Deep Cover (30 page)

Max Legend bellowed into the microphone, "This bout is scheduled for one fall. No time limit." Galahad walked up to within inches of Mr. Psycho, patted him on his smooth cranium, and strolled to a neutral corner, the laughter and applause of the crowd surrounding him. Green Tuxedo reappeared in the ring and approached the sleeping wrestler.

The referee for the bout kept a safe distance, as he would during the entire match between these two powerful wrestlers. A snap of the fingers and Mr. Psycho's eyes sprang open. Green Tuxedo quickly jumped out of the way as Mr. Psycho let out a crazy howl and darted toward Sir Galahad, his arms extended, going straight for Galahad's throat. Galahad easily slipped under Mr. Psycho's attack, causing the hulking wrestler to slam into the turn-buckle. Galahad trotted to the centre of the ring as Psycho shook his head, violently growling and stamping his feet. Galahad held his arms high and the crowd went berserk. Psycho turned toward the centre. Galahad taunted him to come forward. The fans started to howl, mimicking one of Mr. Psycho's trademarks. The wrestler indulged them with a howl of his own as he leaped toward centre ring. Galahad jumped straight into the air and shot both legs out toward Mr. Psycho's chest. Both wrestlers fell to the mat. Mr. Psycho was the first to get up. He leaped on Galahad. Galahad rolled away just in time, and Psycho crashed to the canvas.

Thousands of people yelled, "Whoa!" causing the arena to feel like a giant roller-coaster car. The two wrestlers battled back and forth for almost fifteen minutes, entertaining the crowd with an array of drop kicks and body slams. Now in the middle of the ring, Galahad jumped on Psycho's back and, one arm around his neck, raked the bald giant's eyes with the fingers of his free hand. With a sudden explosion of energy, Psycho threw Galahad off his back. Galahad was quick to get to his feet. Psycho, now on his feet as well, ran aimlessly around the ring, one hand covering his eyes, the other lashing out in search of his opponent. Galahad vaulted himself toward the apparently blinded Psycho and knife-handed him in the throat. Psycho grabbed his neck with both hands and appeared to be gasping for air. Galahad ran full speed to the opposite side of the ring, bounced off the ropes, and on the rebound caught Psycho with a powerful blow to the head with an extended forearm. Psycho hit the canvas like a rhino doing a back flip. Galahad circled the prone wrestler twice, relishing the screams of adoration from the fans. He then threw himself on top of Mr. Psycho, and the referee quickly moved in and slapped the canvas, "One . . . two . . . three." More roars from the crowd. Galahad was on his feet again, arms extended upward in victory.

The maidens in purple quickly dressed Galahad in his white arm or. The horse had been brought back to the side of the ring, and the champion slipped through the ropes to mount it. He waved to the fans as he left the arena for the dressing room.

A dazed and confused Psycho was now getting to his feet. Green Tuxedo jumped into the ring, and before Psycho could fully recover, shoved the gyrating sceptre in his face. Psycho was once again straitjacketed and roped by the men in the white suits. A snap of the fingers and the now conscious psychopath was led to his dressing room.

Another night of pro wrestling had come to an end. The crowd began to filter from the arena.

***

The Ramada Hotel is one of Manhattan's most active establishments. Located directly across from Madison Square Garden, the building has over seventeen hundred rooms, thirty meeting rooms, and a twenty-four thousand-square-foot conference centre. On the night of a major sporting event or rock concert, there isn't a room available, most of the hotel filled with performers, their entourages, and fans. Once, in 1985, Bruce Springsteen rented an entire floor for just himself and his girlfriend while the rest of the band stayed two floors below. But tonight belonged to professional wrestling. The wrestlers, promoters, managers, and those die-hard fans who could afford the ninety dollars per night room rate kept the hotel staff hopping with orders for room service, extra pillows, and requests for wake-up calls. It was almost dawn before the last of the parties ended and the tired, drunk participants began to make their way to their own rooms.

Robert Matthews, thirty-eight years old, the head of a Cleveland-based manufacturer of chalk, took a deep breath and tried once again to insert his card key. He mumbled a few curses under his breath and tried again.
And again. Then finally . . . "click." He stumbled into the room and fell onto one of the king-size beds. His head was spinning from too many shots of Johnny Walker Red, and he wished he had never walked into Room 603.

The conversation had begun innocently enough with a woman in the lobby's lounge. Robert was in town for the trade show at the Javits Center and rather than spend another lonely night in his hotel room, he decided to seek out some companionship. The woman seemed genuinely interested as Robert enthusiastically explained his
company's line of over two hundred types of chalk, including the new six-pack of multi-coloured glow-in-the-dark chalk which he would be unveiling tomorrow. Robert told her how he had lost his wife in a car accident two years ago. He confided how hard it was to leave his two little boys with their grandmother each time he had to go out of town. He would assure two saddened faces that he would bring them something special on his return. She sympathetically agreed that it must be tough for a man to raise two young boys alone. Then she excused herself, said she had to return to her room to freshen up for a party. Before she left she invited Robert to meet her at the party. Funny thing was that the woman (he never did get her name) never showed at Room 603. Robert got stuck chasing shots with a couple of wrestling fans from New Jersey.

Now, too drunk to do anything but collapse, Robert was unaware of the presence of an intruder in his room. As if struck by a jolt of electricity, he became instantly sober as an arm grabbed him around the neck, cutting off his air supply. He instinctively tried to pry away the arm, gasping for air. The assailant then dug his fingers deep into Robert's eye sockets, ripping through the muscles which hold the eyeballs in place. With a vicious raking motion, both of Robert's eyes were torn from his head. Before he could scream, a powerful strike to his throat ended his suffering. Robert's mutilated body would be discovered by housekeeping during the morning rounds. The thirty-eight-year-old maker of chalk would be missing from today's trade show. The two little boys in Cleveland would never get their surprises.

Two

“Kill him!" shouted Alex.

"Yeah, stomp him well good," his three year-old brother added, jumping up and down furiously on Martin Walsh's chest, while the TV set blared the delayed broadcast of Saturday's main event between Sir Galahad and Mr. Psycho.

Martin Walsh rolled over, playfully taking his youngest son, Anthony, to the carpet.

"Mr. Psycho's got you now," he teased the toddler, supporting himself on his elbows with young Anthony caught in his arms. Alex, coming to his baby brother's rescue, jumped on Walsh's back.

"Sir Galahad's got you in a stranglehold," whooped Alex. Walsh let the toddler crawl out from under him, then fell flat on his face, Alex's five-year-old arms still wrapped around his neck. Then, placing his tiny mouth next to Walsh's ear, young Anthony screamed (and he could scream), "Un, Tow, Twee, Yaaaay." The two boys danced around the living room, their arms raised in victory. Walsh, his face still buried in the carpet, lay defeated, mumbling, "Next time victory will be Mr. Psycho's."

The sudden silence caused by the abrupt turn off of the wailing TV set caused all three boys to look up. Amy Walsh shook her head in mock disgust. "As soon as you children are done horsing around, there's a roast chicken waiting in the kitchen."

"Food!" said Alex.

"Race ya," added Walsh.

"Wash those hands," ordered Amy. She looked at Walsh. "
All
of
you
."

A few minutes later they were seated around the kitchen table, an extended counter where they could sit two on each side. The boys sat opposite each other on their booster seats. Walsh and his wife worked together to get the counter set and to serve the boys their portions of chicken and broccoli spears.

Alex stared at his plate, elbows on the counter, his tiny fists pressed into his cheeks. "I don't like broccoli." He pronounced it bwockly.

"It's good for you," said Walsh. "Make you strong like Sir Galahad." Martin raised his arms and flexed his huge biceps.

"I don't want to be strong."

"It'll make you smart," added Amy.

"How?"

Your brain will grow bigger."

Alex held his arms extended over his head. "Big like this?"

"No," said Walsh. "What Mommy means is that the food will help you develop your ability to think better."

"I don't want to think better."

"Do you ever want to watch another wrestling match on TV again?" his father retorted. Alex nodded. "Then eat it." Martin turned to his left and looked at Anthony, who was stabbing at his dinner with his Snoopy-shaped fork. "You too, squirt."

Amy shook her head, smiling.

"I know, I know," said Martin. "Sometimes it just comes down to 'do it because I say so.'" "Try being home with them all day."

"I think I'd do a pretty good job."

"Oh, that I'd love to see," Amy said playfully. "I'd give you half a day and—" The ringing of the telephone cut her short. Walsh reached over to his right and picked up the receiver before the second ring.

"Hello.

“…Hi, Dalton.

"…Yeah, I was sitting next to it.

"…Well, we're having dinner actually. I can call you right back..."
A long pause. Amy scowled at her husband. Walsh held up his hand to reassure her. "I don't think Thursday would be a problem. If it is, I'll call you.

“…Okay.

“… Good talking with you, too…bye."

"How is he?" asked Amy.

"Mommy, can we watch TV while we eat?" asked Alex. Without a word Amy moved away from the counter and turned on the small portable, set atop a wooden replica of an antique ice chest. The boys continued to pick at their food while watching
Loony
Toons
.

"He's fine," said Walsh, waiting for her to return to her seat. "He wants me to meet him in Washington on Thursday.
Says he needs help with a case." Amy looked suddenly alarmed. "I know what you're thinking. Just because…"

"Because the last time you worked with Dalton Leverick and went deep cover, you almost…we almost got killed."

"Amy, please." Walsh was speaking softly but intently. "I'm just going to talk with him. Why are you jumping to conclusions like this?"

"I know you,
that's why. You don't think I can see how dissatisfied you've become with what you're doing. Sure, right after the biker operation was closed, it was a relief and we were both glad to be alive and out of danger. But, little by little, I could see you growing bored with investigating financial and computer fraud. It's like you got a taste of something and part of you wants it. Maybe even needs it."

"Amy. My job is fine.
It's important work and I have no plans to change." Walsh looked down at his half-eaten dinner and he poked at a spear of broccoli. She's right.
Goddamn
it
,
she's
right
on
the
money
. He had known shortly after Operation Biker was put to bed that the work he was doing in Los Angeles wasn't cutting it for him. That's why he'd jumped at the chance to work in New York. To go after some big fish in one of the world's biggest centres of commerce. That's why he'd moved his family to this quiet town in New Jersey and commuted into Manhattan to Federal Plaza every morning. To feel some of that excitement. Some of that danger. Even if it was only some hot-shot Wall Street types selling non-existent stocks, or some fast-talking good old boy from the South asking for up-front commissions for secured bank loans, it was still undercover. But it didn't last long. An hour of face-to-face undercover work and thirty hours of combing through documents, computer disks, listening to recorded phone conversations, and giving depositions. An endless mound of details and paperwork.

He reached across the counter and placed his hand on top of Amy's. "I think I can live with it." They both looked down at the scar on his right forearm where the Henchmen's sergeant-at-arms had slashed him. Amy smiled listlessly and they turned their attention to the laughter of the children. Wile E. Coyote had just gotten his head flattened by an anvil.

Martin Walsh propped up three pillows against the headboard of the bed. He turned on the reading lamp and settled in with his book,
Deep
Cover
, written by retired DEA agent Michael Levine. Amy had just walked Alex back to his room for the third time and was busily taking out her contact lenses, brushing her teeth, washing up, and whatever the hell else took her so long to do every night before bed. No matter, really. Walsh was engrossed in reading about Levine, who under the cover of a big-time drug dealer named "Luis," went into Panama to initiate a deal with some Bolivian officials.

After a final look at Alex's and Anthony's sleeping forms, Amy came into the bedroom. She was wearing a cream-colored silk pyjama top, the shape of her nipples pressing against the soft material. Her white-laced G-string panties were just visible below the shirt-tail. She closed the bedroom door quietly, the only sound the distinctive click of the latch. Walsh looked up from his reading. Amy placed her hands behind her head and posed seductively, revealing more of her shapely frame as her pyjama top lifted.

"Somehow I get the feeling that you're not planning to catch up on any reading tonight," said Walsh.

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Mr. Special Agent?"

Amy sauntered over to Martin's side of the bed, unbuttoning her top as she walked. Walsh was wearing a loose-fitting Everlast shirt and a pair of black bikini underwear. Amy mounted him, grabbed the book from his hands, threw it on the floor, and began to rub her groin against his. He placed his fingertips on her breasts, gently massaging them in a circular motion, working his fingers to her nipples, and then pinching them ever so slightly between his thumbs and middle fingers. She gasped with pleasure, increasing the tempo of her movement. His erection seemed to pulsate with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat. He slipped Amy's pyjama top off and pulled her down to him. He removed her underpants and rolled her over. Amy pulled off his shirt, almost ripping it. Walsh worked his underwear off as he slid his tongue down to Amy's breasts, stopping at each nipple and gently closing his teeth on them. Amy moaned approvingly,
then pushed his head down, purring like a kitten. Walsh went to work, Amy thrusting her pelvis against his tongue. She let out a soft cry as she climaxed and Walsh guided his body upward, entering her wet vagina smoothly. Her breath taken away by his penetration, she sucked air in short gasps.

Martin ran his fingers through Amy's hair, his tongue deep in her mouth, the tempo of his thrusts increasing in intensity. Amy wrapped her legs around the small of his back and met his thrusts with her own until they collapsed—hot, sweaty, and satiated.

They lay on their backs for several seconds before Amy let out a giggle.

"You sure make a guy feel great," said Martin. "Can I ask what you find so entertaining?"

"I'm sorry. I just thought of something funny."

Martin turned toward her, supporting himself with his left elbow. "I'm listening," he said, feigning anger.

"It's your son Alex." She covered her eyes with her hands as if she was embarrassed by what she was going to say. "He goes running through the house this morning, yelling, 'My penis is sticking straight up, my penis is sticking straight up.'"

She laughed loudly.

"What did you say to him?" Martin was laughing himself.

"I just shrugged my shoulders.
Didn't know what to say. When he asked me why, I told him that I didn't have a penis, so he should ask his father. He must have forgotten about it." Amy leaned over and kissed Martin on his forehead. "So what are you going to tell him, Daddy?"

Walsh placed his hand under his chin, thought for a moment, then said, "Son, it's time we had a little heart-to-heart."

"Yech! How clichéd."

He held up his hand. "Wait, wait. Let me finish." He cleared his throat. “‘Now, son,' I'll say. `A man has two brains.
The one in his head and the one in his penis. When he's a little guy like you, the brain in his head is large and the brain in his penis is small. As he gets older the brain in his head becomes smaller and the brain in his penis becomes larger. When he's full-grown, he does all his thinking with the brain in his penis. So your penis sticking straight up is just that brain beginning to think for itself.' "

Amy roared with laughter and began to beat Martin savagely with a pillow. He wrestled it away from her and held her down, her arms pinned to her sides.

"You're my prisoner now. Assaulting an FBI agent is a serious offense, young lady."

Amy could feel his cock starting to get hard again. "Wow. Not bad, Agent Walsh.
You been taking vitamins or something?"

"No.
Just
bwockly
. It is brain food, you know."

Brian Maxwell had grown up around professional wrestling. As a boy he would sweep up after the wrestlers worked out at the Lion Heart Gymnasium in St. Louis, where he worked for Sam Munchnik, the legendary promoter who had founded the National Wrestling Alliance in 1948. "Keep up the good work, my boy," Sam would say, giving Brian's head a pat, then stuffing a dollar bill into the ten-year-old's shirt pocket. Brian would sweep the concrete floor and listen to Sammy M. discuss the business of wrestling with Pinky Carmichael, Rotten Joe Selby, and "Curious" George Weeks.

At seventeen Brian Maxwell moved to Pittsburgh and worked full-time as an assistant promoter and helped put together the championship bout between Edouard Carpientieri and Lou Thesz. Three years later, Brian went solo and had founded Brian Maxwell Productions and the World Wrestling Association. Now in its fourth decade, the WWA boasts offices in Atlanta, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and Detroit. Over forty percent of the wrestlers in the current circuit are WWA wrestlers and are responsible for millions of dollars in merchandising, video, and broadcast rights.

Brian Maxwell sat behind his mahogany desk in his Eighth Avenue office, puffing on a Macanudo cigar and skimming an article in the
New
York
Post
. STILL NO LEADS IN WRESTLEMANIAC CASE. The telephone rang and he snatched it up on the first ring.

"What?"

"Maxie?
It's Artie Pompolous. How are ya?"

"Same shit, new day. How goes the relationship with the public?"

"That's why I'm calling, Maxie.
The
Times
,
Post
…even the fucking Jersey papers are up my ass because you won't talk to 'em."

Maxwell jammed his cigar into the ashtray and spun around to face the window. The rush hour was just beginning, busy commuters hustling up and down 57th Street, disappearing underground and climbing into cabs and buses. The six-foot-three wrestling mogul grunted and stood up from his chair. Still looking out the window, he shouted into the receiver, "What the fuck do you think I pay you and your shit-head P.R. firm thousands of my good dollars every year for, scumbag? I'll tell you what for. To keep motherfuckers like those faggot reporters out of my ass and up yours until I say I'm ready to talk to them."