“Yes?” she said, turning her head and flipping her hair over her shoulder like a model in a Vidal Sassoon shampoo commercial.
“Last night, did we, uh . . . ”
“What?”
“You know,” I said, motioning to the bed.
“You don’t remember?”
“I was a little drunk.”
“I noticed.”
“So did we?”
“No, Jed. We didn’t.”
“But . . . the satin sheets?” I said, hearing the disappointment in my voice as I held up a lacy throw pillow.
“Are for my guest bed, dumbass. My bedroom is across the hall. I guess those detective instincts of yours don’t kick in until the afternoon.”
“Then why did you just kiss me?”
“Why did you decide to finally tell me about your past?” Rya smiled. “And for the record,” she said, “if we had slept together, your world would have been so epically rocked there’s no amount of alcohol that could impair your ability to remember it, bub.”
I chuckled heartily. For a guy planning to attend a funeral, my day was suddenly looking pretty bright.
THIRTY-ONE
The gravestone was covered with weeds. It had only been a couple of months since I had last visited, but with the frequent autumn rainfall it was enough time for dandelions and crabgrass to sprout up and shroud the engraved bronze plaque that adorned the granite memorial.
I emptied dead flowers and dirty water out of the cremation plot’s vase, then unwrapped a bouquet of pink and white gerbera daisies and placed them on display. I caught a whiff of the freshly cut flowers and was swept away to a Sunday afternoon decades earlier, where I saw my ten-year-old self holding my mother’s hand as we strolled up and down the aisles of Art Knapp Plantland & Florist garden centre. The floral scent faded. The memory slipped away.
I removed the weeds surrounding Linda Annalise Ounstead’s memorial and wiped down the plaque with a handful of water from the nearby Koi pond. A crisp breeze brushed my hair to the side, and I watched as a lily pad floated across the water and underneath an arched redwood bridge. A black and orange fish swam by my feet, and I stood still while I listened to the soft sound of swaying branches.
I was with my mother the day she had picked the spot where she wanted to be interred, and remembered fondly the numerous times she spoke about the Koi pond’s serenity during her final days. I knelt down on one knee and kissed the bronze plaque, then headed off down the winding road that led to the chapel at Forest Lawn cemetery. Emerald grass shimmered with dewdrops as far as the eye could see, and the vibrant green landscape was peppered with black as a murder of crows cawed and hopped over graves.
I shifted uncomfortably in my navy suit and plunged a thumb into my waistband to relieve some of the pressure on my abdomen. Despite being a made-to-measure Coppley suit, the high-quality fabric was having difficulty adapting to the extra pounds that had taken up residence around my midsection since my wrestling days.
I entered the chapel and found it was at about one-third of its capacity, the long oak pews filled with what had to be a more eclectic congregation than what the Forest Lawn funeral director was used to. Muscle-bound meatheads, cleavage bombs, and numerous people with multi-coloured and extreme hair styles were crammed into the first few rows, whereas the handful of attendees with a more mundane appearance had sought refuge from the outcasts in the pews behind them.
“Yo, Jed!” I turned to my left but couldn’t see the person calling my name.
“Over here, bro!” I scanned the pews again until I saw a tiny hand breach the surrounding shoulders and heads and wave frantically. I walked toward Pocket as he climbed on top of Ula’s thigh and continued to motion me over.
“We saved you a seat,” Pocket said proudly.
I excused myself as I made my way down the pew. I scanned the crowd but didn’t see Grasby or any of his goons. I did, however, make eye contact with Stormy Daze, who was dressed elegantly in a black dress that covered her usual buxomness. She smiled sadly and nodded her head. I returned the gesture.
“It’s good you made it, bro,” declared Pocket as I sat down beside him. “Mamba would like it that we’re here together.”
“I think you’re right,” I said, shaking hands with them both. “Grasby’s a no-show, eh?”
“Fuckin’ spiteful prick,” griped Pocket, shaking his head.
A few minutes later a well-groomed and dapper man in his mid-forties walked to the podium, which was beside a large, dated portrait picture of Johnny in a suit and tie. The man introduced himself as Rick Schumacher, Johnny’s older brother. He launched into a spiel about his childhood memories of growing up with Johnny. I leaned over to Pocket and whispered.
“I didn’t know Johnny had a brother.”
“They weren’t very close. Hadn’t seen each other since Mamba’s mama passed.” I remembered that Johnny had been extremely close with his mom and was devastated when she had died, about six months before our fateful Indian strap match.
“Did he have any other family?” I asked. Pocket shook his head. Johnny’s brother prattled on about how he and Johnny used to make paper sail boats and float them down a stream. He made no mention of Johnny’s passions in life, no mention of his fervent love for his pet snake or professional wrestling.
A beanpole with a red Mohawk went up to the podium next to talk about what an inspiration Johnny had been for the younger aspiring pro wrestlers in XCCW. His words were earnest and heartfelt and by the time he finished speaking there was hardly a dry eye in the chapel.
Next Johnny’s contractor boss, for whom Johnny had worked part time when not wrestling, took to the podium and told a funny story about how he took his employees to see Johnny perform one night. The construction workers were blown away by Johnny’s skill and panache, and upon returning to work the following week Johnny quickly became the most popular guy on the crew.
The floor was then opened up to anyone who wanted to say a few words about Johnny. Several more wrestlers stood up to speak about my friend, and they all said more of the same — Johnny was a good and kind man, he had a big heart, he truly loved what he did.
Pocket nudged me. “Aren’t you going to say something, bro?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” There was no mistaking the disappointment on the faces of Pocket and Tubbs.
“You should geev’um, brah,” said Tubbs. “’Tis what Johnny boy would want.” Pocket followed that up with a firm nod.
A few moments later I was behind the walnut and cherry oak podium looking out into a sea of faces made up of Johnny Mamba’s closest family and friends.
“As a lot of you know, Johnny Mamba had a signature wrestling move. The Cobra Clutch. It’s a solid submission hold. Nothing too flashy, maybe a bit dated, but it gets the job done. While other wrestlers would experiment with new moves and try out different finishers over the course of their careers, Johnny never did. He loved using that damn Cobra Clutch, and there was no coach or co-worker anywhere that could convince him otherwise.” There was soft laughter throughout the room, as many of Johnny’s peers knew all too well what I was talking about.
“I always assumed that Johnny preferred the Cobra Clutch because of its name and natural affiliation with snakes and his in-ring persona. It turns out that wasn’t the case. One time, back when Johnny and I were both working as tag-team partners out of a developmental territory in La Belle, Florida, the city was in the midst of hosting its annual Swamp Cabbage Festival. Never one to miss a good party, Johnny dragged me out for a night on the town, and before I knew it we were doing everything from judging the Miss Swamp Cabbage Pageant to tossing back tequila shots while placing bets on armadillo races.
“Needless to say, by the end of the night we were pretty loaded. Johnny, ever the animal lover, convinced me to sneak into t
he rodeo bullpen with him so we could feed the bulls some swamp cabbage. We did, and I had a particularly muscular bovine eating right out of the palm of my hand when suddenly some idiot security guard spotted Johnny and started screaming bloody murder. The guard ran toward us, waving his flashlight, not realizing that he was spooking the hell out of the bulls. Johnny yelled at him to calm down, but the guard kept raising hell. The bulls were quickly growing more and more agitated. Unlike Johnny, who was near the gate, I was trapped in the middle of the bullpen, surrounded by a herd of anxious horned beasts. That’s when Johnny sprung over the fence, swept the guard’s feet, and applied an actual Cobra Clutch hold around the man’s neck that rendered him unconscious in seconds.
“Within moments, all of the bulls settled down. I was able to exit the pen safely, and only after we had run half a mile did we stop to catch our breath and laugh over the absurdity of how I had nearly been trampled to death. As we walked home I remember teasing Johnny that even in life-or-death situations he still insisted upon using the Cobra Clutch. That’s when he told me why he used it.
“Johnny said that to him, the Cobra Clutch was much more than just a move. It was a metaphor. One that applied not just to his wrestling career, but also to how he lived his life. He said that there are two types of people in this world — those who grab life by the throat and apply a Cobra Clutch, and those who sit back, take it, and wind up stuck with nowhere to go.
“There have been times in my past when I’ve gone for it and really grabbed life by the throat. But there have also been times when I’ve been stagnant and in a rut. Johnny Mamba never made that mistake. He was a brave and kind soul who lived life to the fullest. He made the world a better place and I can’t think of a better way to honour him than to try and live my life like he did his.”
Before I could step down from the podium the crowd broke into a rousing applause. I tried to shun the attention and slip quietly back into my seat, but it was difficult considering that Pocket had gotten so emotional he started pumping his tiny fist and whooping. A minister closed out the service with a prayer. I noticed Wendy Steffen, the realtor whom Johnny had fallen for, quickly exit out the rear door of the chapel. I felt a tinge of sadness that she and Johnny never got a fair shot. The fact that she came to his funeral at all spoke volumes about the type of connection, however brief, they must have had.
We made our way to the reception hall and I quickly discovered that my presence was attracting many of the XCCW rookies whom Johnny had mentored. I dutifully glad-handed them and answered their questions, although it amazed me that Johnny had been able to be so patient with these kids when I found most of their eagerness and enthusiasm to be nettlesome and draining. Pocket and Tubbs set up shop beside me, acting as my de facto gatekeepers and essentially regulating the order in which I would meet the XCCW folk. More than a few wrestlers seemed to get a mischievous thrill each time I confirmed that I had indeed slugged Bert Grasby for disrespecting Johnny.
After half-an-hour I needed a break from the non-stop socializing so I excused myself to go to the washroom. Instead, I slipped outside into the parking lot, climbed behind the wheel of my truck and dug the flask of Crown Royal I had brought out of the glove compartment. I spun off the sterling silver top but before I could take a sip a chill tap danced down my spine as cold metal pressed against the base of my skull. I chanced a glance in the rear-view mirror and saw a revolver held against my head. But that wasn’t nearly as disconcerting as the revelation of who was holding the gun. Remo Willis was seated in the extended cab behind me. He looked heavier and more haggard than in his ASHL hockey profile picture, and I felt his breath on the back of my neck when he spoke.
“Drive.”
“Where?”
“Metrotown.”
“You like to do a little shopping in between murders?”
“Go,” he said, pressing the gun into my head.
We drove in silence as we wound our way through the cemetery. We reached the front gates and I pulled out into traffic, stealing a quick look at the glove compartment. If I could just find a way to distract him I could make a move for my revolver.
“Looking for this?” he said, tossing the Colt onto my lap. “I already unloaded it.” I drove us away from the cemetery and down a hill toward Metrotown, the massive shopping complex in Burnaby that was the second largest in Canada.
I reached up with my right hand and started loosening my tie.
“No sudden movements,” cautioned Willis, before tapping the the gun barrel to the back of my head again.
“If I’m going out, I’m sure as hell not going out wearing a damn necktie,” I replied. I yanked the tie over my head, threw it on the passenger seat, then loosened the top two buttons of my dress shirt. “What do you want, Willis?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“About Johnny.”
I shot daggers at him with my eyes through the rear-view mirror. “Don’t you dare say his name you piece of shit,” I growled. “You don’t get to talk about him. You want to shoot me? Fine. But I swear to Christ I’ll drive this truck into oncoming traffic before I let you say another word about my friend.”
“Even if I told you that I wasn’t the one who killed him?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Bullshit. Your prints are on the racquetball. You were there.”
“I never said I wasn’t there. I said I didn’t kill him.”
I glared at Remo Willis in the rear-view. His eyes were wide and pleading. “Even if you didn’t kill him yourself you were still complicit in his murder.”
“No, I wasn’t. Johnny was never supposed to get hurt.”
“Then why is he dead?”
“Because my boss ordered the hit.”
“Kendricks?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He was furious when he found out about my kidnapping plot. Accused me of putting his entire operation at risk for a meagre ten grand, even though if he paid me more I wouldn’t have been so hard up for cash in the first place. You have to understand, nobody was ever supposed to get hurt, not even the fucking snake. But I was strapped and Johnny wouldn’t stop yapping about the twenty Gs he’d just inherited. I mean, I wasn’t greedy, I only asked for half — ”
“Save it. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
“It’s the truth.”
The truck rolled to a stop at an intersection. I looked back over my shoulder. “Why come to me?” I asked.
“Where else am I going to go, the cops?”
“They would have cut you a sweet deal for turning on Kendricks.”
“Do you even know who you’re talking about, man? I’d be dead long before the case ever got to trial. The only chance I’ve got now is to run.”
The light turned green. I followed the road as it curved around Deer Lake Park. The nature reserve was an urban oasis of forests, trails and marshlands, and the Metrotown area skyline stood tall in the horizon. A skein of geese flew overhead, honking loudly as they soared above in a V-shaped formation. Remo glanced furtively out the window and shifted nervously in the back seat. I needed to keep him talking.
“So if you’re not a murderer, then why are you sitting in the back of my truck with a gun to my head?”
“Because you don’t believe me yet. And because I know Damian hired you to find me.”
“He said you’re a tweaker who stole fifty thousand dollars worth of product.”
Remo laughed heartily. “Just because I smoke and peddle a little rock on the side doesn’t mean I’m a junkie. You saw my place. Why do you think I cook my own meth? Damian’s shit is expensive and he doesn’t exactly offer employee discounts. Not to mention the fact that the man keeps records so meticulous they’d put a Jew accoun
tant to shame. I never had more than a couple grand’s worth of Damian’s shit to sell at any given time.”
Willis made sense — his crappy basement suite seemed more likely to be the residence of a low-level dealer, not a professional with access to tens of thousands of dollars worth of product. I also took note of his appearance, and with his muscular build and white teeth, he hardly looked like a person who was battling a meth addiction.
“The only thing I ever stole was this,” he said.
Willis handed me a large plastic Ziplock bag. Inside was a six-inch bloody knife. The weapon had clearly been custom made. Several skulls and crossbones made out of familiar looking engine parts were mounted along the handle in between engravings of swirling Celtic designs and studded red rubies. At the base of the blade where it met with the hilt there was a spiralling sea serpent wrapped around the T-shaped dagger. The knife looked like a gaudy prop from a Pirates of the Caribbean film. I realized that if this was the weapon used to murder Johnny, then a knife that had a coiled snake on its handle killed him. The sickening irony made me want to vomit.
“What is this?” I finally managed to ask.
“Lance’s knife. He’s the one who killed Johnny.”
Lance. Why did I know that name? I recalled my briefing with Dwayne Sankey of the VPD’s Gang Crime Unit. Lance Dennings AKA Hulkster Mustache. The massive muscle-bound monster who had knocked me unconscious and handcuffed me to the Predator statue.
“Tell me exactly what happened at the volleyball courts,” I commanded.
“By then the snake was already dead,” he said. “It ate some drugs that I forgot were stashed in the closet where I was keeping it. Damian had found out about my scheme and sent Lance along with me to ensure that everything went smoothly and that we got our money. We wore ski masks . . . at least, at first we did.
“Johnny had the ten Gs in a paper bag as he approached us and looked relieved when he saw the sack that held the snake. Lance ordered him to stop when he got close. Johnny obeyed and tossed the bag of money onto the sand in front of us. Lance motioned for me to pick it up. I did as I was told and bent over to grab the bag. But by the time I stood up again Lance had pulled his knife and was charging Johnny. I tried screaming but it was too late. Lance slit Johnny’s throat before he was even able to get his hands up in self-defense. I dropped the money and ran to Johnny. His throat was spewing blood and, uh — Christ, are you sure you want to hear this?”
Cobra Clutch Page 17
