asked.
“If Susan was a wrestling groupie, it’s clear that she went to a wrestling match on the night that she died. Our forensic technicians have determined with a fair degree of accuracy that she was killed three nights ago.” Straker sat up at the edge of the seat to ask the question. “Do you know where Susan went three nights ago? Like exactly where she went?”
The tired shoulders shrugged. “Farling Civic Center, right downtown. Believe me, that’s where she went every Wednesday night. There’s always a match there. Seems to me that all you gotta do is find out which wrestlers were there on that night and you’ll probably be able to figure out which one of the creeps killed her.”
Tell me about it. Luck, in Straker’s business, rarely played out this quickly. He rose, a bit dizzy. “Farling Civic Center. Thank you, Miss Wilcox. You’ve been very helpful.”
The woman’s eyebrows hitched. “Maybe, uh, well—”
Straker paused at the door. “What’s that, Miss Wilcox?”
“Maybe there’s something else I can help you with,” she said, and with that remark she placed her flip-flopped feet up on the coffee table, and parted her legs. This, of course, afforded Straker a bull’s-eye view of her genitalia.
His stomach shimmied. What he was looking at reminded him more of a pile of deviled ham stuffed into a cusp of hair.
“No thanks,” Straker said. “I’m really in, uh, something of a hurry.”
Next she fully parted the robe, showing the breasts which seemed to hang like men on gibbets. “In too much of a hurry to pick up Susan’s diary?”
Straker’s thoughts locked up. “Susan Bilks kept a diary? Miss Wilcox, that diary could be crucial to this case. I need that diary.”
“And I’d be happy to give it to you, Captain…whatever your name is. But I need you to give me something in exchange.”
You gotta be shitting me! She was blackmailing him. “That’s coercion, Miss Wilcox, not to mention a grievous obstruction of jurisprudence. I’m a professional homicide investigator. You’re asking me to commit an act of sexual turpitude that could jeopardize my job. Now you can give me that diary, or I can swear out a warrant and take it.”
“Yeah, but who knows how long that would take?” Somewhere behind those tired, give-a-shit eyes something like hopeless longing raged. “All that paperwork and all? And who knows, in the time it takes you to get a warrant, that diary could become misplaced.” She shrugged, sipped her drink. “It could even…disappear.”
Jesus Christ! Straker winced, first at the sight of her putty-like breasts and the stacked-beef vagina, then at the thought of what he was about to do.
What the hell, he thought. Couple of drinks first and it might not be so bad…
««—»»
When Too Hot Romeo double-flipped off the top rope, Goon caught him in two beefy arms, then did the Back-Breaker. Too Hot, whose real name was Walter Rawson, feigned the appropriate level of pain, then rolled over, groaning. He felt ripped off, but what else could he do? I’m the most acrobatic wrestler in the bizz, and now I’m doing mid-card matches for three-hundred a week. He’d flunked three piss-tests in a row, so WCW had made an example of him. Doing all the anti-drug promo stuff in the ghettos didn’t help; Too Hot often copped from the same dealers. So it was bye-bye to that 200 thou a year.
It’s because I’m black, he felt convinced when Goon stomped his belly. Too Hot faked a near-rupture of the abdominal wall. White oppression, racist motherfuckers. Goon, then, pulled a full body splash off the ringpost, and Too Hot followed the script, rolling away just in time. The crowd cheered when he jumped up and landed a perfect drop-kick to this mastodon called Goon. He hit the canvas, covering Goon for the three count.
“You gotta hit me harder,” Goon whispered, then jerked his shoulder up just before the last count. They hauled each other up in a
“If Susan was a wrestling groupie, it’s clear that she went to a wrestling match on the night that she died. Our forensic technicians have determined with a fair degree of accuracy that she was killed three nights ago.” Straker sat up at the edge of the seat to ask the question. “Do you know where Susan went three nights ago? Like exactly where she went?”
The tired shoulders shrugged. “Farling Civic Center, right downtown. Believe me, that’s where she went every Wednesday night. There’s always a match there. Seems to me that all you gotta do is find out which wrestlers were there on that night and you’ll probably be able to figure out which one of the creeps killed her.”
Tell me about it. Luck, in Straker’s business, rarely played out this quickly. He rose, a bit dizzy. “Farling Civic Center. Thank you, Miss Wilcox. You’ve been very helpful.”
The woman’s eyebrows hitched. “Maybe, uh, well—”
Straker paused at the door. “What’s that, Miss Wilcox?”
“Maybe there’s something else I can help you with,” she said, and with that remark she placed her flip-flopped feet up on the coffee table, and parted her legs. This, of course, afforded Straker a bull’s-eye view of her genitalia.
His stomach shimmied. What he was looking at reminded him more of a pile of deviled ham stuffed into a cusp of hair.
“No thanks,” Straker said. “I’m really in, uh, something of a hurry.”
Next she fully parted the robe, showing the breasts which seemed to hang like men on gibbets. “In too much of a hurry to pick up Susan’s diary?”
Straker’s thoughts locked up. “Susan Bilks kept a diary? Miss Wilcox, that diary could be crucial to this case. I need that diary.”
“And I’d be happy to give it to you, Captain…whatever your name is. But I need you to give me something in exchange.”
You gotta be shitting me! She was blackmailing him. “That’s coercion, Miss Wilcox, not to mention a grievous obstruction of jurisprudence. I’m a professional homicide investigator. You’re asking me to commit an act of sexual turpitude that could jeopardize my job. Now you can give me that diary, or I can swear out a warrant and take it.”
“Yeah, but who knows how long that would take?” Somewhere behind those tired, give-a-shit eyes something like hopeless longing raged. “All that paperwork and all? And who knows, in the time it takes you to get a warrant, that diary could become misplaced.” She shrugged, sipped her drink. “It could even…disappear.”
Jesus Christ! Straker winced, first at the sight of her putty-like breasts and the stacked-beef vagina, then at the thought of what he was about to do.
What the hell, he thought. Couple of drinks first and it might not be so bad…
««—»»
When Too Hot Romeo double-flipped off the top rope, Goon caught him in two beefy arms, then did the Back-Breaker. Too Hot, whose real name was Walter Rawson, feigned the appropriate level of pain, then rolled over, groaning. He felt ripped off, but what else could he do? I’m the most acrobatic wrestler in the bizz, and now I’m doing mid-card matches for three-hundred a week. He’d flunked three piss-tests in a row, so WCW had made an example of him. Doing all the anti-drug promo stuff in the ghettos didn’t help; Too Hot often copped from the same dealers. So it was bye-bye to that 200 thou a year.
It’s because I’m black, he felt convinced when Goon stomped his belly. Too Hot faked a near-rupture of the abdominal wall. White oppression, racist motherfuckers. Goon, then, pulled a full body splash off the ringpost, and Too Hot followed the script, rolling away just in time. The crowd cheered when he jumped up and landed a perfect drop-kick to this mastodon called Goon. He hit the canvas, covering Goon for the three count.
“You gotta hit me harder,” Goon whispered, then jerked his shoulder up just before the last count. They hauled each other up in a
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