Tailed

by Brian M. Wiprud

  And there’s something about the experience of watching lucha libre live that made it exciting. Perhaps the enthusiasm of the faithful fans who had braved the terrible weather was catching.

  There had been two bouts, and still no sign of Vargas. He’d gone backstage to talk with Draco. We waited, and he hadn’t returned. Maybe he’d gone to check on Wilco? We’d left the mutt hitched to the bumper of the car so he wouldn’t soil the Vargasmobile upholstery.

  Nicholas was next to me, and he seemed indifferent to the show, more intent on the crowd. I gave him a nudge.

  “Gibraltar. That was the name Lanston said on the phone.”

  “Hmm?”

  “When I overheard Lanston on the phone, she said something about them sending someone to replace her. And I now remember the name. Gibraltar.”

  He just glanced at me.

  “Gibraltar mean anything to you?”

  His answer was a shrug.

  I was about to say more when the crowd roared in response to whatever was being said in Spanish over the loudspeakers. As I said, the audience was mostly Latino, but to our right, moving up the aisle to the exit, was a trio of gringos. Nothing odd in that, except that I recognized them from somewhere. One was tall, with short, burlap-colored hair and gray eyes. There was a littler one, stooped, with an ill-advised mustache, weak chin, and nervous walk. Lumbering last was the largest of the three, a man of substantial girth and obvious strength.

  Nicholas noticed me noticing them.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Not exactly…” I began absently, searching my mental mug shots. “I know them, though. They’re from a fraternal order. Rented a pronghorn from me a couple weeks ago. Tupelca.”

  “Tupelca?”

  I nodded. “Mystical Order of the Tupelca. There’s a lodge—or I think they call them ‘dwellings’—in New York. Angie told me on the phone that they were coming by the other day to rent something else.”

  “Pronghorn?”

  “A Southwestern antelope with sharp, hooked horns. Their lodge was the Pronghorn Dwelling. Seems each lodge is named after a different animal.”

  “Where the hell is Vargas?” Nicholas resumed his survey of the arena.

  My gaze was just turning from the Tupelcas when the tall one caught my eye and quickly looked away. Almost imperceptibly, I saw him nudge the one with the bad mustache next to him, who glanced in my direction just before they vanished out the exit.

  “You want some popcorn or something before the next match? I’m starved.”

  Nicholas looked at me like I’d suggested pouring gravy into his shoes, and disdained replying.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Garth: don’t talk to any strangers.”

  I dismissed that comment with a roll of my eyes and headed up the aisle. My mission wasn’t popcorn, of course, but to buttonhole those Tupelca and make sure the coincidence of them being at the match was just that. But when I stepped into the corridor surrounding the perimeter of the arena and scanned the throngs of lucha fans milling in and out of the eateries, my three amigos were nowhere to be seen. I turned right, scanning the heads for the tall, burlap one.

  The crowd was so thick, I quickly lost hope of finding those Tupelcas. But I was uneasy at having seen them. Especially since Angie had mentioned on the phone that they’d called again recently. Coincidences, under these circumstances, were unwelcome and warranted scrutiny.

  I stepped out of the flow of the crowd into the Creamy Pebbles stand to make my U-turn. Stadium culinary delights sure have changed. Used to be it was all popcorn and hot dogs and “pop.” Maybe the stray snow cone. Now there were fast-food chains dishing out the empty calories. But I had no clue what a Creamy Pebble was.

  My curiosity got the better of me. Could this culinary discovery be on par with cheese curds? I felt like the Marco Polo of the American heartland in search of my spaghetti in a strange land harboring exotic delights.

  “So what are Creamy Pebbles?” I inquired of the clerk.

  The answer came from behind me.

  “Flash-frozen pebbles of ice cream in forty-eight flavor combinations.”

  Like the inimitable Marco Polo on the cusp of the Gobi Desert, I turned to find the Hun at my back: J. C. Fowler. And he was holding out a spoonful of multicolored Creamy Pebbles from his plastic cup. He eyed me speculatively. I didn’t like it.

  “Following me?” That was obvious enough, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Just looking after your vuka. Three down, two to go. The only way to save yourself is to go to the mound, and use this to remove the spirit.” He dangled his medallion at me.

  “Sir, did you want to order something?” The kid behind the counter was alternately eyeing me and the queue developing behind me and Fowler. We were gumming up the Creamy Pebble works, so I stepped out of line. Fowler followed me intently, like a dog follows a butcher.

  “Fowler, just tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to follow me to the mound.” Fowler started squirming as before, but more so, like he was trying to crawl out of his skin. I’d seen similar things in New York, particularly in a certain sector of creeps who lurk on the periphery of parks huffing glue. The solvents were literally dissolving their neurosystems. Customers in line for the Creamy Pebbles were giving Fowler and me wary sidelong glances.

  “Fowler, you are not a werewolf. Gabby is not a witch. I am not possessed of a vuka. You need a psychiatrist.”

  “What did Gabby tell you?” He was running his tongue along his teeth like he felt the fangs growing.

  “Just enough: I should stay away from you.”

  He paused, absorbed that tidbit, and then seemed to ignore it as another thought gripped him. “There’s an excavation at the mound—I worked there for years as an archeologist before the government chased me off. They knew what was in the ground and didn’t want me to find it. I haven’t been able to go back there until now. They won’t recognize me, nobody will. We can go together. We have to go soon. It is the time of the white gecko, the stars are aligned for the trip home.”

  “Are you my uncle?”

  He just smiled, and twitched.

  I heard the crowd cheer in the distance, a sure sign the next match was to begin soon. I figured I’d better get back to my seat and Nicholas. And away from this Testor’s addict.

  “I’m not going to say this again, Fowler.” I pointed a stern finger at him to let him know I meant business. “Stay away from me.”

  Because of the crowds, it took me about ten minutes to hack my way back to my seat.

  “Where’s the popcorn?”

  “No popcorn, just Creamy Pebbles. And Fowler.”

  “Here?” Nicholas stood up in alarm.

  “Yup. At the Creamy Pebbles stand.”

  “Creamy Pebbles?”

  “Flash-frozen pebbles of ice cream in forty-eight flavor combinations.”

  Nicholas pushed his way up the aisle to the exit. He was back in ten minutes.

  “Find him?” I asked, but I knew the answer by his scowl.

  “No.”

  The boom of the announcer commanded our attention to the ring. His staccato was familiar to anyone who has paused on a salsa station while spinning the radio dial. I didn’t catch any of it except the final words: “El Draco Blanco!”

  Everyone stood to applaud, hands and chins held high, and we followed suit, joining the din. From the wings, a luchadore in a familiar white cape and glittery white cowl strode down through the curtain and down the gangplank to the ring. His thick arms swung with the machismo of a king, eyes steeled like a conqueror, his chest thrust forward like an armored knight. The tights revealed considerable muscle, but also a ripple of excess around the lower rib cage. Caesar obviously likes his pasta course as much as the next guy.

  Nicholas and I exchanged glances as Draco swirled center ring, displaying the five white geckos on the back of his cape.

  A spotlight swung to the opposite side o
f the ring, where curtains parted wide enough to accommodate the arriving contender’s antlers.

  This luchadore’s mask was black, and his black leotard had white racing stripes. Real antlers were affixed to the helmet atop his head. They looked like mule deer antlers, but I couldn’t be certain. His hands were out to his sides as though ready to draw on Wyatt Earp.

  “El Macho Venado!” the announcer boomed—just like some game show announcer unveiling “A New Car!” behind Curtain Number One.

  Clearly Antler Man was the villain in this match, but the crowd didn’t boo or hiss. They afforded the challenger polite applause and nods of approval. What’s the point of a hero without a nemesis, after all?

  Arms swinging high, El Macho Venado strode down the gangplank, and as he approached the ring, one could see that he was not well built. In fact, his stride was more of a lope that seemed amateurish even from my limited exposure to lucha libre.

  As he approached the ring, he began to run, antlers lowered, and vaulted over the ropes at Draco.

  The crowd gasped and sprang to their feet. We all expected him to remove his antlers before the match, as a wrestler named Diablo had removed his horns in the previous match.

  Draco lurched out of the way, unprepared, and the antlers caught in his cape instead of his gut. He whirled, swinging El Macho Venado into the ropes.

  “Dammit!” Nicholas spat. “He’s trying to kill him right here!”

  “What?”

  “That’s not a luchadore, Garth! It’s our killer. Wanna bet those antlers came from one of Draco’s trophies?”

  I wanted to utter some expletive, but gulped instead.

  The referee tried to intercede, but was stuck in his side with an antler and flipped over the ropes. El Macho Venado was suddenly free of Draco’s cape, and the opponents took to opposite sides of the ring, sizing up each other. The crowd was in tumult, confused, surging into the aisles for a better view. They knew this wasn’t right, that something was wrong. A knot of security guards tried to fight their way toward the stage, but the battle was on.

  I could see Draco’s huge chest heaving, but he hadn’t lost his composure in the face of actual combat. He let his cape drop, ready for the challenge, if not welcoming it.

  Macho Venado charged. Draco dodged. An antler point caught Draco’s side and pushed him to the ropes. Draco grabbed hold of the antlers, wrenching them clockwise like he was bolting shut a vault. Macho Venado spun and landed hard on his back.

  Blood soaking his white flank, Draco hesitated. He put a hand to his wound, his eyes wide at the sight of the blood staining his costume. The realization that this was no game, no show, seemed to drain the Caesar out of this luchadore. Bravery and honor had been replaced with the flight instinct. He turned to the ropes. Clearly he intended to hop out of the ring and flee.

  But he shot a glance across the audience, and even with the mask, you could see his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow with resolve, and the grandeur return. He’d forgotten, briefly, who he was, and what it was to be El Draco Blanco.

  Draco turned and dashed at his opponent. He latched onto Macho Venado’s lowered antlers and slammed him into a corner post. Draco then spun his opponent on the rebound into center ring and kicked Venado’s legs from under him, sending the antlered fiend tumbling to the other side of the ring.

  A wave of cheers crashed down on Draco from the sea of fans as security guards approached the ropes on one side of the ring.

  Like some miraculous man-bird, Draco leapt onto the rope, balanced, and spun to face the ring. He hovered there, glorious in his glittery tights, our hero on the cusp of victory.

  Our champion on the brink of vanquishing his foe.

  Our demigod on the verge of expunging evil.

  Bouncing lightly on the rope, Draco catapulted himself at his opponent. He seemed weightless, arching gracefully through the air.

  Midair, his legs shot forward, scissoring toward his opponent.

  By God! It was El Gallo Muerte’s signature move. The Rotten Egg!

  Macho Venado was just clambering to his knees, antlers swinging toward Draco.

  Gasps and breathless exclamations of mi Dios cascaded across the arena, followed by a thunderous shout: No!

  It is written: Show me a hero and I will show you a tragedy.

  The antler tines had plunged deep into Draco’s chest.

  chapter 16

  The slash of the reaper’s scythe cut a gash of despair through the audience.

  And shock.

  I wasn’t sure if they were about to riot or explode into mass weeping. Many were probably playing back in their minds what they had just seen, wondering if they had seen what they thought they saw. Others may have been trying to convince themselves it was part of the show.

  During this moment of mass indecision, a mob of security guards topped the ropes from all four sides and converged on the combatants like a rugby scrum. Draco was quickly heaved up above their heads, his whole torso bloodied, and handed over the ropes to the audience.

  Though unscripted, this move by the security guards couldn’t have been more timely. Instead of erupting into a riot or panic, the audience moved the body mosh-pit style over the top of the crowd toward the exit where an EMS team had just entered. They had become part of their hero’s rescue. Or at least his funeral.

  The entire arena began to chant Draco! Draco! Draco! as the body of their fallen knight moved from one level to the next. It was like an incantation to sustain Draco’s life, and it became louder as feet began to stamp. The stadium rumbled with admiration.

  “He escaped!” Nicholas pointed to the ring.

  The helmet with the bloody antlers lay in the ring.

  But Macho Venado had vanished, and the escape had the guards arguing with each other and peering under the ring and into the crowd helplessly.

  Had they been so preoccupied with moving Draco that they failed to notice the culprit slip away? Was the audience so transfixed by the spectacle of Draco’s bloody white form gliding across the horde of fans that they didn’t see Macho Venado dash into their midst?

  “C’mon.” Nicholas grabbed my arm and we bullied our way to the nearest exit, where we were literally propelled from the mob like a banana squeezed from its skin into a nearly vacant passageway.

  “Where are we going?” I trotted after Nicholas.

  “See if we can find the killer.”

  “Find the killer?” I skidded to a stop. “You mean find the guy who wants to kill me?”

  Nicholas wheeled in my direction, shooting me a look of derision. “I’d say this would be the best time, wouldn’t you? He’s focusing on escape, not killing you. Besides, he doesn’t have a piece of your taxidermy to kill you with. Unless it’s small enough to put in his pocket.”

  There are few things more annoying than a little brother who’s right all the time.

  So we resumed our trot around the curving corridor, skipped down a couple escalators, and burst through the doors into the parking lot.

  We scanned the lot, which was slick from rain. Lightning still tickled the horizon, perhaps in Kansas where some other lucky campers were getting the tornado treatment.

  “There.” Nicholas pointed toward a parking area cordoned off from the main lot by police barriers.

  We ran to the barriers and found the two cop cars by the entrance were empty.

  “The fuzz must have gone inside.” Nicholas winced in the direction of an open door that read STAGE ENTRANCE. “The killer could have slipped out already.”

  Nicholas began to sweep the parking lot with his eyes for the fleeing Macho Venado.

  “Garth!”

  I turned at the sound of my name being shouted from the stage entrance.

  “So here you are,” Stella said accusingly. She emerged from the doorway and paused just long enough to flare up one of her long brown cigarettes.

  “What the hell is going on? Where have you been?” She lifted her sunglasses and took in the night sky’s g
loom with approval.

  “I’ve been kinda busy trying to stay alive, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

  “No whining, Garth.”

  “That was not a whine. And even if it was, I’ll whine if I want to. I kinda assumed you didn’t want me in your employ anymore.”

  Nicholas stepped up to our tête-à-tête with a wry smile. “Dearest Stella.”

  “Nicky.” She flicked an ash at him by way of greeting. “What brings the both of you here?”

  “If I had to guess I’d say the same as you. Draco. So was it you or the FBI or this Air Force woman who figured out the Order of the White Geckos?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss company business,” she said with a reptilian smile.

  “Did you see Macho Venado in there? We figured he might have tried to escape this way.”

  “Who? The killer?”

  Nicholas and I looked at each other, then he said, “Some wrestler with antlers just gored Draco. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Christ.” She dropped her cigarette with disgust and squashed it like a bug. “I heard a bunch of commotion from the bathroom, but thought it was just cheering. They’re not going to like this back in Hartford.”

  “If you were here to protect Wilberforce/Peete’s interests, you blew it. I’m not certain but I don’t think Draco can survive those wounds. Where were you when this happened?”

  We eyed her as she eyed us, like two dogs and a cat. Raindrops crashed onto the macadam from a fender. Leaves slapped together in the distant trees. The filament of a streetlamp bulb thundered overhead. We were all wondering the same outlandish thing. Could one of us have been Macho Venado?

  “In the bathroom. How did the killer escape, in front of all those people?”

  “Slipped away somehow,” Nicholas groused.

  “Or maybe he’s right here.” Stella waved her cigarette at me. “It’s pretty suspicious, Garth being here. Once again at the scene of the crime.”