New Title 1 (6 page)

Just then the back door chunked open and disgorged a fat security guard. “Let’s clear it out, ladies,” he addressed the few remaining rats. “Everyone’s gone.”

The congregation groaned in unison, then began to scuffle off in their high heels.

“Fuck,” Pinkie said.

“Oh well,” Melinda realized. “No sugar tonight. See ya later.”

“‘Bye.”

Melinda walked off into the dark.
Waste of time,
she thought.
At this rate I’m never going to find Goon.

««—»»

—Goon. I’ve had exactly 107 grapplers, but he’s the one I want the most,
the diary read in purple, cursive Flair Pen.
I’ve talked to tons of other rats, and nobody’s had him, and I’ve gotten to a lot of grapplers just hoping one of them could fix me up with Goon, but—no dice. Most of the other grapplers are spooked by him, they say he’s weird, they say he’s scary. Ted Rotunda said he DDT’d Goon onto real cement once and blew the move, rammed Goon’s head into the concrete for real, then said that Goon wasn’t even fazed once he saw him back in the locker room. And Mike Debiase said the same thing. Goon’s just a heel but he takes punishment like nobody else. Rumor is he’s turned down big buck contracts with Japan, ECW, SMW, and even WWF, but he doesn’t take them. He wants to stay a heel in DSWC, and that’s it. But I guess that’s his business. I don’t care.

I don’t care about anything except snagging Goon.

Straker’s eyes narrowed. He closed the diary, perplexed.
Goon,
he thought.
Christ.
He didn’t know from wrestling but he still couldn’t quite fathom why a certain contingent of women would find professional wrestlers attractive. They were mostly losers, actually, guys who couldn’t cut it in genuine professional sports. They were little more than circus clowns putting on a human-cannon show.
What’s the big deal with wrestlers?
Straker wondered. He lit a cigarette, to ponder these things, when his office door clicked open and in walked Collier, the deputy chief.

Collier had reddish-blond hair that looked fake. And a hardass gleam in his eyes that didn’t.

“Hey, DC,” Straker said. “I was just about to come by your office. Got a big lead on the Bilks murder.”

“Oh yeah? Well it gets a whole lot better. The Sheriff up in Crick City found a mass grave he thinks connects to this case. Twelve bodies, all male in their twenties or thirties; same m.o. with some cute variations, hands, feet, and eyes gone; and get this, their tools are gone. The M.E. said it looks like they were bitten off! They’d all been and I quote ‘rectally traumatized.’ I’d say this Goon fucker is swinging both ways now.”

“What connects this to our case?” Straker asked feeling suddenly queasy.
Bit their cocks off?
It hurt just to think about it.

“They were able to ID one guy, a big wrestling fan, had a Armageddon Riders logo tattooed on his shoulder. The friend that confirmed the ID said he was at wrestling matches whenever possible trying to get lucky with one of the lady wrestlers or valets.”

Straker tapped an ash.

“You’re going to have to go undercover on this one, and we’ve got you some help, a reporter who specializes in pro wrestling coverage.”

A reporter? Straker peered at his boss. “Why a reporter—”

“The people you have to get close to are like carnies or gypsies. They practically have their own language. You need someone who knows the game or you’ll just be wasting your time.” Collier held a sheet of paper. “Just read this and get ready. And
don’t
fuck up. Last thing I need is one of my people stepping on his dick in front of the press.”

Collier slapped the report down.
Real nice guy.
Straker squinted and read the report:

PAGE ONE OF ONE PAGE

FM: ROANOKE OBSERVER

TO: HQ STATE POLICE VIOLENT CRIMES UNIT

RE: SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT M. PIERCE

Expect arrival of M. Pierce, Special Sports/Entertaiment Columnist Roanoke Observer. Pierce has an extensive background in the field of professional wrestling and has been instructed to provide assistance in any way possible to further your investigation.

L.C. Taylor, Assignment Editor

Straker frowned up at his immediate supervisor. “Come on, DC, they’re sending some chump to get a story and fuck things up in the process.”

“Yeah. Probably some goddamn whiskey-swilling, cigar-smoking, plaid-jacketed, fat-assed, typewriter jockey. But we gotta live with it.”

A shadow crossed the office. Both Collier and Straker turned and stared at the figure who entered: A tall, beautiful blonde in a smart business suit.
Christ Almighty,
Straker mused.
She’s absolutely gorgeous…

“Who are you?” Collier demanded.

“I’m the fat-assed typewriter jockey—I’m sorry I didn’t wear plaid today,” the woman said. “Melinda Pierce, Sports Columnist.”

— | — | —

Part 2

She sat primly opposite Straker’s desk. 38-24-36, hair shiny as white silk, noon-blue eyes. She tapped notes into a subnotebook computer on her lap. Coltish calves stemmed from a nice pleated, floral skirt; her bosom more than amply filled the lace-trimmed summer-weight blouse, linen-white with simple floral prints. Her face, like a mature model’s, bore no signs of make-up, and no signs of anything but a strict, business demeanor. Straker, at 38, had long since forgotten the definition of “automatic erection”; nevertheless, that’s what burgeoned in his pants as he tried to beat this stunning distraction and project at least some facsimile of professionalism.

“…seven females that we know of, all but one unidentified, and the twelve guys they dug up outside of Crick City,” she was saying. “And I suppose you’re curious as to why my paper sent me here? Your boss and mine are old college buddies; he called looking for someone who knew the wrestling game, and here I am.”

“Huh?” Straker said.

“The fact is, you have no chance getting close to these people without my help, and this could be the story of the year. And you needn’t worry that I’ll screw things up for you, I can take care of myself and I know most of these guys real well.”

“Huh?” Straker said.

“I’m merely here to assist you in bringing this rash of crimes to resolution.”

“Uh, yeah,” Straker said.

She set the laptop up on the desk and crossed her legs. Powder blush stockings, slingback white-leather shoes with bronze-hued tips. Her foot tossed unconsciously as she shuffled through some papers.

“I’ve been on this case for about a month already…” Her blue eyes darted up. “Captain Straker? Are you listening?”

 
“Uh, oh yes. I was, uh, contemplating the various points of the case.”

The most subtle of smirks, then she continued, “As I was saying, I’ve been working the case in a clandestine capacity for about a month, but my efforts have been fairly futile thus far.”

“Clan…destine?”

“An undercover capacity, Captain. All of the victims were what a professional colloquialism refers to as—”

“Ringrats,” Straker said in a fog. All he could do was look at her, his erection pulsing.

Her expression focused. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Her legs, her thighs, her hips. The trim waist, the lines of her hips in the skirt, the packed bosom.
Fuck,
he thought dismally.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my fuckin’ life!
“Uh, oh, yeah. My technical services chief ID’d the seventh body—Susan Bilks. So I interviewed her roommate. It seems that Bilks was hung up on pro wrestlers for some reason. She, you know, got together with them on a regular basis.”

“It’s called particularized transitive erotomanic behavior,” she said. “A groupie phenomenon, which is actually quite apparent in an array of professional circles. For whatever reason, certain women become maniacally attracted to men in a specified occupational field: writers, athletes, rock stars, and in this case, professional wrestlers. And I have reason to believe that a professional wrestler is responsible for all of the murders, a wrestler named—”

“Goon,” Straker said.

Another focused glance. “That’s uncanny, Captain Straker. How did you determine that?”

Her legs, her thighs, her hips… “Uh, oh, I read Bilks’ diary.”

“A diary? That’s fantastic. How did you manage to get her diary?”

You don’t want to know.
Straker’s stomach flipped. The diary. The visual images of what he’d had to do to get it seemed like jumpcuts of some bizarre organic nightmare. Miss Wilcox had spread her run-down-by-a-Mack-Truck body out on the trailer floor, unhesitant in her withered nakedness. Cunnilingus, of course, had been her first request, and her fingers had bared the open sump of her sex before Straker’s flinching face, digging into it as though it were a plop of Alpo. With hair around it. “Lick it,” she breathily ordered, and when Straker did, the flavor made him think of what a meld of ground pork and anchovies might taste like after it had sufficiently spoiled. The flattened breasts flopped to her armpits as the splayed hips sensitively fidgeted. “Now fuck it,” she ordered. “Dump a great big hot
fuck
in that pussy, you big handsome fucker you!” It was only sheer reflex that permitted erection at all, Straker’s unquenched-for-years libido rising to a potential reproductive occasion. When he slid his penis into that gasping vaginal mess, he was grateful that forced images of a stacked, blond babysitter named Wendy allowed him to empty his vesicles rather quickly. When he withdrew, there came a wet squish, like someone rowing a stick through spaghetti. “Oh, shit, yes! That’s just what I needed, a pussyful of cum.” And she’d made him do it all one more time before she’d given him the diary, her on top the second time, her popped bags for breasts slapping his face. “Give me another nut!” she profaned. “Squirt that hot cum all the way up there, you fucker!”
What am I?
Straker pondered.
A sperm vendor?
The second trip had taken a bit longer as that sloppy vagina gulped him. More squishy sounds, like people scarfing scrambled eggs, abounded until he was finally able to aspirate his semen yet again. Afterward, she gave him the diary, then lay sated on the rag-tag couch, playing with the leakage at the raw gulf, then sucking it off her fingers. “Come back and see me sometime,” she said and winked.
Doubtful,
Straker thought.

The recollection clashed, though, with what he was looking at right now: Melinda Pierce, a brick shithouse in a $400 dress. Bits of questions, however, did manage to surface over his muse of dreamy lust.

“How did you know about this guy Goon?”

“Confidential,” she said. “I’ve been watching him for a while.”

“So does he have a record?.”

“Not that anyone can find.”

“Then what’s his professional history”

“No one knows. His manager, Felander, just showed up with him last year. He’d been managing after he blew his knee and dropped out of the Armageddon Riders. With his charisma he was one of the top managers within a couple of months, started managing his old crony Dare and the Fabulous Ghoula. Then about a year ago he drops the two biggest names in the region and starts working with a mid-card heel. It doesn’t make a lot of sense financially. Felander, Dare, Ruger, and Kevin the Druid were the top of the wrestling profession for almost a decade. And that’s another thing—The Druid.”

Hadn’t Traci Wilcox mentioned that name?
Yes.
“According to her room-mate, Susan Bilks got…picked up by Kevin the Druid once.”

“The Druid was well-known for being a ring-rat addict. He and Felander were good friends. Kevin’s gimmick was a satanic schtick; he’d wear black capes and upside-down crosses in the ring. It worked for years. But it seems like the same time Goon showed up, Kevin the Druid disappeared. And I mean disappeared without a trace. No one’s seen him since.”