Copyright © A.J. Devlin 2018
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Devlin, A. J., 1978-, author
Cobra clutch / A.J. Devlin.
(“Hammerhead” Jed mystery ; 1)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-988732-24-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-988732-25-1 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-988732-26-8 (Kindle)
I. Title.
PS8607.E94555C63 2018 C813'.6
C2017-905217-9
C2017-905218-7
Board Editor: Merrill Distad
Cover and interior design: Michel Vrana
Cover images: istockphoto.com, shutterstock.com
Author photo: Gina Spanos
NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.
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No bison were harmed in the making of this book.
Printed and bound in Canada
1 2 3 4 20 19 18
For Leonard Schrader
Cobra Clutch:
[koh-bruh] [kluhch]
noun; verb (used with object)
1. Professional wrestling submission move. Also known as an arm-trap half nelson sleeper; the wrestler stands behind the opponent and uses one arm to place the opponent in a half nelson. The wrestler then uses his free arm to pull the opponent’s arm (the same arm to which the wrestler is applying the half nelson) across the face of the opponent. The wrestler then locks his hand to his wrist behind the opponent’s neck to make the opponent submit or lose consciousness as the carotid artery is cut off.
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ONE
“Some asshole kidnapped my snake.”
“That sounds like a hell of a case.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Not really, no.”
“I thought you would. That’s why I came to you.”
“Just so I’m clear, by ‘kidnapped’ you mean someone actually stole your pet snake?”
“Yes. And her name is Ginger.”
“The snake or the kidnapper?”
“The snake.”
“Are you’re sure Ginger didn’t, like, slither off somewhere?”
“I’m sure.”
“Seriously, who put you up to this?”
“I can’t believe you think this is a joke.”
“It was my cousin, wasn’t it?”
“You know what? Forget it.”
I took another sip of my banana milkshake and glanced around the Dairy Queen in search of an accomplice. “You’re videotaping this, right? Declan wouldn’t go to all this trouble and not get this on camera.”
Johnny slammed his fist down on the table. “Damn it, Jed! I’m not screwing around here!”
“All right, take it easy. I believe you.”
“About goddamn time.”
“You have to admit, it’s not the easiest sell. I’m also not sure which is more disturbing — the fact that someone went to the trouble of kidnapping your pet snake or that you actually named a reptile after a Spice Girl.”
My old friend smirked despite himself. “You’re an even bigger smart-ass than I remember.”
“Fair enough. Now why don’t you take me through this thing from the top?”
Johnny plucked a crinkled photo out of his wallet and handed it to me. In the picture he was leaning against the turnbuckle of a professional wrestling ring with a yellow python with brown patches draped over his shoulders. “That’s my baby,” he said.
“I can see the resemblance.”
“Eh?”
I pointed at the tattoo of a yellowish-brown python spiralling around one of his sinewy forearms.
“Oh, yeah. I got inked for Ginger’s birthday a few months back. I’ve had her for three years now, Jed. I make my entrances with her around my neck and keep her ringside during my matches and everything. I can’t wrestle without her.”
“Any idea why someone would want to take your snake?” I asked, handing back the photo.
“Christ, I don’t know. You’re the private investigator.”
“I’m a bouncer, Johnny. Not a PI.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“My old man is the one with the licence. I just help him with some of the leg work from time to time.”
“So do some leg work for me now and help me get Ginger back. You should have seen the cops this morning, man. They laughed at me while I filled out the theft report.”
“I’m sorry, bub,” I replied earnestly. “I can’t help you.”
Johnny gripped my forearm as I stood.
“Baton Rouge, man.”
My heart skipped a beat. “That was a long time ago.”
“You owe me.”
“You sure you want to play this card?”
“I am. I got nowhere else to go.”
I took a deep breath, my mind scrambling to find an alternative solution. “I know some excellent private investigators. Why don’t I give you some referrals?”
“So they can laugh at me too? No. I want you.”
I sat back down. Johnny let out a huge sigh. “Thank you, Jed. Thank you so much.”
I sucked back on my milkshake until the straw made a slurping sound. Some people complain about Dairy Queen and say they don’t make quality shakes. I say that’s bull. They’re the only place that mixes their syrup with real bananas and that makes all the difference in my book.
I set aside my frosty treat and looked at my old friend. It had been a long time since I had last seen Johnny Mamba. Instead of the buff young wrestler I remembered, he now looked nearly a decade older than his thirty-eight years. Although stil
l muscular, he’d lost a lot of mass and his skin now appeared more loose and leathery than tight and tanned. Crow’s feet had crept their way around his eyes and his hairline had started to recede. The years he’d spent punishing his body on the professional wrestling circuit had definitely taken their toll.
“Let me see that picture again,” I said finally. Johnny slid the photo across the table. “Can I have this?”
“No way,” he said, snatching it out of my hands.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Johnny clued in and placed the photo flat on the table so I could snap a pic.
“Good enough. Now tell me about the, uh … abduction.”
“It was after practice last night. I left Ginger in her sack in the locker room while I showered like I always do. When I came out she was gone.”
“How long was your shower?”
“Five minutes or so.”
“Who else was there?”
“Nobody. I usually stick around after practice and work with the rookies so I’m always the last to leave.”
“Johnny, if this really is a kidnapping then you would have received a ransom note.”
Johnny produced a printout of an email. It read:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: PAYMENT
Ten thousand dollars or you never see the snake again. You have three days to get the money.
Johnny stared at me with saucer plate eyes. “What do you think?”
“I need you to forward me a copy of this. You still have my email?” Johnny nodded.
“What about [email protected]? Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“I find it curious the kidnapper would send you a ransom note via email, but I guess that might explain why you were given three days to secure the funds instead of one.”
“How so?”
“I doubt they would know how often you check your email and they had to ensure they gave you ample time to receive the message. Any idea how the kidnapper got your address?”
“Every wrestler’s email is posted on the XCCW website.”
“XCCW?”
“X-Treme Canadian Championship Wrestling. Fastest growing professional wrestling promotion in Western Canada.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“It’s a great circuit. Quality talent, awesome schedule, lots of exposure. You ever thought about a comeback? XCCW would be the perfect place for you to — ”
I silenced Johnny with a glare.
“I was just throwing it out there,” he said quietly.
I let it go and tapped my finger on the printout. “No offense, Johnny, but why would someone in their right mind expect you to pay ten thousand dollars for a pet? Couldn’t you just buy another snake for a fraction of that amount?”
“I love her, man. I’d pay anything.”
“Odds are whoever took Ginger knew that.”
“What are you saying? That the son-of-a-bitch who took Ginger knows me?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Do you have any enemies? Anybody that would want to hurt you?”
“No way, man.”
“Anybody at XCCW?”
“Are you kidding? I’m like Tom Cruise at a Scientology convention at that place.”
“How about the money? Can you afford to pay the ransom?”
“I got some coin squirreled away for a rainy day.”
“And how many people are aware of that fact?”
Johnny shrugged, tucking his long hair behind his ears. “A bunch, I guess. My Nana died a few months back and left me about twenty grand.”
“You never played connect the dots much when you were a kid, did you, Johnny?”
He blinked a few times. After a moment, it clicked. “Oh, shit! You think they knew about my inheritance?”
“No one without intimate knowledge of your relationship with Ginger would waste time with a scheme like this. How many people does XCCW employ?”
“Maybe eighty or so, including wrestlers and staff. I haven’t been back since Ginger was taken but I can show you around if you need me to.”
“No, I want you to steer clear of there for now,” I replied. “Best thing you can do is lay low and let me do my thing.”
“You got it, Jed. So what do you charge for this kind of thing?” he asked, cracking open his wallet.
“Just your word that this squares us,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Are you sure? Isn’t there anything else I can do?”
“Yeah. Get to the bank.”
I tossed my empty cup in the garbage and ordered another large banana milkshake to go.
TWO
The junkie came out of nowhere. She smashed her fists down on the hood of my Ford F-150 and shrieked like a banshee. I gave my horn a blast and she stumbled backwards, her pale skin illuminated by the glare of my headlights. She smiled, revealing a mouth full of rotted teeth, most likely ravaged by years of crystal meth abuse. She giggled like a schoolgirl, threw her bony arms into the night air, and began to plié and dance herself across the street like it were a stage for a strung out ballerina.
The light turned green. I hit the gas. I sped down Hastings Street past Pigeon Park, where the addicts and vagrants fluttered about in more directions than the birds. The sidewalks were alive with bustling activity, and despite the woeful living conditions of its destitute inhabitants, there was no denying the area crackled with a unique and vibrant energy.
Dozens of street people chatted, bartered, fought, and fraternized. A crazy-haired woman in a polka dot muumuu sobbed next to an overturned shopping cart while a few locals looted her treasure of empty bottles and blankets. A shirtless man held up traffic by running into the street, beating his chest, and roaring like a grubby gorilla.
By the time I had driven two blocks I was outside the radius of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, a neighbourhood that also doubled as the most impoverished district in all of Canada. The streets were immediately cleaner and the homeless had vanished. I parked in front of a vinyl record store and made the familiar march toward the pub next door. I wasn’t but two steps inside when I was assaulted by a thick Irish brogue.
“Get your big arse over here and join me for a pint o’the black stuff, you bollocks.”
Declan St. James was renowned throughout Vancouver for his ability to pour the perfect pint of Guinness. But he is damn near legendary for his tendency to pick a fight after downing one too many of his masterful creations. He’s also my cousin, on my mother’s side, and had been a staple around the pub ever since he immigrated to Canada five years prior. I pulled up a stool at the lacquered oak bar while he grabbed a glass and worked his magic.
“How was the meeting with your old mate?” he asked.
“Unusual.” I filled Declan in on the snake-napping. He laughed so hard he almost spilled my beer.
“Did you really think I’d go to all that trouble just to bugger with your head?”
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t?”
Declan smirked. “Aye, you’re right. I would. I just wish I had thought o’the idea me self.”
After letting the pints sit for a minute and a half, Declan topped up the glasses. As a finishing touch he etched a shamrock into the creamy head of my Guinness, the mark of a truly gifted barman.
“Is my pop around?” I asked.
“He’s at that security conference, remember?”
“Can you let me into his office? I need to use his computer.”
“No bloody way.”
“Come on, D.”
“I do that, Frank will twist off me nuts and punt them back to the motherland.”
“
The threat of a scrotal assault never stopped you before.”
“Aye, well perhaps if you sweetened the deal a wee bit I might consider it.”
We clinked glasses. Once my Guinness had settled I took a big sip, then licked the froth from my upper lip. Damn, it was good. “How about I cover a shift for you this weekend?”
“Think bigger.”
“Whitecaps tickets?”
“Just because I like me football doesn’t mean I want to watch those bums.”
“I’m running out of ideas here.”
“Tell you what. I’ll settle for a bottle o’single malt and a visit to me flat tonight for a good and proper piss-up.”
“Deal.”
Satisfied, Declan grabbed a big ring of keys off the wall. Pints in hand, we headed toward the back, passing a few regulars on bar stools and a booth crammed full of film students prattling on about some director I had never heard of. This was hardly uncommon since my old man’s pub, The Emerald Shillelagh, was located across the street from the Vancouver Film School and had long been a favourite watering hole for both students and staff.
We trudged up the narrow staircase to my pop’s office on the second floor. Ounstead Investigations was painted on the frosted glass of the office door and I noticed that the O and V had started to fade and peel. Declan unlocked the door and let me inside.
“Make it quick, mate. And be sure to clear the web browser when you’re done. Wouldn’t want to have to explain to Frank all the visits to Me Friend’s Hot Mom dot com.”
“Not to worry. Besides, everybody knows that you’re the one with the MILF fetish.”
Declan grinned devilishly. “Aye, I do love me ladies a wee bit mature.”
“Thanks again, bub. I owe you one.”
“If you really want to make it up to me then you can bloody well spring for the eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich.”
Declan left me alone with a desktop full of case folders. I put down my Guinness between an archaic PC and a rotary phone and pushed aside the clutter until I found the keyboard and mouse. After logging onto my pop’s preferred cyber-detective website with the same username and password I knew he used for all his online accounts, I ran Johnny Mamba’s name through several searches. What I found was what I had expected — a clean criminal record and nothing notable other than numerous former addresses and phone numbers across Canada over the past several years. I knew firsthand this was pretty standard for a struggling professional wrestler still looking to make it big.
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