Tailed (12 page)

chapter 15

I
n high school, I was a wrestler. Varsity, in fact. That doesn't mean I was good, just the right weight. It doesn't mean I enjoyed it, either. At that age, it sometimes takes you a while to realize you've gotten yourself involved in something that you don't enjoy. Like AV club. Reduced to its elements, wrestling was all about close personal contact with another boy, and at a time when all a heterosexual male really wanted was close personal contact with a girl. And it was about crash dieting to make your weight class. There wasn't an ounce of fat on me, and I was muscular. Had I been a chicken, I'd have been dry and stringy fare. I finally bailed out of the sport after a match with a guy who was my same weight but about six inches taller than me. Like a crowbar, this guy simply pried me over and pinned me to the mat. In wrestling, you can be defeated by fulcrum and lever physics, and growing longer was not something I could achieve no matter how hard I worked out. I was perpetually starved, exhausted, and physically disadvantaged. No fun memories.

So given my experience with the Greco-Roman sport, I was not a fan of wrestling. Not even the show-biz kind with fireworks, strobe lights, and the seething, vein-popping, scowling, gnashing, and trash-talking musclemen pinballing off the ropes and hitting each other with folding metal chairs. I'm not immune to the occasional joy of gratuitous fictional violence. I'd choose to watch pro-wrestling over bowling, boxing, or competitive bass fishing any day. But that's just me. To each his own.

Sitting there in the Qwest Arena among throngs of cheering Latinos, I wasn't expecting a much different spectacle than American wrestling. But I immediately ranked it higher for the masks and costumes. I used to think the Americano version was over the top, but maybe it wasn't far enough over the top to engage me.
Luchadores
are like matadors, and there's a nobility to them that contrasts well with the circus of it all. And I mean
circus
. These guys were acrobats, balancing on the ropes and winging across the ring at each other like flying squirrels on espresso.

The masks in question covered the full head and were skintight, leaving only the eyes and mouth exposed. Many had racing stripes, chevrons, or designs evocative of the
luchadore'
s persona. Lightning bolts for
Electro,
swirls for
Miasmo,
daggers for
Stiletto
. Without the benefit of standard pro-wrestling facial expressions of rage, triumph, and pain, these guys had to carry off their prowess with their bodies, with deportment, with controlled motion. They almost seemed to move like dancers, not brawling lumber-jacks. Makes it sound effete—anything but.

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 of 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.