Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  Julie nodded. Like everyone else, she’d seen some of it. She didn’t pay much attention, but apparently a lot of other people did.

  “Cost him a bundle, I guess, to get going. But where the cable went, Newhouse went. Nailed exclusive contracts—he was the only wrestling show on the eye. Cable expanded, he expanded, pretty soon he’s buying out the other regional promotions. They squealed—Newhouse wasn’t playing fair, didn’t stay in his own territory, and so on—but it didn’t do any good. Next he had people coming to local arenas to see live the wrestlers they saw on TV. They could even act like idiots on camera in audience shots—a real bonus, you know? Then Ted Turner came along—TNT cable. Offered better deals to some of Newhouse’s star performers, and his promotion took off, too.” Another long draught of beer. “Now it’s like rock groups—fans watch every week, see them in town a couple times a year. Kids buy T-shirts and lunch boxes and those—what you call them?—action toys. Add some broads wearing two Band-Aids and a cork, and start some story lines about girlfriends and sex parties, and you got a wrestling soap opera. Used to be family entertainment, but that’s changed, too. And man, the money rolls in. Wrestlers even been elected governor.”

  “Jesse Ventura.”

  “Yeah. Him.” The scarred head wagged in disbelief. “You don’t have to be dumb to be a wrestler, you only got to be smart enough to act dumb. And they still elected him!”

  “My client says he’s only interested in local wrestling. He says his plan will supplement the FWO instead of compete with it.”

  “What he says don’t mean much. It’s what the FWO thinks about him that counts.” The bulky shoulders bobbed. “Maybe it could work that way, but Sid Chertok’s got to protect his territory. He knows what Newhouse and Turner did to get started, and he’ll be worried about market saturation, too. My guess is any local promotion’s going to have to jump in bed either with Chertok or with one of the other majors, and Chertok wouldn’t like that kind of competition.” Schwartz’s voice said he wouldn’t put money on Lidke’s success going it alone. “There’s just too much money invested to let some local wildcatter start cutting into his territory.”

  “Even if the wildcatter’s not planning to tap the television market?”

  “What’s to keep him from changing his mind? There’s a lot of cable channels now. More every day, right? I mean, all the promoters got started that way, so they got to think that way, right? Plus the local arena gate’s good money, too. Why should Chertok and the FWO lose any of that?”

  Schwartz made sense. An organization didn’t spend years putting together a monopoly just to open its doors to everyone. Julie sipped at her now-warm beer and turned that thought over. “You say it’s a lot of money. Any idea how much?”

  “For Chertok? No. But I read what World Wrestling pulled in a couple years ago. All together, now—the pay-per-view, house shows, franchised toys and souvenirs, cable advertising, and so on—the whole pie added up to, you ready for this? One-point-seven-billion. That’s with a B. Billion.”

  Julie blinked. It wasn’t enough to retire the national debt or satisfy a congressman, but it sounded like a good month’s pay to her. “How did they squeeze out their competition when they were getting started?”

  “How?” He shrugged. “Locked the cable company to an exclusive agreement, nailed down the major advertisers. Same as Newhouse. Booked the big arenas with guaranteed seat sales. When the smaller guys started losing money, the big boys either bought them out or laughed while they went broke.”

  “Where’d they get their start-up money?”

  Schwartz’s thick shoulders lifted and fell. “Venture capital. Where do you find that much venture capital? I don’t know Texas, maybe—that outfit, what, Enron. The ones that wrestled their books and took a fall.” The lips folded back again. “People in Vegas, maybe. They got lots of money to invest.” Another shrug. “Ask Angus—that’s his business, right?”

  Julie would. “Did they ever rough up anyone? Threaten them?”

  “Not that I heard. That don’t mean they might not have. I just never heard talk about it.” He frowned a moment in thought. “But I don’t know why they’d have to, see? They got what they wanted through sharp dealing.”

  But the motive for violence was there; protecting a billion or so dollars was a lot of motive. “Chertok’s name never came up with anything dirty?”

  “His name comes up in the paper all the time. Seems he’s one of these guys who likes it there. But I never heard about him pushing anybody around.” Schwartz drained his schooner and slid it back and forth across the table. Its wet bottom left a smear of water that quickly evaporated in Colorado’s dry air. “But then that’s not something many people talk about. If Lidke’s got troubles, yeah, that’s where I’d look first, too. But I can’t swear you’ll find anything. I’m too far out of the game now to know. Too old for it, too. Now I got a job where I don’t have to break any more bones.”

  “Do you think Lidke’s idea can succeed?”

  “I’d like to think so. Used to be a little dignity to the sport, you know? People put on a good show, sure, but they could really wrestle, too. Now you got steroid freaks caring more for their costumes than for the sport. Weightlifters pumping for definition instead of strength. Naked women having a ‘lingerie showdown.’ It’s all showbiz now.” Schwartz slid to the end of the bench and heaved himself up, heavy flesh and bone, a hulking man almost three times Julie’s size. “Muhammad Ali, he was showbiz, too, but that sucker could box! That’s the way wrestling used to be.” In the slanted light from the bar, his face was a sad map of slightly crooked lines and oddly placed lumps from old damage. “I got to get back to the warehouse. What’s-his-name—Lidke—I hope he can pull it off. Be nice to see the real thing again.”

  6

  Slowed by late-afternoon traffic, Julie reached the office after five. Her father was already there, wiping down and stowing his electronics gear.

  “How’d it go at Technitron, Dad?”

  “A walk-through, as I thought.” Raiford settled a meter on its charger unit and shook his head. “But Mr. Stephens wasn’t happy with what I had to tell him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They did some remodeling since the last inspection—a heating and air-conditioning upgrade. Turns out, nobody secured the air duct accesses, and I had to point out they were big enough for somebody to crawl through.”

  “Somebody like you?”

  “No—a small somebody, but a somebody who could plant bugs everywhere from the corporate conference room to the executive toilet.”

  “You couldn’t sweep the ducts?”

  “I did what little I could. But they’re hidden behind the ceiling panels and Stephens didn’t have a diagram. To meet security, he’ll have to have a visual and electronic survey of the whole system, install monitors at access points, and motion sensors along the grid.”

  “And he didn’t want to hear that.”

  “No. He especially didn’t want to hear that if a bug does turn up when the ducts are swept, all the secret government work they’ve done since they were installed is compromised.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  Raiford nodded. “They should have been made secure the day they were put in and routinely inspected since by his security agents.”

  “Did you tell him we could do it?” It would mean subcontracting a body that could fit into the ducts, but Julie had a name in mind.

  “I gave him our full-service, gold-plated, silver-tongued sales pitch, partner. He said company policy was to bid all jobs.”

  “When?”

  “My guess is they’ll want to do it as soon as possible to maintain their security clearance. They have to forward my report to the Feds, and any problems—like those unsecured ducts—require an immediate lockdown of all sensitive work while a damage assessment is made. Then the problem has to be rec
tified and the work certified by a federal inspector.”

  “Who else might bid?”

  “Well, Wampler will want to rectify their work for sure.” He snapped shut an equipment case. “They have egg on their face for neglecting it in the first place. You can bet they’ll try to repair the damage for no or minimal cost. Less than we could do it for, anyway. Our chance will be if the Feds insist on someone other than Wampler.”

  “We could get Rob Haney. He’s small enough to crawl through ducts.”

  “The human swizzle stick? Drinks a glass of tomato juice and looks like a thermometer?” Raiford grinned. “Good idea. I’ll see if he’s available just in case. And speaking of freaks, where are you on Lidke?”

  Julie told him about her interviews with Hernandez and Horan and her talk with Schwartz.

  Raiford listened without interrupting as he watched the sun sink behind the mountains to make the thin strips of cloud that heralded a change in weather turn from bright red to cold gray. When Julie finished, he nodded. “Maybe Lidke’s right about Chertok.”

  “We can begin finding out tomorrow.”

  “And you can begin being careful, right?”

  “Oh, Dad!”

  Raiford had claimed surveillance of Chertok’s office, and a telephone call from a secretary at Mammoth Productions made it easy for him. Their headquarters was in one of the widely scattered high-rises that erupted along South Colorado Boulevard. Local boosters called the area the “other downtown,” but to Raiford’s mind, it lacked the density and even the gritty feel of Denver’s real downtown. In fact, just behind a board fence that marked the building’s rear property line, a green canopy of trees sheltered the homes and backyards of a residential area that antedated the business development. The tall office tower stood starkly between one- and two-story commercial structures. In front of it, six busy lanes were banked by signs for fast-food restaurants, repair and service shops, electronics dealers, bars, pet stores—the lures that snagged cars from the river of traffic.

  Raiford turned into the side street leading to the building’s rear. Automobiles filled most numbered slots in the parking area but a few marked “visitors” were available. In the lobby’s small entry, he scanned the directory for Mammoth Productions, and took the elevator up to do what he—or any representative of the Touchstone Agency—had been requested to do: come by at his earliest convenience to discuss a matter of great importance with Mr. Chertok.

  Not more than a mile away, Julie cruised in Touchstone’s silver-­colored Subaru Forester. She liked the model because it was so popular around Denver that it was almost invisible. Chertok’s home was one of a dozen on a long block of quiet and gently curving streets. The lawns of the upscale neighborhood blended into one another and, unbroken by a sidewalk, stretched to the low molding of the street’s asphalt curb. The development, an older one, was within the city limits, but the curving lanes and lack of streetlights and sidewalks made it seem rural. Heavy shrubbery and clusters of mature trees reinforced the country feel and took the place of fencing. Apparently, covenants restricted fences to rear yards to give an impression of spaciousness.

  Julie found a spot of tree shade and parked to study Chertok’s rambling, single-story home. Its white brick was cushioned by spreading evergreens and the dark red leaves of plum shrubs. Her clearest view was of the garage. Its white doors—a double and a single—were closed against the peaceful quiet of the neighborhood. The place looked empty, but at this time of midmorning, so did most of the other homes. Julie estimated the house at around $750,000, maybe more if they had amenities out back: swimming pool, tennis court, whatever. It was large and comfortable, had the cared-for look of a lawn service. Still, the home wasn’t outrageously pretentious, not like some of the airplane hangars in Cherry Hills Village that had been targeted at dot-comers and bankers. Not the kind of residence to attract the envious attention of enemies or of the IRS. Julie could see Chertok having his neighbors over on warm summer evenings to dive into a pitcher of martinis and brag about their golf scores. Wives would talk about the college plans of their almost-grown kids. Or about grandchildren spawned by the ones whose wedding receptions neighbors had attended in the past. And it crossed Julie’s mind that if she had remained married to Gavin, she would be involved in that life now. But the memory had nothing to do with Gavin and it wasn’t a feeling of loss. It was simple curiosity: What type of Junior League matron would Mrs. Campbell have turned out to be? She smiled to herself. The very curiosity that made her wonder about an alternative life was one of the several reasons she had done what she did.

  She started the Subaru and pulled slowly past, camera resting on her arm as she clicked a couple of shots just to feel like she’d accomplished something. There were easier homes to keep an eye on, should it be necessary. But this wouldn’t be too bad, not at night, and with all those roadside trees and no streetlights. Might want to rent a more upscale car: Mercedes sedan or Cadillac. Something to better fit the environment. She had not seen any sign of a dog, thank God. If Chertok had one, it was probably a house pet that was only allowed to run in a fenced rear yard and was taken for a walk on its leash in the cool of the evening. A dog that could, like its masters, enjoy a placid and even-paced life in an upscale suburbia.

  The secretary for Mammoth Productions had glossy black hair that fell straight down to her shoulders and eyes blue enough to be almost violet. Her skin was clear and features finely shaped, and, Raiford noted, she did not wear a wedding ring.

  “Oh, yes. The Touchstone Agency.” It was the cool voice he’d heard on his answering machine, and its self-possessed tone reinforced the woman’s sculpted beauty. “Mr. Chertok is expecting you. May I tell him your name?” She offered Raiford his choice of the two molded chairs that guests could perch on, and she buzzed an intercom. The reception area was small and dedicated to function rather than visitors. Raiford figured that Chertok went to his clients’ offices to cut deals or used neutral ground in some restaurant or bar. Nonetheless, either for the rare visitor or for Chertok’s vanity, a series of photographs ran around the light tan walls: public relations shots of rock groups, stage scenes, sports figures, and faces as vaguely familiar as those on a television celebrity game show. The inscriptions inevitably mentioned “Sid” and said “Thanks” and sometimes even “Thanks for Everything.” The handwriting on a number of the photographs looked remarkably similar. An entirely different photograph sat at the corner of the secretary’s busy desk: two small girls whose coloring and symmetrical features matched the woman’s. She was in the midst of a series of telephone calls to people who apparently expected to hear from her. She used first names and often laughed at whatever their comment was. She wrote something down as the unheard voice continued, and then said “Thanks,” and dialed again. After a good twenty minutes, the intercom buzzed, and she paused in her calls to smile at Raiford. “You may go in now. I’m sorry about the wait.”

  “No problem. Lovely girls—your daughters?”

  Her smile gained warmth. “Yes. That door, please.”

  It was down a short hallway past an alcove that held the copy machine and a coffeepot. A sign said please knock. Raiford did. A voice barked, “Come in.”

  Chertok’s office was a large corner room. One row of windows looked south over the sprawling city toward the plains and the blue hump of Pike’s Peak rising some eighty miles away over the horizon. The other showed a picture-perfect view of the ragged Front Range twenty miles distant with its glinting patches of snow. The panorama dwarfed the room and even the broad desk. A slender man sat behind it, his brightly patterned shirt open at the collar. A thick gold chain nestled in curly black chest hair. Chertok tipped his head back against the leather of his throne and gazed at Raiford for a long moment. Then he nodded at the guest chair angled to the front of the desk. Its back was much lower than Chertok’s, and its arms lacked the oak trim that, on Chertok’s, looked like stripes o
n a uniform sleeve. Against one wall and facing the mountains, a wide leather couch showed the slowly relaxing indentations of recent use, as well as the folded pages of this week’s Variety.

  Chertok’s dark eyes aimed down a large nose that hinted vaguely of a jungle rodent. “You’re from that outfit that’s been asking about me? Some kind of agency?”

  “Touchstone.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re interested in the Federated Wrestling Organization. I understand you’re its regional representative.”

  Chertok nodded. “Regional promotions rep. For FWO and other big-name accounts, too. What’s your name?”

  “Raiford.”

  “Raiford. You go around bothering my professional acquaintances and maybe you think I won’t hear about it, right?” He showed capped teeth in a bright smile. “But they’re my friends—business associates—people I work with. They call, they ask what’s going on. I don’t know what to tell them because you got no manners. You say you’re interested in the FWO but you don’t right off come to me and ask me what you want to know.” The smile disappeared. “Now what the fuck’s with you, Raiford? Just what are you after?”

  “Have you heard of Rocky Ringside Wrestling?”

  The man’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Rocky Ringside?” He shook his head. “No. Where the hell are they?”

  “Here in Denver.”

  “Here?” Another shake. “Never heard of them.”

  “How about Otto Lidke?”

  “Him? That’s what this, what, Rocky Ringside Wrestling is? Otto Lidke?”