Cobra Clutch

by Devlin, A. J. ;

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, may I speak to Remo Willis please?” chirped a young female voice.

  “Speaking,” I replied.

  “This is Aurora from Scoff’s Hockey Shop calling. How are you today?”

  “Fine.”

  “Excited about the big game tomorrow?”

  I had no idea what the hell she was talking about since the Vancouver Canucks weren’t scheduled to play until the weekend. “You know it,” I said finally.

  “Well, have I got some good news for you. Your helmet came in early! It’s here and all ready to be picked up.” Now I clued in. Apparently Remo liked to hit the ice when he wasn’t cooking meth in his shithole basement suite.

  “Excellent.”

  “It’s really nice. It’s, like, the most totally badass helmet I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks, Aurora. I’ll be by soon.”

  “See you then,” the girl said in a singsong voice before hanging up the phone.

  I had no idea why Willis had special ordered a hockey helmet and at the moment I didn’t really care. I tossed the phone receiver onto the pile of clothes and continued my search. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was stocked with an inordinate amount of prescription painkillers made out in several different names, none of which was Remo Willis. The toilet was gurgling, so I lifted the seat with my foot. The water was blue and there was something small and circular at the bottom of the bowl. I assumed it was one of those deodorizing toilet pucks until it occurred to me that it was a little odd that Willis would care enough to sanitize his john with every flush yet keep the rest of his suite in such a squalid state. I crouched down and used the toilet bowl brush to stir the water. It wasn’t a deodorizing puck at the bottom of the toilet bowl after all. It was blue coloured yaba.

  The coating of the pill probably seeped off the tablet and changed the colour of the water. Which meant that Willis had probably flushed his stash, making it likely that he knew his place would be searched. Clearly he didn’t want to leave any evidence lying around. More importantly, between the link to the racquetball, the frozen mice, and the yaba in the toilet, I was now certain that Remo Willis had kidnapped Ginger and held her for ransom.

  A shuffling sound behind me halted my train of thought like a crash test dummy hitting a wall. Before I could reach my gun and spin around a giant hand palmed the back of my skull like a basketball and smashed my head into the porcelain rim of the toilet. Black spots danced in front of my eyes before a searing pain enveloped my head. The world went dark.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I was handcuffed to a Predator. The sci-fi alien, that is, just like the one Arnold Schwarzenegger battled to the death in the 1987 film. The cuffs were linked through the creature’s forearm and around its long spear, which, like the Predator itself, was made completely out of metal. The sculpture was life-sized and depicted the creature roaring, its mask removed, revealing its sharp mandibles and hideous face. A two-pronged blade was mounted on the Predator’s other arm while a laser cannon sat perched on the alien warrior’s shoulder. I caught my reflection in the sheen of the Predator’s lacquered body armour and saw the bewildered expression on my face. It’s not every day you regain consciousness only to find yourself fastened to a hulking metal statue of an intergalactic trophy hunter.

  As I adjusted to my predicament I noticed that the Predator wasn’t just constructed out of any type of metal — its torso appeared to be some kind of contoured internal combustion engine, while its arms and legs were a fusion of hundreds of rods, pins, and chains. Welded spark plugs served as the Predator’s fingers and the entire sculpture was smooth and gleaming with a dark silver and grayish lustre.

  I squirmed and yanked as hard as I could in order to free my hands, but the surrounding metal where the handcuffs had been linked through the creature’s forearm was too thick. I decided to try and tip over the statue in hopes of being able to better maneuver. I gripped my hands around the spear, jumped into a squat, and drove my heels into the ground with all my strength.

  “You got some size pal, but unless you compete in strong man competitions there ain’t no way you’re moving that. It’s over seven hundred pounds.”

  A mammoth of a man towered above me, his bulging arms crossed across his barrel chest. He was at least six-foot-eight and almost appeared wider than he did tall, his massive frame taut with layers of thick, beefy muscle.

  “Any chance you want to move it for me? I asked. “Something tells me you may have rolled a few cars in your day.”

  The mammoth man chortled and stroked his thick Hulk Hogan-style horseshoe mustache. Behind him was an entire workshop filled with dozens of metal sculptures of varying size and weight. Terminators, Aliens, and other sci-fi and fantasy characters including Darth Vader, Iron Man, and Spider-Man were on display throughout the workshop. There were also numerous sculptures of vehicles and spaceships, including X-Wings, Imperial Walkers, the Millennium Falcon, and the USS Enterprise. Band saws, drills, and a variety of metalworking tools, in addition to an abundance of scrap metal, were scattered throughout the shop on worktables and benches. The workshop itself was very impressive but it was clear that Horseshoe Stache had no interest in my opinion.

  “What were you doing at Remo’s?” the hulking man asked.

  As if on cue the side of my head began to throb and I remembered my sudden impact with the toilet rim. I bent my neck to try and touch the wound but the handcuffs made it difficult.

  “I suppose I have you to thank for my headache.” Horseshoe took an aggressive step forward.

  “Why were you there?” he growled.

  “Because I suffer from paruresis.” Horseshoe gawked at me, clearly befuddled.

  “Paru-what?”

  “Paruresis. Otherwise known as shy bladder syndrome? I have a phobia of public toilets and had to go real bad so I broke into the nearest home I could find to take a piss.”

  “Really?” asked Horseshoe, his eyes widening.

  “No, not really, you giant fucking retard. Now where the hell am I?”

  Horseshoe seethed and cocked a ham-sized fist behind his ear. I braced myself for impact but the sound of a blowtorch sparking to life gave the massive man pause. A blue flame crackled as a man stepped out of the shadows of the workshop. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white tank top, although the colours of his clothes had been muted by oil and grease stains. He flipped up the facemask of his welding helmet to reveal his chiselled features. With his square jaw, dimpled chin, and flowing blonde hair he looked more like a Norse God than a metalsmith. He waved the blowtorch at Horseshoe.

  “Leave us,” he ordered. Horseshoe obediently exited the workshop through a door behind me, without giving me so much as a glance. I locked eyes with Thor the welder for several moments before the handsome man removed his helmet and turned off the blowtorch. I exhaled loudly, not realizing that I had been holding my breath.

  “Do you know how long that Predator statue took me to make?” he asked.

  “I want to say a couple of months, but that seems like an awful lot of time for a grown man to be playing around with a bunch of greasy auto parts. You could have saved yourself a big mess if you had just gotten yourself some Lego.”

  Thor placed his equipment on a bench and took off his gloves. “I’m being serious, John. What do you think of my work?”

  “Honestly? It’s impressive,” I replied, wondering how he knew my name. “What are these things anyway? Coat racks for nerds?”

  Thor smiled and pulled up a stool across from me. I shifted my weight and realized the familiar bulge of my wallet was missing from my back pocket. That’s how he knew who I was and why he was calling me John instead of Jed.

  “It’s metal-art. I primarily use recycled motorcycle parts, although any type of scrap metal I manage to get my hands on usually finds its way into
my work.” Thor picked up a small Star Wars spaceship from a nearby workbench and held the sculpture gingerly in his hands.

  “The secret is to let the metal speak to you. I knew I wanted to make a small vehicle, but I had no idea what kind. But when I started to polish this crankshaft here,” he said, pointing to the middle of the spacecraft, “I saw the resemblance it had to the cockpit of a Tie Fighter.” He began to proudly point to the different parts of the sculpture like a suburban dad showing pictures of his kids at a Christmas concert.

  “So I ground down some gear parts and welded spokes on them for the wings, bonded some rods and chains alongside the command pod, and, as a finishing touch, fused the mesh from a cooking sieve between the winged spokes in order to give the starfighter a more aerodynamic feel.”

  Thor’s passion for his craft was almost infectious, and despite the fact he was responsible for both my headache and my being handcuffed to an immovable object, I found myself getting a kick out of the eccentric son-of-a-bitch.

  “What?” he asked, noticing my smirk.

  “You’re just awfully passionate for a guy holding me against my will.”

  “I’d rather you think of this as a friendly chat.”

  “With handcuffs.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “You mean an unfriendly chat?” His pleasant demeanor vanished, instantly replaced by an ice-cold glare.

  “If it were unfriendly there would be no chat at all,” he said, his voice laden with gravitas. Just as quickly as it appeared, Thor’s ominous attitude faded and the spirited metal-artist returned. He placed the Tie Fighter sculpture back on the workbench.

  “Passion is the genesis of genius, John. Surely there’s something in your life that lights a spark inside of you?”

  “Banana milkshakes.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Surely there must be something of more . . . substance.”

  I hesitated before answering. “Not anymore.”

  “Ah, but there was something,” he said excitedly.

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “Wrestling.”

  “What’s keeping you from doing it again?”

  “A lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Shit happens. Things change.” Thor eyed me curiously and crossed his arms.

  “I came close to giving up on metal-art once. My sculptures were mediocre at best and my skills weren’t improving. But then I decided that a life without doing what I loved wasn’t a life worth living. So I went to Thailand and spent a year studying the craft from the people who invented it.”

  A shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

  Thailand.

  Whoever Thor and Horseshoe were, they sure as hell weren’t cops, yet they had obviously had Remo Willis’ place under surveillance. Now I was handcuffed to a seven-hundred-pound metal statue and surrounded by dozens more only to find out that my kidnapper had learned his trade while living in Thailand, the birthplace of yaba meth. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “Is that where you made the connections that allow you to smuggle and distribute yaba in Vancouver?” The shock was instantly evident on Thor’s face and the creative artist façade that he worked so hard to maintain cracked faster than a can of cold beer in Declan’s hand on a hot day.

  “What do you know?” he asked solemnly.

  “Let me out of these cuffs and I’ll be happy to tell you.”

  Thor grabbed the blowtorch and sparked it to life. “If you don’t start talking I’m going to scorch your testicles until they’re blacker than rotten plums.”

  “You make an awfully convincing argument,” I replied immediately.

  I proceeded to tell Thor about Johnny’s murder and the trail that led me to Remo Willis. His face betrayed little while I spoke, even when I explained how I found the yaba in Ginger’s stomach. In fact, Thor’s only response while listening to my story was to rotate his wrist back and forth, causing the blowtorch’s blue flame to hiss as it arced through the air.

  “What were you planning to do if you found Remo?” he asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Would you turn him in to the police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you kill him?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to answer that question until I had gotten my fill of beating the hell out of the bastard first.” Thor seemed to like that answer. He switched off the blowtorch.

  “I like your style, John. You’ve managed to connect your friend’s murder to Remo, which is something I know for a fact that the police have yet to do. You’ve also proven yourself a lot more adept than any of my boys, none of whom ever thought to try and locate Remo by any way other than staking out his residence. That’s why I want to make you an offer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m going to let you go. I’m also going to ensure that none of my boys impedes your little investigation again. In exchange, if you do find Remo, you’re going to turn him over to me instead of the cops.”

  “Say I was able to do that. What would you do to him?”

  “Execute him,” he said calmly.

  “I’m confused. Why would a drug dealer like you want to take out one of your own guys?”

  “I’m not some low-life peddler, John. I’m an artist and an entrepreneur. Distributing yaba just happens to be one of my many business ventures. And as for my reasons for wanting Remo Willis dead, well, let’s just say it’s something that is necessary, and, quite frankly, none of your goddamn business.”

  “If I find him I’m sure as hell not turning the son-of-a-bitch over to you unless I know why you want him dead.”

  “Isn’t having retribution for your friend’s murder enough?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Thor walked to a workbench and placed the blowtorch in between a lathe and an unfinished metal bust of Optimus Prime. He also retrieved a large ring of keys, one of which he used to uncuff me from the Predator statue. I massaged my wrists while he took a seat back on the stool.

  “Remo is a relatively new business associate of mine. Someone I trust vouched for him and I gave him a place in my organization. He was a modest earner at best but he was getting the job done. That was until recently, when his behaviour started to become peculiar and erratic. Turns out he got hooked on the meth he was dealing and was tweaking so bad he went broke. This must have been when he got the brilliant idea, which was completely unsanctioned by me, to steal your friend’s snake and hold it for ransom. I guess the deal went bad and he killed your friend. No offense, John, but I couldn’t give a shit. What I do care about is the fact that Remo Willis panicked and decided to abscond with over fifty thousand dollars worth of my product.”

  The conviction in his voice was stern. He clearly had a grudge against Remo Willis. Just like me. Normally in a situation like this I would take my time and weigh my options. I would get to know a person before I made a deal with them. Except I had already been bullied, beaten up, and bruised, and just the thought of Johnny being murdered by a hopped up meth head made my blood boil.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Excellent,” said Thor, a big smile spreading across his face. He turned his back and walked briskly across the workshop to a refrigerator. He yanked open the door and grabbed a couple of bottles of Alexander Keith’s Pale Ale.

  “A toast to our arrangement,” he said, as he popped the caps. I took the bottle and clinked it against his. I enjoyed a long sip and the cool beer felt wonderful as it washed down my dry throat.

  “You know, John, if you’re able to pull this off I might just have to custom make a sculpture for you.”

  “
I probably wouldn’t turn down a life-sized statue of Princess Leia in her gold bikini if you … whoa.”

  I heard buzzing in my ears and stumbled forward. My head started to spin and the workshop became a kaleidoscope of glinting silver and metal. I dropped my beer and the rattle of the bottle hitting the cement floor was deafening. I fell on my back and struggled to stay conscious while suds foamed around my ear. The last thing I remember was Thor standing over me.

  “Nothing personal, John. But I figured you’d prefer a spiked drink instead of getting knocked unconscious again.”

  “Why?” I managed to croak.

  “Because you have no idea who I am, where you are, or how you got here. And I intend to keep it that way.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Hey Mister.” I felt something poke my side. “Mister, wake up.” I fought through the fogginess and opened my eyes. I was lying on the sidewalk across the street from Remo Willis’ basement suite. Something poked me again. I sat up and saw the kid in the UFC shirt that I had spoken to before standing in front of me with a hockey stick in his hand.

  “Are you okay?” the kid asked.

  “Did you see how I got here?” I asked in a raspy voice.

  “I heard some screeching tires and when I looked out the window you were just lying there.” I cleared my throat, rubbed my face in my hands, and shakily climbed to my feet.

  “You should go back inside, kid.”

  “Did you get in another fight?” he asked.

  I checked myself and found that my wallet and gun had been returned to my person. I peeled off a ten-dollar bill and offered it to the kid if he took a hike. The kid snatched the bill and scurried back across the street. I noticed a glossy business card I didn’t recognize sticking out of my wallet. I withdrew the card, which was blank except for a local 604 area code phone number. I flipped it over. There was a handwritten message scribbled in black ink. It read: Call when you find him.