by Rex Burns
“Settling the office’s accounts is a big responsibility—I’m sure she’s afraid of making a mistake. Will you call me as soon as you hear from someone at American West?”
“Sure, sure. If I hear.” He asked, “Say, who made the deal with Lidke?”
“Huggins.”
“Yeah. Figures. No bad-mouthing the dead, and all, but I wish the dumb son of a bitch had left a note who to get in touch with in case of emergencies. And who to give the damn files to! The rest of us got lives to live, you know? I thought lawyers were paid to think of those things. You know, contingencies.”
Julie said she knew. Then she headed across downtown on Seventeenth for the offices of InterMountain EnterPrizes. It was on the third floor behind a door with an old-fashioned panel of frosted glass. The decor of the reception area featured a high ceiling, the odor of stale cigarette ashes, and a secretary with a very prominent chest that formed a rest for long curls of auburn hair. She looked startled as the door opened.
“Help you?” Her defensive tone belied the words, but Julie smiled and flashed a clipboard with an official-looking questionnaire.
“I’m with Information and Advertising Marketing and Research. The Greater Chamber of Commerce is doing a survey of new businesses in the area to see what they need by way of support. InterMountain EnterPrizes is a newly chartered corporation, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I just started working here last month.” She stuffed a magazine beneath the typing shelf of her desk. The computer slowly writhed with the bright geometric forms of a screen saver. An open door showed a second office with a desk that looked unused.
“Who may I speak with about your company’s needs?”
“Nobody’s here but me right now.” She relaxed enough to smile back. “That’s why you, like, scared me when you came in.”
Julie smiled and nodded. “The Greater Chamber of Commerce is very eager to do what it can to help new businesses get off to a good start.” She flourished a ballpoint pen over the clipboard. “I could come back later, but it would really be helpful if you could answer a few questions for me now.” She went on without waiting for assent. “What’s your employer’s name, please?”
“Mr. Hensleigh.” She spelled it.
“Thank you. First name?”
“Ron.”
“And your name?”
“Malena Hays.” She spelled that, too.
“An unusual name, Malena, and lovely, too. Any other people work in the office?”
“Just Ron, right now.” Her voice dropped as if the empty room might hold listening ears. “I mean we haven’t done much business since I been here. Ron says we’re, like, in the development stage.”
“Perhaps you can tell me about that.”
As the secretary talked, Julie showed she was paying close attention by nodding often and making little mmm noises. Ron Hensleigh was only in the office a few hours each day, but he’d recently told Malena that things would be picking up very soon. As to what kind of business Hensleigh and InterMountain were in, it had something to do with finances and venture capital. But all she did was answer the telephone whenever it rang, which wasn’t a lot, and it was always for Ron, anyway, and if he wasn’t there, the caller just hung up—no messages. She did sometimes type a letter, but there wasn’t much of that, either. In fact, working here was pretty boring so she brought along a lot of magazines and Ron didn’t seem to mind. He paid regularly, which was the most important thing, wasn’t it? And if she didn’t have to work very hard to get paid, that was okay with her and seemed okay with him, too. But it was a little boring just the same. Time went faster when you had something to do and you, like, felt better about doing something, you know? But Ron said he wanted her here eight hours a day. Said clients could start visiting anytime, and besides he liked to see her when he came into the office. He was that way, always joking about how pretty she was, but she figured he was married, you know? And she wasn’t about to get tangled up in anything like that, and Ron wasn’t really pushy or anything, just, like, hinting, you know? Mr. Procopio? He’s not a client, but he comes in sometimes—in fact, Ron said he could use his office. Sort of share it when he needed to, and she was supposed to help him with anything he needed, but he hadn’t asked her to do any work yet. All he did was make some calls from Ron’s phone. Mr. Pfeifer gave her a letter to type now and then, but he didn’t come around much, either. He’s the corporation secretary and legal expert. He has another office somewhere else, and Malena guessed most of what he did went on there. Mr. Chertok dropped by now and then, usually when Ron was here, and sometimes brought Mr. Morrow. Malena liked that because then they all went out to lunch and usually took her along. To some really nice places. One afternoon Mr. Chertok even brought his own secretary along and she and Ron and them went out for drinks, kind of like a double date, Ron said.
“You all had a good time?”
“Oh, sure! Mr. Chertok’s a real kick—he knows funny stories about everybody!”
“And did you and Mr. Chertok’s secretary get along?”
“What? Oh—sure. She’s kind of quiet, is all. But real pretty.”
“Is Mr. Morrow the state representative?”
“I don’t know. He’s really full of himself, I know that. And Ron wants me to be especially, like, nice to him, and we always go to good restaurants when he comes, so I guess I get paid for it.” She made a little face.
“You don’t like him?”
“Well, he’s old! And you just know he’s married. And you know what he wants, too.”
“What does Ron say about that?”
“He just laughs and says to be friendly to him because it’s important to the company. But that’s all I’m going to be!”
“Do you ever have dealings with sports figures?”
“Sports figures? You mean like football players?”
“Or wrestlers. Or wrestling organizations.”
“God, no. What would we do that for?”
It was a good question and one that Julie didn’t see any answer to. She finished jotting something on the questionnaire and thanked Malena for her help. As Julie closed the door, the almost empty office seemed even colder.
Raiford hauled his wrestling tights up his waist and peeked through the tent flap at the small ring he and the others on the card had set up in the late-afternoon sunshine of the mall’s parking lot. A bright banner stretched against the yellow bricks of a ComputerLand store said “Fairview Mall Crazy Bargain Days” and another announced “The Mall Fall Show—Live Wrestling Demonstration 3 PM!” Behind him, in the trapped heat and oily smell of the closed canvas, the other five wrestlers also suited up. Their talk was a low mumble against the tootling music from a small kiddie carnival on the other side of the large and crowded parking area. The wrestlers were all from Salazar’s stable, lesser lights still working on their image and audience appeal. But all were more experienced than Raiford and were scheduled to play two different names and costumes. Salazar said it would be too much of a gamble to give two shows to a cherry, and besides, this was a fixed-fee performance and there would be no double pay to somebody as new as Raiford. Other than George, the other wrestlers didn’t have much to say to him except for a nod or a brief—and challengingly strong—handshake.
Raiford and George were scheduled for the grand finale where the Death Command would wrestle the Sicilian Brothers in the performance’s only tag-team demonstration. They would have fifteen minutes in the ring, George told him. The script called for two pairs of matches each before the final free-for-all. In the first, Major Mayhem faced Don Leone for three minutes. The Major gets in trouble and tags out to Colonel Crush. Colonel Crush and Don Leone go through their three-minute routine. The Don gets in trouble and tags out to Capodicapi. Then Colonel Crush and Capodicapi start the third pairs match and after two minutes, the Colonel gets pulled into the corner by Don L
eone. That’s when Major Mayhem jumps in to rescue him while the referee argues with Don Leone. The Major and Capodicapi have two minutes before Don Leone and the Colonel come in for the final free-for-all. When Capodicapi pins the Major, the match ends with the Colonel and the Major screaming for revenge in a rematch.
“Just take it easy and watch the signals. It won’t be any different from what we been doing in the gym.” A khaki uniform coat decorated with rows of campaign ribbons and gold epaulettes stretched across George’s shirtless torso. He peeked through the tent flap at the crowd. “This ring’s a lot smaller, so watch your flips and rolls. When we go in, make a few runs across to get the feel of it before the first routine.” His voice dropped. “And keep an eye on Don Leone over there—he likes to pop cherries.”
“Say what?”
“He likes to make new guys pay their dues.” He tilted his head toward the hulking figure who squatted on a folding chair to lace up calf-high silver boots. The man’s first appearance was as Chief Cocacoatle, the Aztec Warrior, and he was scripted to win because of the many Hispanics in the area. He glanced up to catch Raiford looking at him, and beneath the daggers of black and silver makeup marking his face, his eyes narrowed as he produced a smile that wasn’t really a smile.
“Thinks he’s tough?”
“He’s tough enough. He’s just a little psycho, is all. He believes his own hype.”
“They’re going to win anyway, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. Win, lose, that’s in the script. Teaching humility to new guys, that’s the point.”
“What about Capodicapi? Is he a basket case, too?”
“Doug Trujillo. No, he’s a nice guy. He plays a rule breaker and all-around bad dude, but he’ll work with you to put on a good show.”
The nice guy was stretching a black mask across his head and tugging the eyeholes straight with his thumbs. A long ponytail of black hair swung across his broad back.
“I hope I can remember the script.”
“I’ll remind you when we meet in the corner. Just concentrate on the hand signals. That’s what you don’t want to forget. You only got ten to remember. You got them down?”
“We went through them enough times.”
“Well, don’t get excited and forget—it happens. This is just a teaser show, and it’s short. There’s no juicing, no high spots, no big story lines to develop. Watch how we do it in the early matches. Look for our signs and pay attention to our timing. When you get in the ring, just think of it like being in the gym. All we’re doing is building up an audience for the big shows coming.”
“OK.”
George was apparently worried that his partner would have stage fright. “It’s only a small crowd—Salazar’s drumming up local audiences and giving us some live practice. If today goes right, and no reason why it shouldn’t, we could have a match with some people from that new promotion. A live audience is just what you need.”
“American West? The one Rocky Ringside sold out to?”
“I don’t know. Salazar just said something about dealing with some local outfit. But you just keep your mind on today. Put on a good show, and let’s see how the fans react to Major Mayhem.”
By the time the tag teams entered the ring, there weren’t many fans left. Thirty, maybe fifty people, mostly male and mostly young, stood with their backs to the lowering sun and squinted up as Colonel Crush and Major Mayhem climbed through the ropes.
After posing briefly, they stripped off their uniform coats with their medals, ribbons, and epaulettes and tossed them to the equipment manager waiting beside the ring. Then George nodded at Raiford. They began roaring and thudding at each other’s shoulders and arms, then ran across the platform like enraged bulls. Raiford, counting the steps from side to side, flung himself against the ropes to test their resiliency and somersaulted on the canvas to get the size of the bouncing deck. He tried telling himself that it was no different from running onto a football field, except that the crowd was a lot smaller, there were only two on a team, and he was almost naked. He followed George’s lead, flexing and strutting around the ring, bellowing noises at the uplifted faces gaping and grinning, and—in the back of his mind—he was glad he hadn’t told Julie about this. Because if he had, he knew damned well whose face would be smiling up from ringside.
The announcer, voice rising to an amplified scream that drew more audience from the kiddie show, heralded the Sicilian Brothers. The two ran from the tent and scrambled hotly through the ropes screaming what sounded like Italian: “Muerto al cabroni … pizzaroni onna capo! Bomba il vaticano!” The referee tried to hold them back until the bell rang, but Don Leone lunged across the canvas to drive his shoulder into the back of an unsuspecting Major Mayhem and send him whipping against the ropes. A stitch of ripped muscle stung along Raiford’s ribs as he clung to the bouncing elastic.
George’s voice hissed in his ear. “Sell it—sell the pain!” From the corner of his eye, Raiford saw Colonel Crush straight-arm Don Leone who staggered back across the ring and into his partner.
Raiford didn’t have to do much acting. His breath grunted in shallow gasps, and he tried to twist the pain out of his back as he hung on the rope. Don Leone flung off his cape and lunged again across the small and crowded ring, eyes wide and staring at Raiford and mouth open in a snarl of hatred.
Raiford dropped to one knee and swept his other leg forward to tangle Leone’s feet. The impetus twisted the man awkwardly as he tried to catch himself. Shoving off the canvas with both feet planted solidly, Raiford drove a sharp, solid punch that had his full weight behind it. His fist sank to the wrist in Leone’s thick middle, and the man’s eyes bulged and shot red. Then his mouth rounded with a sour puff of breath as he stared unseeing across the parking lot. Grunting short, futile attempts to suck air, he collapsed to his knees, arms wrapped around his middle, head bobbing as he gasped. Pushing the referee aside, Major Mayhem locked an arm around the man’s thick neck and thudded his skull against the booming canvas deck. “You want to play games?” The rage in his voice was not pretense.
Capodicapi, diving off the ropes from his corner, wrapped his arms around Raiford’s chest and heaved back. “Let him go,” he grunted. “Take it easy.”
Colonel Crush fell on Capodicapi as Raiford clung to Don Leone’s neck.
Capodicapi whispered, “I’ll drag you to the corner. Kick out when we’re there.”
A pale and sweating Don Leone still struggled to breathe as Capodicapi hauled on Major Mayhem. Roaring, Colonel Crush staggered back from an elbow by Capodicapi as Major Mayhem was dragged from a still grunting Don Leone. Capodicapi lifted a writhing Major Mayhem from the canvas and plunged him back down, his feet crashing against the deck. Swinging his torso away, Major Mayhem muttered, “You tell that asshole he pulls any more shit, I’ll unscrew his head from the waist up.” The Major twisted and kicked out. Capodicapi bellowed and stumbled as Major Mayhem butted Capodicapi’s chest, staggering him backward to trip over the still woozy Leone who was trying to haul himself away from a growling Colonel Crush.
The referee stepped in to push the wrestlers to their corners so he could start the match. Raiford saw Capodicapi say something to his partner. Leone, ashen face slick with sweat, nodded. He didn’t meet Raiford’s glare. For the rest of the match, Don Leone remained at arm’s length as they went through the falls. When the referee ended the free-for-all by lifting the Sicilian Brothers’ hands, a voice carried through the spatter of applause and boos from the small crowd. “Aw man, what a bunch of fakes!”
In the tent, George toweled off as much sweat as he could before gingerly putting on his street clothes. “I detest gigs that don’t have a shower!” Then he wagged his head. “You did all right, partner. For the first time, anyway. Work on the hand signs and especially the timing. Get into the throws faster. And learn to act hurt. You got to sell the pain, you
know? That’s what people come to see. But for your first time, it was real good.”
Raiford winced at the torn muscle along his ribs that was beginning to stiffen as his body cooled. His shirt snagged on sweaty, scuffed patches of stinging skin, and he, too, wished for a hot shower. But he found himself absurdly pleased at George’s words. Capodicapi looked across the dimly lit tent to give him a thumbs-up. Don Leone was busy wiping off greasepaint and did not look around.
Julie closed the office around seven without hearing from her father. In the last week, he had grown almost silent about his wrestling career. All he would say was that he was going to the gym to work out, or he was going to watch a practice match. It wasn’t as if he were hiding information; rather, there simply seemed to be nothing to report. But there was none of the impatient grumbling he usually had for these slack and unprofitable times that came with most cases. Instead, he seemed preoccupied. And, Julie had to admit, that was better than having him restless and irritable.
Neither had she heard from Mr. Stephens of Technitron. By now, that company should have announced its choice of a security agency, and with Stephens she felt that no news was bad news. She had spent a lot of time calling together a team of agents and specialists who were holding open a few days in case the contract came through. Rob Haney said that he had other jobs pending that could be delayed, but only for a short time. And now that short time was nearing its end. Julie wouldn’t blame Rob or any of them if they preferred a bird in the hand rather than waiting for one in the bush.
It was possible, of course, that Stephens was using the Touchstone Agency’s proposal for lowering the Wampler bid. It wasn’t ethical, but it wasn’t illegal, either. And, Julie reminded herself as she drove down the alley toward her garage, they had no choice but to wait.
She paused while the garage door lifted, then eased forward over the lip of concrete that marked the garage floor. She was almost past the doorjamb when she heard the shot. It was the flat pop of a hand weapon with a short barrel, and it came from her right, from a part of the alley she’d just driven through. At the same instant that her ears and mind registered the sound, she also knew that the sniper had missed because she was still alive to hear the noise. She killed the engine, jerked open the door, and plunged headfirst toward the concrete. Pulling her legs from the narrow space under the dash, she dragged herself on elbows toward the rear wheel and the open garage door. As usual, she was unarmed. Denver was not an open-carry city, and licenses for concealed arms were hard to get even for PIs, so Julie rode with her weapon in the trunk of her vehicle. The challenge now, of course, was to get to it.