” before sliding across the floor, his trajectory interrupted when he made impact with the side of the wrestling ring. Tubbs snarled and charged forward but fortunately the big man was slow. I leapt in between him and Declan as my cousin slipped into a Dornálaíocht Irish bare-knuckle boxing stance, his fists hovering dangerously in front of his face like twin cobras poised to strike.

  “That’s enough!” I shouted, shoving Declan backwards.

  “Gobshite!”

  “Damn it, Declan. Wait for me outside.”

  “Nah, nah!” snarled Tubbs. “Dis haole gots to pay, ‘Hammerhead’ Jed!”

  All of the Slam Academy kids had stopped what they were doing and stood slack-jawed and staring in disbelief. I squeezed Tubbs’ mammoth shoulder. “Let me handle this, okay?” Tubbs gave Declan the Samoan stink-eye for what felt like an eternity before he lumbered off to check on Pocket. I glared at my cousin.

  “The wee tosser took a swing at me love spuds!” he exclaimed.

  “Outside,” I said firmly. Declan snorted disapprovingly before lighting a cigarette and sauntering off. I approached Pocket and Tubbs just as the big Samoan was helping his partner to his feet. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Who the fuck was that asshole?” demanded Pocket as he gingerly rubbed his elbow.

  “He’s my cousin. He’s deadly in a fight so I brought him along in case Grasby or any of his boys took a run at me again.”

  I quickly filled Pocket and Tubbs in on how Grasby’s goons had jumped me outside The Emerald Shillelagh. When I had finished they both started snickering.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Bro, Grasby or any of his boy brigade wouldn’t be caught dead at Slam Academy. Me and Ula run the whole thing ourselves. Grasby just takes a cut for letting us use the XCCW brand name.”

  “Now I feel really bad about bringing my cousin along.”

  “Bygones, bro. It’s not your fault he’s a prick. And I don’t blame you for watching your back. Grasby was talking some serious smack about you at the pay-per-view over the weekend.”

  “He is major huhu wit you, brah,” warned Tubbs.

  “Fuckin’ rights,” said Pocket. “Dude was fuming.”

  I wasn’t terribly surprised to hear that. After all, because of me Grasby’s prized stretching buddy had a crushed nose and the leader of his goon squad had one less thumb to style his spiky hair.

  “I take it Dylan isn’t able to wrestle with his nose all messed up?”

  Pocket and Tubbs’ faces broke into big smiles. “Bro, that was because of you? That’s awesome! Grasby told us he took a bad fall at the gym.”

  “I can assure you that wasn’t the case.” They both had themselves a good laugh. “Listen, guys, what can you tell me about the drugs in XCCW?” I asked.

  “Drugs?” said Pocket hesitantly.

  “Look, you know I’m not a cop. But some evidence has come to light that suggests whoever killed Johnny was dealing. I know firsthand that every pro-wrestling promotion has at least one solid hookup so I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”

  Pocket shot Tubbs a knowing look. The Samoan gave him a reassuring nod. “There’s only one guy like that at XCCW, bro. Anything you want, he can get. Pharmaceutical grade steroids, Vicodin, coke, weed — you name it.”

  “What about meth?” I asked.

  “For sure, bro.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “Name’s Remo. He swings by practice every couple weeks.”

  “How long has he been coming around?”

  “Just a couple of months. The guy before him, Pavel, had a big falling out with Grasby or some shit. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden Grasby introduced Remo and said from now on he’d be hooking us up with whatever we needed.�
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  Pavel. The name sent up another red flag in the recesses of my brain. Then I remembered what Grasby had said when he had held me at gunpoint. He thought I was working for someone named Nikolai and warned me that he had found another supplier. Was the pair of Russian names another ‘coincidence’ like the propane tanks? Or perhaps Grasby used to buy his narcotics from the Russian mafia, who happened to be well known in Vancouver for their drug trade.

  “Do you know who this Remo worked for?” Pocket glanced at Tubbs. The Samoan shook his head.

  “I only meet da kine a few time.” I guess surprise registered on my face as Pocket immediately jumped to his partner’s defense.

  “Ula’s got bad knees, bro. There’s no way he could wrestle anymore without a little Oxy.”

  “I hear you, bub,” I said, remembering all too well my reliance on painkillers after tearing my quadriceps early in my career. “Any chance you guys have a last name for this Remo character?”

  “Willis, brah,” said Tubbs.

  “Ula, how the hell do you know that?” asked Pocket.

  “We talk stories. Dis Remo, he date a wahine from Lahaina.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s white, six feet, two bills or so. Pretty solid dude. Has short brown hair.”

  “Is there anything else distinctive about him?”

  Pocket cocked his head while he considered the question. After a moment he snapped his fingers. “Actually, yeah. It’s kind of weird. I mean, everywhere this dude goes he’s always bouncing a ball.”

  “A ball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like a small blue racquetball?”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Pocket. “How’d you know, bro?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tracking down Remo Willis’ home address was surprisingly easy. Since my old man was so supportive of me working a case on my own, he not only agreed to let me use his PI software on his computer, but he also offered to do the search himself. I tried to reiterate over the phone that this investigation was a one-shot deal but he didn’t want to hear it. Instead, my father chose to believe that I had finally embraced the family business and that one day soon he’d be changing the name on his office door to Ounstead & Son Investigations. I didn’t have the heart to fight him on the issue so I simply thanked him for his help and hung up.

  I exited the freeway and drove down Hastings until I hit a familiar Dairy Queen drive thru. I ordered a banana shake and parked my truck, hoping that a tasty treat might spark an idea as to how to articulate clearly to my father that I had no intention of ever becoming a private investigator. I guess I couldn’t really blame him for not understanding why. To be honest, I’m not really sure I understood it myself. My pro-wrestling career was over. I didn’t particularly like bouncing or doing the grunt work required when assisting my old man on his cases. Those were just a couple of quick ways for me to earn some income and slow the hemorrhaging from my once bountiful but now withering savings account. The truth was I actually liked working a case on my own and had even surprised myself with some of the leads I had managed to dig up while searching for Johnny’s killer. Nevertheless, taking the necessary steps to become a licensed PI just felt wrong. Like I was turning my back on the guy I used to be. The guy I was before it all fell apart.

  I heard Inspector Cornish’s smug voice echo in my head: “I know all about you, Ounstead. I know why you’re wrestling career ended and I know what you did before resurfacing here in Vancouver.”

  I felt bile rise in the back of my throat, as the memory that had haunted me for years broke free of the mental barriers I had worked so hard to construct. I saw myself with Max, just moments before it happened. I tried to scream out, to stop it from happening again, the singular, tragic incident that changed everything. Hank Williams Jr.’s song “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound” snapped me out of my waking nightmare. I flushed my mind of its toxic thoughts and recognized my father’s ringtone.

  “Hey Pop,” I said, holding the phone to my ear with a shaky hand. “What do you got?”

  “Didn’t find a Remo, but there are five different R. Willises in the Greater Vancouver area.” I took down the addresses. “Are you going to take Declan along?” he asked.

  “I can handle this on my own. Besides I don’t want to have to worry about that dwarf-shoving hothead losing his temper again.”

  “Fair enough. Stay sharp, son.”

  “I will, Pop.”

  The first address I tried was a retirement community near Vancouver International Airport, and the second was an apartment across from the Fraser River in New Westminster that was home to a single mother and her two children. However, when I reached the third address in East Vancouver, I immediately got a strong vibe that it might be the place I was looking for. Unlike other more affluent Vancouver neighbourhoods, the East Side is known for being home to both the lower-income working class and an abundance of recent immigrants. The address I had was for a small, dilapidated, split-level, green house just a few blocks from a sketchy strip of Kingsway, a busy and diverse commercial street that was one of the longest roads in all of Greater Vancouver.

  The rundown residence seemed like the type of place suited for a drug-dealing lowlife, and I circled the block and drove by the house twice before pulling my truck into an adjacent lot beside a small park. I opened the glove compartment and swapped out my old man’s badge for my Colt revolver, then tucked the gun in between my waistband and the small of my back. I cut through the park and walked by two elderly Asian men in sweatsuits performing tai chi, but they were too engrossed in their katas to notice me. I approached the house and started down the lumpy and cracked asphalt driveway. The front door swung open when I got close, revealing a ten-year-old boy dressed in a UFC T-shirt.

  “Who are you?” he asked boldly.

  “My name’s Jed.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Got in a fight.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool. Are you selling something?”

  “Nope. Is your dad home?” The boy shook his head.

  “How about your mom?” He started to shake his head again, then realized his mistake and tried to cover.

  “She’s taking a bath,” he said urgently, and then started to close the door.

  “Hold on a sec.” The boy left the door slightly ajar, peering through the crack at me with suspicious eyes. I took a step backwards and raised my hands. “I’m just trying to find a friend of mine. I thought he lived here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Remo Willis.”

  “Oh. Yeah, he lives here. In the basement.”

  “Do you know if he’s home?” The boy shrugged. “Where’s the entrance to his suite?”

  “Around back.”

  The boy closed the door, and I heard the deadbolt and security chain lock as I started around the side of the house. The downstairs side windows were all blackened and the one narrow window next to the rear door was heavily frosted, making it nearly impossible to see inside. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, listening for any sound or movement inside. There was none. I tried the door. Locked. I walked around the house again, looking for any other potential access points. Once I had done a lap I made up my mind to try my hand at a little B&E.

  Thanks to an eight-foot high wooden fence and several Douglas fir trees the backyard was quite private, which made it unlikely that I’d arouse suspicion from any neighbours. I unzipped my hoodie and wrapped it around my elbow. It took me a couple of tries before I was able to smash the frosted glass with enough force to break the window. I listened closely for any sounds coming from inside but again heard nothing. I carefully reached my hand through the shattered glass and reached around blindly until I found the lock. I quickly and furtive
ly slipped inside the suite and closed the door behind me. My nose was immediately assaulted with the pungent stench of cat urine. After fumbling along the wall for a few seconds I found a light switch.

  The basement suite was a grimy mess. Dressers were overturned, ratty furniture was cut open, and clothes were strewn across the floor. Someone had definitely been here in search of something, and even more interestingly, had locked the door after they left. I had been on enough police ride-alongs growing up to know what a place looks like after it has been tossed by the cops. But there was nothing professional about the way Remo Willis’ pad had been searched, as the one bedroom unit looked like it had been hit by a tornado. The kitchen was even more chaotic, its sticky countertops cluttered with countless coffee filters, measuring cups, and glass jars. I looked under the sink and found dozens of empty bottles of drain cleaner and turkey basters.

  That’s when I realized Remo Willis had been using his home as a makeshift meth lab. Yaba wasn’t the only narcotic I had tried during the months I had bummed around Thailand and the Philippines, searching for ways to deaden the anguish that had plagued me since leaving professional wrestling. Suffice it to say that as a result of my travels the urine smell in Remo’s home should have clued me in right away that his residence was being used to cook meth, especially when there was no evidence of kitty litter or cat food anywhere. Cooking meth produces a terrible odour, which is why the windows and door that connected to the upstairs of the house had all been sealed with duct tape, trapping the potent smell inside the basement suite. I used a crusty spatula I found in a drawer to inspect the garbage can under the sink, but all I found were fast food wrappers and more empty containers. I checked the refrigerator and found a paper bag containing three frozen dead mice. Kind of an odd thing to keep in your freezer, unless you happen to have a snake around.

  A shrill ring caused my heart to skip a beat. I whirled around and zeroed in on the sound of a landline telephone partially obscured by a mound of dirty laundry in the corner of the living room. I used my foot to push aside denim and flannel and picked up the receiver.