by Jason Ridler
“No.”
“If you don’t, I may tell Alan.”
My guts clenched.
She smiled. “And I’ll leave out the part where I begged for it.” I exhaled.
“You really are terrible at your job, James. Good at being a human shield, good for rutting, but when that’s done you’re a husk without reason or calculation. Now, tell me what kind of car you’d like.”
I ground my teeth.
“Oh, if you’d like an upgrade, I’d be happy to do it. Given your outfit this morning, I assume anything would be an improvement. A Bentley? Rather like putting lace on a sow, but you’d be the one driving, not me.”
I stewed looking at the hazy orange horizon, mind sore and body aching from the doped-up rush of Black Lotus and rough sex.
“Tell him.”
She sighed. “Don’t use reverse psychology with someone who reads Jung’s work in German.”
“Sag ihm,” I said, with the harshness German brings out in all who learned it first from reels on the rise of the Third Reich. “Tell him I forced myself upon you. I’ll wait. I’ll take the hit. I’ll go to jail, then prison, because I won’t stand a chance with a public defender while you open your purse and buy the law to be on your side. I’ll do a nickel. Catch up on my reading. And think of you every day.”
The lifelines around her mouth shook once as she tried to regain her composure. “There are other fates than prison.”
I snickered “Then kill me.”
Her cheeks flexed in frustration.
“You heard me, Veronica. Pay off a hit man. Best be someone with good aim, because I’ve been known to catch a bullet. Then cover the trail that leads from him to you. Did Jung cover the finer aspects of ‘cover your ass when hiring a contract killer?’ About the loose ends you’ll have when they have something on you? And if you think finding an intermediary will save them from finding the primary, you have no idea how the shadows of this world can taste the smell of money off of people like you. If your best-case scenario is to have me killed, realize you’ll inherit the loose ends of murder that you can’t even begin to consider because, sweetheart, you’ve never tasted the darkness you’re bragging about. I’ve seen men torn apart with machine guns. I’ve killed men with my own two hands. I’ve been tortured by those who thrive on suffering and whose appetite for misery is bottomless. So, if that’s what you’re playing, princess, get ready for a thousand sleepless nights in which every cicada, every grasshopper, every moan of your mansion sounds like your payback coming to slap your ass before it caves in your skull.”
I put my hands behind my head. “You know what your problem is, Veronica? You were born rich, you’ll die rich, and you think of everyone around you as a toy, a chess piece, a servant. No one can touch you. But that’s blinded you to a harder truth. Wanna know what it is?”
Her fingers wrapped around the wheel so tight I could see early-onset osteoarthritis gnawing at her cartilage.
“Let me tell ya, babe. You have everything, so you assume that’s power. You live in a glass house that makes that clear. But you’re outside the garden gate now, and the rules are different. Not to mention your powers are fading, just like your looks.” That bit her like a viper. “Out here, you can swing a money sack and get shit done. Absolutely. But eventually, your arm gets tired. And those that you’ve been hitting? They’ve been waiting. For a wrong turn. A bad decision. A misstep. A moment alone. Because as powerful as you are, there’s something even stronger.” I stuck my feet up on the dash, making sure my heels made a dent. “People with nothing to lose.”
She inhaled so hard I thought she’d black out.
“So, let’s call it jake. And you’ll have to do something else to make you feel safe.”
“And what might that be.”
I stuck out my right hand. “Trust.”
She groaned.
“I’m no fan of Hemingway, but that suicidal drunk made a good point: ‘The only way to know if someone is trustworthy is to trust them.’” She shook her head. “Or live with the knowledge that we could both make each other’s lives miserable.”
She pouted, and it was so cute I almost didn’t hate her.
Her slim hand grabbed mine.
We shook.
“Now, admit it. You’re impressed I can speak German and quote Hemingway.”
She groaned. “Any moron watching Hogan’s Heroes can pick up German, and any man with a dick has read Hemingway. You’ll have to do better than that.”
I laughed. She grinned. We drove in silence until we reached 18th and Grand.
23
THE LIGHTS OF THE OLYMPIC MARQUEE WERE somewhat dimmed by the haze of a heady cloud made by the smoke rising from a score of tiny joints. But it was plenty bright enough to read:
TONIGHT: ALL AMERICAN WRESTLING!
Underneath that it said:
TOMORROW: THE PRETTY THINGS!
And, in much smaller letters:
AND THE BILLY MARS BAND
I chuckled at Billy’s lack of headliner status, then proceeded toward the stage door.
“You’re actually going inside?”
I’d not given Veronica an invitation to join me. Hell, I had expected her to drop me off like I was her juvenile delinquent son. But here she was as I made my way around the plain square block of concrete. She kept up, looking ten times better than the freckled gals in hip-huggers and glazed and confused eyes.
“What, not a fan of wrestling? You like big strong men.”
“It’s fake. You know that, right?”
“Sure. Just like Hamlet’s fake.”
“Grown men pretending to punch each other for those who think it is real is hardly Shakespeare, and you know it.”
“Your class bias is showing. Also, the top of your stocking.” She adjusted her dress without an ounce of composure slipping from her stride. “Also, this has to do with the case.”
“Wrestlers attacked the Legion Hall? That’s a headline for the National Enquirer.”
“I miss their old format of crime and horror stories from around the world. Now it’s just another celebrity-hunting rag that thinks aliens live in Nixon’s jowls.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I stopped and turned to give Veronica my full attention and the last vestiges of the beast of old James Brimstone shook the new bars but was too weak to rattle a Christmas bell. “No. I didn’t. And it’s probably best you don’t follow me from here on in.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re . . . wrestling? What does this proletariat trough have to do with your dying Indian?”
“Apache. Believe it or not, it’s complicated.” And involved the drug that had sexed her up enough to choke me like pit fighter. “If you want to stay for the show, you can have a seat. There are two reserved under Jack Lumber.”
“Clever name, for a six-year-old held back a year.”
“I’ve always loved hate from a pretty face.”
“It’s not hate, James. It’s honesty.” She turned on her heels and assumed a queenly bearing as she walked back to the marquee. I turned away, trying not to care if she looked back. Her voice pierced the night air.
“James.”
I spun around, half-prepared to toss the gym bag full bore at her million-dollar glare.
Her hands were clasped as if in prayer, regal expression slightly softened but not entirely humbled. “I hope you’re a better detective than I think you are.”
I grinned. “That makes two of us.”
Around the corner was a stretch of gray wall that housed the meat of muscle and pain. A couple of large Buicks circled the area as if to keep the hordes of fans—who had not appeared—from crushing the mighty men of the squared circle.
At that door stood a friendly giant clad in chinos and a Lacoste tennis shirt, all six-foot-seven of him looking fiercer than the little alligator on his baby-blue chest. Cigarette smoke haloed his head. “Was starting to think you were the shithook Sam thought you we
re.”
“Nice to see you, too, Achilles. And I apologize for my tardiness. My car was stolen and—”
He waved off my excuses. “Just get in there and talk to the booker so you don’t screw up our night. We’re starving for asses in seats and you stinking up the joint will cost us all money while you vanish. But don’t think you won’t get a receipt.” He took a deep drag of his smoke to show off his massive chest. “Receipt” was carny slang for “returning the favor to those who fucked you over.” He opened the door.
“Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”
Pot gave way to Cuban smoke thick and blue. Cutting my way through the fog, I saw a female form. Male voices were muttering low, sweet, unlike any locker room I’d ever had the misfortune to stumble through. The voices cleared and the smoke thinned as I walked down the concrete corridor, but the words kept rolling, the croaky voices of tough guys trying to soften and these words falling out.
“Condolences.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Real shame.”
“Jack was a good worker.”
“Anything you need, Sam.”
Achilles shut the door. The woman who thought I murdered her husband during a skateboard race was now coming into focus.
The bikini was gone, replaced by what must be the West Coast wrestling version of widow’s weeds: black mini-skirt, tights, and boots topped by a bright-pink peasant blouse. Fresh makeup starting to run. Samantha Lumber, or Lumbowski, or whatever his real name had been, stood embraced by a crescent of muscle and beer fat, bronzed men with mashed ears and a range of haircuts from bald to balding to buzz cut to thick manes of black and blond and blue. Eyes like a ferret, Sam’s gaze darted at me as I walked out of smoke with her husband’s bag, his costume, and his legacy. Her head shook. “You.”
I nodded. “Me.”
“I want to talk to him in private, Shemp.”
Shemp was a thick cut of beef in a canary-yellow and lime-green jacket that was stretched to the limit. His red face and ears told me two things: he was a former grappler, which meant he had enough real wounds on him that he could probably stretch most guys until they screamed, and he was the booker. Everyone else seemed allergic to shirts.
“Use my office, Sammy. But we need him. And don’t worry. We’ll make things right.”
Threatened with murder before a weak crowd, I smiled at everyone and introduced myself while Sam strutted through the men, who parted like a fleshy Red Sea and glared hate. “Hey, James Brimstone. Nice to meet you. Great wrestling tongs. Looking forward to working with you. Kayfabe for life, carny code in effect.”
Snorts and threats dropped behind my back as we pulled right and took the door labeled MANAGEMENT in blue and white.
Inside, I relaxed to take a punch or kick to whatever part of my body she felt like swelling until it popped. Instead, Sam kept her back to me. The tiny place smelled of ancient urine and the Budweiser that made the urine. There was a paisley couch ripped at all the edges that might as well be used as a biological weapon. On the edge of my awareness, I could feel the ghosts of glory days past, the ringing of bells and ears, the fights and bets, the sex and drugs and stains of a thousand punches, hammerlocks, and stampeding elephants.
Sam stood like a dagger, so I remained still and silent. My mouth had been the least reliable piece of meat on my body for the past day, and if I’d opened my yap and slapped a widow on the day her husband was on ice there was a good chance that karma, if it existed, would toss me in a sack and drop me in an abyss. She turned, claws digging into her forearm. Tears hugged her eyes, the cheeks below already wet. “They told me.”
I had no idea who they were or what the question was, so I didn’t move a rat’s itchy ass and held loose, still waiting for the salvo of suffering from her red, raw knuckles.
“Heart attack. Had nothing to do with you. And everything to do with . . .” She shook and the tears dropped. “My daughter is sick.”
“I heard.”
Her thin lips flatlined. “You’re going to do Jack’s job for him.”
“I will.”
“You ain’t taking a dime of the purse. I get the purse for both jobs.”
“Right. Wait, both? I just have his outfit for The Assassinator.”
“They want you in the exhibit, too. And you’ll do it. And you’ll make it look great.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Of course. Thank you for letting me try and make things right—”
Her finger cut the air between us. “Shut the fuck up, mark,” she said. “I don’t care about you, or what you want, or what you do when I don’t see you.” She blinked, and that was enough to make her tough, frantic energy shimmer and simmer down. Her boots stumbled back. I charged to grab her shoulders. “I wouldn’t sit on that couch unless you’ve had a tetanus shot. Can you stand?”
Sam jerked away from me like my hands were burning holes in her skin. Her boots found balance and she gathered herself. Her eyes met mine. “He came back to life.”
My jaw hung a legitimate three inches slack. “Jack?”
She looked dazed. “Like something out of a movie. A monster on a slab. He tossed the ambulance guy into the wall and thrashed as I jumped on him. But he was dead. They said so. His pulse said so. His heart said so. Then his eyes bugged out and he grabbed his chest.” She shook, and then shook her head, a dizzy test pattern of grief. “I could barely make out what he was screaming.”
“But you could?
She sucked in breath.
“What did he say?”
The words resisted her first attempt before she spit them out. “Black Lotus.”
The door opened and Sam smacked my arms down. Shemp’s sweaty five o’clock shadow was like a warren of frozen black ants on his face, barely a smidgen apart. “Hate to be the boss,” he said in a greasy voice, “but this is showbiz, Sam. The show must go on. Is your boy ready?”
She strutted. “Jack was my boy. This is some idiot in a suit. He’ll do it. Both matches.”
“Then he better get smart with the boys he’s working with. Now. You,” he said. “You’re doing a squash for Kodiak Slim. Then you’re putting on the Assassinator for a tag with Kodiak against Bikini Atoll and the Dynamite Hippie.” Names had changed some since I was trolling for work as a stick with the carny. There were always wild characters, but these ones sounded like they’d fallen out of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon, hit the gym, and found their home in the ring.
“Got it.” I nodded to Sam and kept my mouth on silent.
She grabbed my arm. “Do not fuck this up or I will break your goddamn neck.”
She released me and I went into the lion’s den of wrestlers.
Down the hall I could hear guttural laughter, grunts, and the sound of cards being flipped. Disinfectant, Bactine, and other salves of the trade created an aroma that screamed “boys who fight like men.” I’d been a lone operator as long as I could imagine and thought sports were the opiate of the masses, but wrestling, boxing, and other gags and fights of small cadres or individuals did have a certain pull. Still, this was not my world, and never would be. I’d need to prove myself as soon as I turned the corner, or these wolves would devour me whole.
And then I heard a scream.
24
I RAN, HOLDING BACK THE GYM BAG AS IF DAVID had upgraded his slingshot since beating Goliath. I turned the corner, hard, and even started to mutter Tyger Tyger in case I’d need a joyride to take on a room full of fake and real fighters.
But the sight stopped my fears.
A card table lay knocked over, four hands of mixed value at gin rummy splayed near the shining boots of six wrestlers. Near the table stood more muscle per ounce than even Achilles had to brag about. His abdominal wall was an eight-pack of lean muscle, surrounded by hulking lats; his broad chest was crisscrossed with throbbing veins. His left hand—which could have gripped a small meteor—was attached to a thick cut of a wrist, leading to a biceps bigger than my head, and rolling shoul
ders made of solid rock. His right hand was trapped behind his back, and whoever was responsible was hidden by the titan’s muscle. Atop the thick neck was a mop of long, blond hair that hung down to his chest where each pectoral slab was tattooed with a mushroom cloud. I was a lousy detective, but would have bet against the odds at Cactus’s casino that this was Bikini Atoll.
“Get off me, maggot.”
Most of the six beer-guts-and-biceps crew were smiling, laughing, and pointing. Amid the muttering jibes, I could hear what I’d already deduced. The big man couldn’t counter a hammerlock. Dr. Fuji would have laughed as Bikini tried in vain to reach behind him. As I watched Bikini struggle, a hand slapped my shoulder. The hand belonged to a guy with an enormous black beard and wild curly hair, who stared down on me from a height nearly a foot above mine. “Betcha he calls for momma before he cries uncle.”
I smiled. “I never bet on the misery of grown men.”
“Then you must be new.”
“Shemp!” Bikini said. “Get these animals off me!” Then his arm was free, and by god, those biceps had to be twenty-three inches all the way around.
The big beard laughed. “You dodged a bullet.”
I smiled. “Better than catching it.” I offered my hand, preparing for ten different kinds of wrist locks or stretches to tear me apart. Instead, the callused bear paw grasped mine. “Kodiak.”
Bikini shook off the pain. “Laugh it up, has-beens. You guys just made an enemy today. I’m the only one these people are coming to see. You wanna see who’s got stroke with the boss? You’ll be walking my bags to the airport before we get to San Diego.”
I noticed a little guy in a referee’s uniform in the corner. He caught my eye until Bikini paced over, stood before me, and blocked the view.
