Johnny tried to speak but his voice was drowned out by another sound.
A horrible sound.
Hissing.
Panic surged through my chest like a jolt from a defibrillator as hundreds of snakes began slithering out of the dark and into the wrestling ring. Cobras, mambas, and pythons of all shapes and sizes glided across the mat, baring their fangs and flicking their forked tongues. I watched in horror as the snakes slithered upward around Johnny until he was no more — just a lump beneath an endless amount of slimy scales. The crowd’s cheering turned frenzied as the snakes made their way toward me. Desperate to escape, I thrust my head downwards toward my assailant’s massive arms, strained my neck, and tried to bite his wrists. My heart seized in my chest when the huge arms began to morph into a familiar yellowish-brown python. I collapsed to the mat as Ginger constricted around my entire body, squeezing every last bit of air out of my lungs.
I awoke gasping for air. It took a few moments for the disorientation to wear off before I recognized the familiar surroundings of my bedroom. I slipped on a pair of gym shorts and went to the bathroom to wash my face. After dabbing my brow with a musty towel and swearing to do laundry the next day, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a can of Moody Ales Affable IPA out of the fridge. I took the beer over to the La-Z-Boy recliner in my living room and eased myself into the chair. I touched a finger to my neck. My pulse was racing. I took a pull of the beer and tried to forget the hissing sounds that lingered in my head.
I surveyed my home’s decor in the darkness, trying to preoccupy myself with potential ideas for unnecessary furnishings. Eventually I accepted the futility of trying to distract myself from the nightmare. Johnny was dead. And I had no idea who killed him or why. The only thing I knew for certain was that there must have been a catalyst that caused the killer to bump up his deadline for the exchange. Otherwise why give Johnny seventy-two hours to check his email and arrange his funds only to demand the ransom sooner and without warning? It didn’t make sense.
I went to my den, turned on my iMac, and started surfing the web. After checking the box score for the Canucks game I punched in the address for XCCW’s website. I scrolled aimlessly through the bios of the current roster hoping that someone or something would jump out at me. Eventually I came across the bio for Johnny’s ex-girlfriend, Stormy Daze. She was a striking woman and from what I read she appeared to be a seasoned performer as well, having previously wrestled in Japan and several prominent promotions based in Nashville and Florida. I wondered why Johnny hadn’t mentioned her to me when we met.
I closed the web browser and the XCCW homepage disappeared. But it wasn’t enough. I was angry for allowing myself to get dragged back into the unsavoury world of professional wrestling. Deep down I knew I was only kidding myself by thinking that I could somehow escape my past by avoiding anything wrestling-related. The truth was I couldn’t even admire the ocean view from the window of my downtown Coal Harbour townhouse without reminding myself that it was the money I made in professional wrestling that had allowed me to buy the place.
Desperate for a distraction, I left my den and started sifting through my Blu-Ray collection until I came across The Dark Knight. I put on the movie and knocked back a few more IPAs, enjoying the hoppy brew while I lost myself in the glorious madness of the Joker’s anarchy. I knew exactly why I had selected the movie, too. Declan and his damn Batman PEZ dispenser.
NINE
The next afternoon the sun finally punched through the overcast sky that had been lingering above the city for nearly a week. I rolled to a stop at the intersection of Hastings Street and Windemere, and found my truck cast in the towering shadow of Playland Amusement Park’s archaic wooden roller coaster. The out of commission rickety green and yellow cars were still slick from the last rainfall, shimmering in the sunlight as they sat perched on an incline of the track, patiently waiting to start their slow mechanized climb to the top.
By the time I reached Mondeo Heights, a low-rise condominium building a couple of blocks up the hill on a trendy strip that bordered Vancouver and North Burnaby, I could still see the top of the venerable coaster winking at me in the distance.
I parked on the street and made my way down the walk toward Stormy Daze’s residence. I sucked back on the last of my banana milkshake, making a deep and prolonged slurping sound that I followed up with some lip smacking and a burp.
“Let me guess. Banana, right?”
I spun around to see that Detective Constable Rya Shepard had sidled right up to me without me even noticing. “Well it sure as hell isn’t vanilla,” I replied.
“What did I tell you about staying away from my case?”
I crumpled the cup in my hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, before tossing the cup into a garbage can.
I had found Stormy Daze aka Stephanie Danielson’s address by using the home phone number the ditzy blonde at XCCW had given me and doing a quick reverse look up online. I also didn’t feel the need to volunteer that information.
“Get out of here, Jed,” she scolded.
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Got an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“Guitar lessons.”
“Where’s your guitar?”
“I, uh, use my instructor’s.”
“How convenient.”
“Well, I just started. But apparently I’m a natural.”
“You are so completely full of shit.”
“My goal is to learn to play ‘Sweet Child O’Mine’. Is that still your favourite song?”
Rya stared at me. I couldn’t tell if she was flattered that I still remembered or was about to clock me in the jaw. “Listen to me,” she snapped. “You leave Ms. Danielson alone. She’s been through enough already and the last thing she needs is to be grilled by an amateur.”
“Don’t you think my roguish charm makes up for my lack of credentials?”
“Roguish charm?”
“Yeah, you know. Like Han Solo?”
“Try Chewbacca.”
“Did you just compare me to a Wookiee?”
“Yes.”
“In my defense, I don’t gargle with mouthwash anymore. I’ve also recently taken up manscaping.” A sly grin escaped from beneath Rya’s professional façade. I matched it with one of my own.
“Can you at least tell me if she had an alibi for last night?” I asked.
“You think I’m going to discuss an ongoing investigation with you? Come on, Jed. Frank taught you better than that.”
“He also taught me that sometimes you have to toss the by-the-book bullshit and trust your gut. I can help you, Rya. I have an understanding of the pro-wrestling world that you can’t match. And we both know Johnny’s killer is connected to XCCW.”
Rya crossed her arms and considered my words. “I’ll tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“There’s a lot more at play here than just some ransom exchange gone wrong.”
That threw me for a loop. Then I remembered my case of mistaken identity with a certain gun-toting creep the day before. “You’re liking Grasby for this, aren’t you? What exactly is it that he’s into?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out for yourself.”
I wanted to tell her I was working on it but decided against it. “What about the racquetball?” I asked. “Did you get a hit on the print?”
“This isn’t CSI, Jed. We haven’t even run it yet.”
“Can you at least tell me when you’re doing Johnny’s autopsy?”
“I’m done sharing,” she said sternly. “Are you going to leave Ms. Danielson alone or do we need to take a trip downtown?”
“Fine,” I muttered begrudgingly, and headed back toward my
truck.
“Jed, wait.”
“Yeah?” I said, turning around quickly.
She stared at me for a few seconds, and then ran her fingers underneath the trickling water of a two-tier fountain near the building’s entrance. “The autopsy is scheduled for first thing Monday morning, but things have been slow and the ME owes me a favour. He promised he’d try and bump it up.”
I nodded, then slid behind the wheel and drove off without looking back. Half-an-hour later I was inside Stormy Daze’s apartment and learned something about Johnny’s ex-girlfriend that even he didn’t know.
TEN
After ditching my truck in the crowded parking lot of a nearby McDonald’s, I doubled back on foot and ducked into a café. I asked the barista if they had any milkshakes, but instead had to settle for some kind of banana infused macchiato. It tasted like crap.
I took a seat by the window and waited. Twenty minutes later I watched Rya exit the Mondeo Heights building and drive off in her unmarked sedan. I crossed the street. I knew Stormy must be home due to the amount of time Rya spent inside the building but didn’t want to give her the chance to pretend to be out or not buzz me in. As a result, I faked a phone call and loitered around the building’s entrance until I saw an elderly lady with a Bichon approaching the door from the inside. I timed my walk and slipped past her into the building. The elderly lady barely glanced at me before fumbling with her plastic poop bag and getting ready for her dog to do its business. A short elevator ride later and I was at Stormy Daze’s door. I knocked loudly. I could hear a rustling behind the door but no one was answering. I knocked again.
“Just a minute, goddamn it,” a throaty voice said.
A few seconds later Stormy Daze appeared before me, looking a little worse for wear. She was a tall woman, nearly six-feet, but our closeness in height only gave me a better view of her red-rimmed, crystal blue eyes and puffy nose. She wore tight, ripped jeans and a halter top with a plunging neckline that showcased ample cleavage. Her wavy, chemically treated hair was pulled back in a scrunchie and rife with split ends. But despite her unpolished appearance, Stormy Daze was an attractive woman who was clearly in great physical shape. She was not nearly as impressed with me.
“Jed Ounstead. Some fucking detective you turned out to be. You should have stuck with wrestling. At least you were good at that.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea things would escalate the way they did.”
“I told him to hire a professional, you know. A real PI. But Johnny swore you were up to the job. He really believed you were going to get Ginger back.”
“I, uh — I did my best,” I stammered.
“Your best? Losers are always whining about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen. The way I see it, you’re either a shitty private dick or you thought Ginger’s kidnapping was a joke, just like the cops.”
“Look, Stephanie — ”
“It’s Stormy. Stormy Daze.”
I sighed. Wrestlers and their ring names. “I can see that you’re in pain. But don’t think for a second that I didn’t take Johnny’s case seriously. We may have lost touch there for a while but Johnny was still my friend. And I know you don’t know me, but that’s not exactly a term I just throw around, because I sure as hell don’t have a lot of them.”
That seemed to take some of her edge off. She invited me in, and I took a seat on a scarlet couch inside the red themed one bedroom suite. Candles were lit on the mantle above a burning gas fireplace and smooth jazz played on a music station on the TV. If it were any cozier in her apartment I’m pretty sure I would have taken a nap. Stormy made her way to a makeshift wet bar she had set up on her unit’s granite countertop.
“Drink?”
“Sure.”
“All I got is scotch.”
“That’ll work.”
“Rocks?”
“However you take it is fine.”
She scooped ice into a couple of glasses and poured three fingers worth of Johnnie Walker Black Label into both. So let’s see — so far I had determined that Stormy Daze was a busty, cantankerous, scotch-swilling babe who was chock full of moxie. It was a good thing Declan wasn’t with me otherwise I’m pretty sure he would have proposed.
“To Johnny,” she toasted, clinking her glass against mine before flopping onto the couch next to me. I nodded and raised my glass. We both took long sips. “So what now?” she asked. “You go all Joe Friday on me or something?”
“Not quite.” I took another hit of scotch and decided upon a different approach. “Did Johnny ever tell you about the Indian strap match we had in Baton Rouge?”
“Nope.”
“This is years ago, back when we had both just signed with the WWE. We were just a couple of naïve kids at the time, eager to pay our dues while dreaming of superstardom. Anyway, after a failed stint as a tag-team, we were told to work the cold-open dark-matches at every show. We hadn’t even been on TV yet because the creative team was still trying to come up with gimmicks and story angles for us. In the meantime, our job was simple. Warm up the crowd. Just give them a solid, no frills match while they’re still filing in, buying their hot dogs and beers and finding their seats.
“So Johnny and I had been doing this for about a month. One night we find ourselves at a house show in the heart of Louisiana. We’re a couple minutes into our match when we notice that this particular crowd, for whatever reason, is all jacked up. I mean, they’re popping for us like we’re on the upper card or something. I’m just enjoying the attention, but Johnny, he sees an opportunity. Next thing I know he darts underneath the apron, jumps back in the ring, and ties a leather strap to both of our wrists.
“The ring announcer looks at us like we’re nuts. Johnny yells at the guy to ring the bell, he does, and all of a sudden our simple little warm-up act has turned into a weapons-based stipulation match. Johnny springs into action and starts lashing my back with the slack from the leather strap. I don’t even get the chance to lock him up in the middle of the ring and ask him what the hell he’s doing. The guy’s literally whipping my ass like a rented mule. So I do the only thing I can think of. I do what I’ve been trained to do. I quit worrying about the consequences for going off script and throw myself into the match completely. I start selling the pain and hamming it up. Now that I’m on board, Johnny gives me an opening. I take it, gain control of the leather strap, and start dishing out the punishment on him with a vengeance.
“It was a hell of a reversal and the crowd ate it up. So we did it again. And again. Suddenly the entire crowd was on their feet going absolutely nuts for a couple of no-name punks in a dark-match, because they knew we were giving it our all.”
I paused to wet my whistle with some more Johnnie Walker. Stormy was enthralled, leaning forward on the edge of her seat. “Go on,” she said.
“We’re totally in the zone at this point. I mean, Johnny and I always had great in-ring chemistry, but this was just one of those nights when you’re completely in sync with your partner. I’m talking every cue, every bump, every move — it was like we were reading each other’s minds.
“By now we’ve already gone a good few minutes over our allotted time, but we didn’t care. Still, we knew we had given the crowd a hell of a match and that it was the perfect time for our finish, which called for me to put Johnny over. So he climbs up to the top rope for a high spot when all of a sudden he slips. He tumbles outside the ring, and the goddamn leather strap, it gets tied up on the turnbuckle. I get yanked forward in the ring, but as Johnny falls the strap snaps back his arm and dislocates his shoulder. Of course, I start scrambling to undo the strap, ready to break kayfabe because my friend’s arm is dangling out of its socket like a wet noodle.”
I killed the rest of my drink. Stormy retrieved the bottle of Johnnie Walker and refilled my glass. Maybe she sensed that the next part
of the story was harder for me to tell. “I try and yell for help. But Johnny, God bless him, he stops me. The son-of-a-bitch wants to finish the match.” Stormy chuckled softly, her blue eyes sparkling as they filled with tears. Something told me she was more than familiar with Johnny’s fierce passion for his craft.
“The crowd’s still buzzing but doesn’t realize what’s happened. Mindful of his shoulder, I toss Johnny back in the ring, turn on the flair, and deliver a few stylish finishers before pinning him for the win. The crowd erupts. I sell the victory, basking in the glory while the ref helps Johnny out of the ring. I finish my celebration and hustle backstage, where I’m shocked to find that instead of getting our asses chewed out, Johnny and I are congratulated for showing initiative and putting on such a great match.
“You see, that impromptu Indian strap match — it changed everything. It put Johnny and me on the map. The creative team threw their full support behind the both of us. The difference was that while I was fast-tracked as a babyface, Johnny’s shoulder put him out of commission for months. By the time he was healthy enough to return, the creative team had all but forgotten about him while I was making my first run at the Intercontinental Championship. I went on to bigger and better things within the company, while Johnny kicked around as a jobber for a year before eventually being sent back to the developmental territories.” I slurped an ice cube out of my glass and crunched it between my teeth. I looked deep into Stormy’s eyes.
“The reason I’m telling you this is because even though he ended up getting the shaft, even though he had every reason to be bitter and jealous, not once did Johnny ever express anything other than genuine happiness for the fame and fortune that came my way. Johnny watched me have the career he could have had, the one he should have had, yet he was as proud of my success as he would have been if it were his own.
“That’s the kind of guy Johnny Mamba was. That’s the kind of guy that was taken from this world when he was murdered. And that’s why when I find the person or persons responsible for his death, I’m not just going to have them arrested. I’m going to make them pay. I’m going to make them suffer. I’m going to punish them so badly they will rue the day they thought they could kill my friend and get away with it.”
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