He set down his barbeque sandwich on the desk next to a message from Bud. They’d released Chuck’s body, and Bud was following the hearse up tonight. Plans were for a Friday viewing with burial on Saturday. He’d left a motel phone number where he expected to be by ten o’clock.
The day waned outside streaked windows. Brewer pecked away at the documentation of petty larcenies, mailbox vandalism, and obscene phone calls, much like hundreds of incidents come his way in the colorless years since the war. He had sympathy for some of the victims; others had brought their troubles on themselves. Maybe it was a good thing he had never felt enough ambition to seek a gold shield. Too many cases like Mitchell’s in the land of detectives.
Still at his desk at ten P.M., Brewer dialed the motel. When they put him through, Bud sounded a little looped. Brewer sketched the visits to Rose and Delaney and his plans for Friday. He said he intended to get up Saturday for the burial.
He listened for something ominous in the rumbling replies, but all he picked up was weariness lubricated by alcohol. As the call wound down, Bud said, “Go back and tell me exactly what Smiley and Delaney had to say.”
Brewer opened his notebook and fleshed out his earlier comments.
“You see anything there, Bud?”
“Can you sweat Delaney any more?”
“Not until I find something that would call for a fresh look at his story. I need more time, and a look at the tape. You concentrate on taking care of Chuck, and I’ll work on this. You hear me? I’ll see you Saturday.”
Friday — 9:15 A.M.
Doak Brookings didn’t work for Smiley Rose. He was an employee of the TV station that broadcasted Wednesday night wrestling. Brewer timed his arrival at WKRY-12 for the end of the morning news hour in which Brookings handled weather reports.
“Looking for Okie Doakie?” a stagehand said.
“Pardon?”
“Doak’s from Tulsa, so we call him Okie Doakie.”
Brookings was in a common dressing area, donning a turn-of-the-century fireman’s costume. He was a trim guy in his mid forties, and once he said hello, Brewer realized he had heard the pleasant baritone many times before.
“I thought you were the weatherman.”
“Yup, the weatherman, Firehouse Frank, Patrolman Pat, cartoons, puppets, comedy shorts, and Wednesday-night wrestling. Don’t forget the parades, Brick Bread commercials, and store openings.”
“Do you ever end up shaking hands with yourself?”
Brookings laughed, but the banter stopped when Brewer told him why he’d come by.
“Like I told Detective Wendt, my table was on the opposite side of the ring from where the kid got banged up. I had to call some of the action off the monitor I was watching because I didn’t have a direct view. How’s Bud doing? Haven’t seen him since he screwed up his shoulder. He must be busted up over this.”
“He’s not in the best shape. He saw it all on TV. He thought maybe you had seen something out of the ordinary during the match because he said you sounded a little funny at one point.”
“Well, when they went out of the ring, it seemed like they really notched it up. I got thrown off a little by the sound effects and the crowd reaction. But I wasn’t close enough to see if things weren’t right. Sorry.”
“Delaney reentered the ring on your side, though.”
“Yeah, he came around because he was getting hit with so much crap tossed by the fans on the other side.”
“And Smiley Rose, was he by you too?”
“Eventually.”
“Rose and Delaney made physical contact, didn’t they?”
“Well, Marty shoved him, but that was part of the angle. Where are you going with this? Marty’s a stand-up guy.”
“He was supposedly beaming like an idiot after leaving Mitchell facedown in his own blood.”
“I’ll be putting on a face myself when I come down the fire pole in thirty minutes.”
“Point taken. By the way, have you ever been to Rose’s office?”
“I haven’t had the time or the inclination.”
Brewer figured it would be the undoing of Fireman Frank and Patrolman Pat if they ever saw the underbelly of the IWF.
Friday — 10 A.M.
Wendt was waiting for him in WKRY’S control room.
A station technician had set up the big reel of black-and-white videotape to run on a 21-inch monitor and stood by should they want anything rewound.
Wendt, a tall, politico-faced guy with a nice set of clothes, seemed to be working on a personal-improvement plan. He shook hands and said, “When we’re done looking at this, it goes back to Rose, where it will be erased and reused until it falls apart.”
“Unless we see something evidential.”
“Yeah, right.”
The picture was sharp and stable. As Brewer watched, he took out the notes he had made while listening to Bud at the diner and consulted them alongside the action like marginalia, picturing Bud’s continuous struggle with the vertical roll on his little black-and-white.
The show opened with the familiar ringside voice of Doak Brookings touting the card of the extravaganza coming to the municipal auditorium in Winsdale Saturday night the twenty-third. Names: Iron Mike Something, the Masked Maulers, four mighty midgets tussling in tag-team action — including Big Tiny Blair and the Amazing Micronauts, and, in the main event, world heavyweight champion Paul “The Prince” Madison defending his title against the challenge of Mean Martin Delaney.
“Aaand, here’s our next bout. Let’s go to ring announcer Bill Fick for the introductions.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a one-fall contest with a thirty-minute time limit. In the corner to my left — he weighs two hundred and twenty-six pounds, from Baltimore, Maryland — Chuck Mitchell!”
Chuck, as Bud had explained, was the “babyface,” representing Mom and apple pie against the evil “heel.” The kid — who had never been to Maryland — looked good, fit, and a lot more innocent than he really was. He bounced in place with the confidence of charmed youth while the fans cheered hopefully.
“His opponent from Fitchburg, Massachusetts, at two hundred ninety-two pounds, Mean Mar—”
Fick never got a chance to finish the introduction because he had to backpedal away from Delaney’s unexpected charge at Chuck Mitchell. The referee signaled for the belated opening bell as Delaney commenced to deliver “worked” blows to Chuck’s head and upper back, which the kid dutifully “sold” by sinking to his knees. Delaney put on what Brookings called a rear chinlock, using his body as a shield against the scrutiny of the ref so that he could slip into a blatant choke visible to everyone — everyone, that is, except the ref.
Brewer found the stylized violence energetic, but more amusing than convincing.
In his role of rabble-rouser, Brookings stated the obvious, “Listen to the reaction of this crowd! They don’t care even a little bit for Delaney and his tactics.”
Brewer imagined the pop of a beer cap, the slide of the bourbon bottle across Bud’s kitchen table.
Delaney draped the youngster’s neck across the top rope and snapped him backwards into the ring. He followed this with a series of boots to the chest and one to the head for good measure, although most of the sound and fury seemed directed at the canvas.
The ref warned Delaney, pushing him to a neutral corner. Mitchell struggled to his feet, shaking the cobwebs loose.