Murder on the Ropes
By S. Furlong-Bolliger
Copyright 2011 by S. Furlong-Bolliger
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by S. Furlong-Bolliger and Untreed Reads Publishing
Death by Jello
Christmas in Killarney
Dead Giveaway
Paddy Whacked
http://www.untreedreads.com
Murder on the Ropes
By S. Furlong-Bolliger
I was sitting at the bar next to Calvin the Cyclone. He was swigging down beer like it was water. Even in the dim light I could see a trace of neon yellow makeup left over on the underside of his earlobe. I tapped his shoulder and pointed it out. “Missed a spot.”
He muttered something and started swiping at the side of his face with a bar napkin. “If I was smart I would have used a gimmick that didn’t require this stuff.”
I nodded. As a woman who barely managed lip gloss and mascara, I could appreciate the downside to putting on a yellow face with a black lightning bolt down the middle every day.
I was already on my second drink and still no sign of my father. The show had finished over an hour ago and most of the guys were already here. For as long as I can remember, my father and his colleagues had been gathering after their shows here at Hell’s Kitchen, Home of the Flamin’ Burger. An unknown neighborhood establishment, it was the one place they could get together outside the ring without fear of running into fans. “Any idea what might be keeping my dad?” I asked.
The Cyclone took another long swig from his beer before answering. “No idea. Could be that he’s screwed up from his match. That was a hell of a slam—” He stopped short.
I turned to see what had interrupted his focus. Nikki Fox, queen of pro wrestling, was sashaying across the floor, turning heads with her trademark big hair and bigger boobs. Funny thing about Nikki, she pretty much never left character. I wondered if she looked like that when she did her grocery shopping—must put a new spin on low-priced meat.
To my surprise, she sauntered right over to our portion of the bar.
“So, Mac’s little girl is back in town, huh?” she said, eyeing me with her raccoon-lined eyes and motioning for a drink.
“Hello, Nikki. Good to see you again, too.”
“I thought you were at college studying to be a doctor or something?”
“Lawyer.”
She tilted her chin back and laughed, her long dangling earrings reflecting the light as her head shook. “Did you hear that?” she snorted. “Mac’s little girl is going to be a lawyer. You all better be nice to her just in case we need her to get us out of trouble one day.”
I smiled politely and glanced toward the door. What was keeping my father? I really wish he would have let me take him someplace else to celebrate his birthday. It wasn’t that I didn’t like his wrestling friends, just that…well…since going to school, I had outgrown this crowd. Besides, I’d had enough of wrestling growing up with a single parent that made his living on the pro circuit.
Further on down the bar, The Sledgehammer leaned forward. “I’d rather be going into the courtroom every day than into that ring. Shit, I can hardly walk when I get out of bed in the morning.”
“That’s nothing,” Cyclone started. “After my last match with Triple P, I thought I was going to die. What’s with that guy anyway? He surprised me with a spine breaker that about put me in the hospital.”
“Yeah, what’s his problem?” Dangerous Dan chimed in. “That S-O-B can’t seem to follow the story line.” He’d come up behind me to place an order at the bar. I was shocked by how much he’d aged in the past year. He wasn’t looking quite so dangerous these days. I’d even heard he wasn’t allowed in the ring anymore. Instead, they had the poor guy washing towels at the club. If Dad didn’t get out of the business soon, he’d be like Dan—a washed up has-been.
“Hey, leave Trip alone,” cooed Nikki as she drained her first drink. “I just happen to know that outside the ring he’s a real gentleman,” she said, raising a suggestive brow.
That brought a few hoots from the guys. One of them lifted his glass for a toast. “To Nikki, the woman who can—”
I took that moment to make my exit.
Grabbing my drink, I headed across the room to where I had spied Leo Salvatore sitting in his favorite booth.
“Hey, Leo.” I slid in across from him. “I was expecting Dad to be here.”
“He should be on his way. He stayed after to talk to one of the guys.”
“Oh really? Who?”
“Triple P. They have a few things to straighten out.” He motioned for the waitress. “Let me buy you a drink, Delaney. You can tell me all about school.”
Leo “The Lion” Salvatore was one of wrestling’s all-time greats. Back in the late eighties, early nineties, he was a major player in the wrestling world. He’d won five major titles before he retired. In the late nineties, he decided to start his own organization on Chicago’s South Side. More of a traditionalist, he took on a lot of older wrestlers—guys like my dad who were a step slower than they were in their prime, but still could put on a good enough show to draw a crowd. Recently, he’d been adding some newcomers like Triple P to keep the ticket fresh.
The barmaid took my order and scurried off. “School’s going fine, Leo. But what about you? Dad said that Shirley’s been sick.” Shirley and Leo had been married for almost fifty years.
“Yeah, afraid it isn’t good. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” What else could I say? An awkward silence fell between us.
My eyes wandered to the brick wall behind us. Almost every inch was covered in framed photos of wrestling legends. I let my glance settle on The Highlander, standing center ring in his tartan plaid kilt, dagger strapped to waist, sword drawn—a bloodthirsty Scottish warrior ready for battle.
Leo followed my gaze and smiled. “Your father’s still drawing a crowd. You should hear them cheer when he enters the arena playing the pipes. Thought you would have been ringside tonight.”
“I got tied up with things.” Truth was there was a time when I was proud that my father was a pro wrestler; but, now that I had gotten away from this scene, grown up a little, it was all starting to seem a little silly. All the dramatically scripted moves in the ring seemed laughable now. Besides, I had seen enough wrestling shows to last a lifetime. Not that I wasn’t grateful, I mean, wrestling had paid my tuition. It’s just that it was time for Dad to retire and get a more traditional job before he became a has-been.
Leo picked up the pitcher and refilled his glass. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, but I think I’ll wait for Dad. So, he’s having a sit-down with Triple P, huh?”
“Yeah, the guy’s a pain in the ass. Wish I hadn’t signed him on.”
“What’s the problem?”
Leo leaned in. “Steroids, probably. He goes off half-cocked
all the time—real aggressive. Can’t follow the story line and can’t leave it in the ring.”
“Sounds like he’s got some issues. Can’t you break the contract?”
Leo grimaced. “Maybe. I’d been thinking about getting an attorney, but…you know.”
“Money’s tight?”
“Yeah, Shirl’s medical bills and there’s a crap load of code issues with the building—costly ones. I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is.”
Leo had converted an old middle-school gymnasium into an arena that could seat around a thousand. The rest of the building he turned into a training center.
“There he is.” Leo waved to the door where Dad was standing looking a little dazed in the dim lighting.
I met him halfway, throwing my arms around his neck. “Happy Birthday, Dad!”
A couple of the guys from the bar raised their mugs and echoed my sentiments. Dad nodded toward them as we settled in across from Leo. I noticed Dad was rubbing his arm, cringing.
The waitress appeared out of nowhere, sliding a mug his way. “Happy Birthday, Mac.”
“Thanks, Carla. Hey, Leo, we’ve got to talk.”
“Triple P?”
“He left script again tonight. About broke my arm.”
I spoke up, “Are you okay, Dad? I could run you by the ER.” Just one more reason why my father should get out of this business—he was going to get seriously hurt one of these days.
He waved me off, turning back to Leo. “What was he trying to pull leaving script like that?”
Leo shrugged, lifting his hands in a palm-out gesture. “Beats me. What did he have to say for himself?”
“That’s the thing. He agreed to meet me after the show, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. He skipped out.”
I interrupted. “Really, Dad, maybe we should have someone look at your arm.”
“I’m fine, honey.” He was starting to get impatient with me. “What are you going to do about this, Leo? The guy’s dividing the school. He’s causing a lot of problems.”
Leo didn’t respond. Instead, he was looking across the room, a scared look on his face.
I followed his gaze to a short paunchy guy, dressed in black, with his hair slicked back. He was flanked on either side by a couple of heavy-set goons.
Leo excused himself.
“Who’s that?” I asked, after Leo had left.
“Benny Ramirez. He’s a loan shark.”
“Oh, no. Are things really that bad?”
“Afraid so. Leo can’t seem to draw enough of a crowd these days.”
“Why’s that?”
“Who knows? Part of it’s the economy. But, Leo’s got even bigger problems.”
“Like Triple P.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Leo doesn’t want to admit it, but the guy’s causing problems behind the scenes.”
“Really?”
“I’m not sure what his motive is, but he’s working hard to bring down the—”
Dad didn’t get to finish. Across the room, Leo was being manhandled by one of Benny’s goons. Dad hurried over. A couple of the other guys joined him. The goon backed off quickly once he was approached by a half dozen pro wrestlers. That, plus two uniformed cops had just walked through the door.
The room grew quiet.
“We’re looking for Malcolm MacKay,” one of the cops said.
“Mac?” someone asked. No one ever called my father by his given name—Mac or even The Highlander, but never Malcolm.
“I’m Malcolm MacKay,” Dad said, stepping forward. He looked confused.
One of the officers placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Mackay, do you own a nine-inch Scottish dagger engraved with the name Highlander?”
“Yes. That’s my dagger. I use it in my act.”
“We need to talk to you about the murder of Tony Panero.”
Now I was confused. Who was Tony Panero?
“Noooo!” someone shrieked from across the room. I looked over to where Nikki was clutching one of the guys. “Not Trip,” she sobbed.
* * *
The next morning I was back at the arena. My father had been arrested for Triple P’s murder. The investigators had found his prints on the murder weapon and there was a witness placing him at the scene around the time of the murder. As far as the police were concerned, the case was closed. However, I knew differently. My father could never kill anyone. The cops had it all wrong. I just needed to prove it.
I headed first for Leo’s office. I found him leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk and phone to his ear. He must not have heard me enter.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he was saying. “It’s a full house tonight. The murder’s really bringing them in. I couldn’t have created this much buzz if I had tried.”
Or had he? A shiver ran down my back…was it possible? I shook myself, of course not! Leo had been a close family friend for years. I was just letting the stress get to me. But, Shirley was sick and the club was in financial trouble. Then there was Benny the loan shark…how far would Leo go to save himself?
I cleared my throat.
Startled, he bolted into an upright position. “Hey, I’ve got to run,” he said, quickly hanging up.
“Delaney! How’s your father doing?”
His fake sincerity ticked me off. “Well, considering he’s in jail for a murder he didn’t commit, not good.”
“Del, is there anything I—”
“You can give me access to the club. I want to interview everyone who was here that night and get to the bottom of this.”
“Isn’t that the cops’ job?”
“They’re not doing their job. They’re satisfied that they have the right person.”
His hesitated, making me think that perhaps he thought they had the right person, too.
“You’ve known my father for years, Leo. Do you really think he could kill someone?”
“No, of course not,” he backtracked. “Check around as much as you want.”
“I’ll need to start with whoever discovered the body.”
“That would be the janitor. Bob’s his name. You can probably find him out in the arena, getting things ready for tonight’s show.”
I did find Bob in the arena. He was running a broom along the underside of the bleachers, gathering a huge pile of trash. The first thing I noticed about the guy was that he had a mullet that would put Billy Ray Cyrus to shame.
“Ever find any money under here?” I asked as I approached. Getting a closer look, I had a feeling I’d seen him somewhere before.
His wide grin had a few gaps. “Yes, ma’am. I consider it my tip.” He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt, suspenders, and cowboy boots. He seemed sort of familiar, or maybe it was just that I had been to one too many country bars. Just standing next to this guy made me want to break into a line dance.
I introduced myself and asked him to show me where he found Triple P.
“He was right there, on this weight bench,” he started, after we had worked our way down the hall and to the weight room. Half the room was cordoned off with police tape. In the other half, a group of guys were gathered around watching The Sledgehammer squat a loaded bar. He was grunting like an animal as the guys cheered him on.
“He was just lying there with the knife in his chest,” Bob said, pointing to the weight bench. “There was a lot of blood.”
“Did it look like he’d been lifting?”
Bob nodded. “Yes, it did. In fact, when I first came in, I thought he’d had a lifting accident. The bar was lying across his neck, you see. So I ran over, thinking I could help. That’s when I saw the knife.”
“Why would he be lifting after a match? Don’t you think he’d be tired?” I asked, still wondering where I knew this guy from. It was driving me nuts.
Bob chuckled. “That’s how he was. I’d see him in here all the time, day and night. It was like he just couldn’t get enough.”
“So after you discovered the body, you called the poli
ce.”
“Yes ma’am. I called the police right away.”
“Was anyone else around at the time?”
“No, can’t say that there was. The last person that I saw leave was your daddy.”
Ah…the eyewitness. I frowned. “Are you sure? No one else?”
“I’m sure, Miss.”
I was still wondering where I’d seen Bob. I finally decided to just ask. “Do I know you from somewhere, Bob?”
His grin widened. “Perhaps you remember me from my wrestling days.”
“Wrestling days?” It still wasn’t connecting.
He puffed out his chest, tilted his head back and let out an ear-piercing Yeehaw!
Oh my God…it was Hillbilly Bob! What happened? He’d gone from wrestling star to janitor. Unbelievable! I really had to get my father out of this murder mess and onto a new career track before he ended up like this guy.
Before I could change the subject, Bob launched into a line of stories about his glory days. After a few eye-glazing minutes, I politely excused myself, leaving him to reminisce on his own, and made my way across the room to where The Sledgehammer was working out. As soon as I approached, his lifting buddies took off. “What’s their problem?” I asked.
Sledge shrugged. “Most of them were friends with Triple.”
“That’s surprising. I didn’t think Triple had that many friends.”
“Things have been changing around here since you’ve been in school.”
“Like what?”
“Well, when Triple P came here, he brought a personal manager with him—a guy named Buck Lynn.”
I squinted. “I think I’ve heard of him.”
“Probably. He was big in Atlanta during the nineties. He was a trainer back then, bringing up some of the best. Recently, he’s turned to managing. He’s been recruiting some of Leo’s younger guys for a new promotion he wants to start.”
“So, Triple’s really just a pawn. Buck allowed him to sign on here just so he could get his foot in the door and steal some of Leo’s boys?”
“Seems so.”
“And, where did you stand with all this, Sledge?”
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