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It stinks of cigarettes on the plane. I just quit. Suppose it’s bad timing on my part. I dunno. I think about asking the lady next to me (what’s her name again? Yvonne? Yvette? My short-term isn’t what it used to be) if I can bum one of hers. Instead, I wave over the cute Polynesian stewardess with the perky tits and order a cold glass of milk. She smiles, disappears to the back, and returns with a big glass of the white stuff. I wonder if she recognizes me. Maybe she watched me on her daddy’s lap, cheered me on, lived and died by the three-count. Maybe her daddy took her to one of the shows when I was in town.
Maybe she cheered against me. Maybe she loved the babyface instead. Maybe she wanted to see me bear the crimson mask. “Murder the Murdertain!” she yelled from the cheap seats, tossing popcorn in my direction.
Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? She’s just a sweet pair of tits, refined and beautiful. I don’t get to have beautiful things in my life. She’s just doing her job. Like me.
I miss it. The pain. The blood. Hiding the blades in my wraps. The cheers and the jeers. People knew me. Even if they hated me, they knew me. People know me now, but it’s different. Once in a while, when I’m bouncing for Sammy Nosh or Jimmy Hooknose in Vegas, some bright-eyed young Turk’ll recognize me from my glory days, ask for a photo, a handshake, a playful headlock. “I saw you at Madison Square Garden, you went the fuckin’ distance, Train!” they’ll say. I’ll smile and thank them and wish them well. Tell them to get married and have beautiful kids on my behalf. Keep their kids outta trouble. Keep them away from the ring. Teach them how to love.
Don’t be like me.
“So you were one of those wrestlers?” Yvonne/Yvette asks me.
“Yeah, I held a couple of belts in some territories. Pacific Northwest, mid-Atlantic. Did some good tours.”
This isn’t a good tour. I wish it was.
“So you coming to Hawaii for a vacation?”
“No such luck. Strictly business. Not the fun kind, either.”
The Home Office gave me a week off. “Go take care of this family business,” Sammy said. It was funny to hear those words coming outta his mouth and actually know them to mean family, and not Family. I did plenty of Family business. That’s all I did these days. Collections, general manhandling. You probably think it’s funny that a guy that spent a decade bloodying men up on the mat wouldn’t enjoy bloodying people up in their hotel rooms or their offices or their front yards. But I do what I’m told. I’m a good worker like that.
Or it’s a three-count for me.
“Well, I won’t pry about your business in Hawaii,” she mutters, opening up her Time magazine.
“Oh, no, it’s not a problem,” I say. Might as well prep myself for the dirty business anyway.
I pull my wallet out of my inside jacket pocket and flip through the few photos I got, past an old one of Mama and Papa, to the one I’ll be flashing a lot during my stay. Me and my brother.
“Here is my business on the islands,” I say, handing the picture over.
“Oh,” oh she says, taking the picture and examining it.
“Yeah, that’s me with my brother, back in our old wrestling days together. Donnie. He lives in Honolulu. Or did.”
“Oh…” Her tone drops, getting an idea of what business I have in her vacation spot.
He got into the business, too. After me. Wanted to be a champeen like his big brother. But he was smart about it. He had a pretty face, so he could really benefit. Made a good living with that face, getting good cheers. Even better since he never quite got the mat skills I got. He could rely on that face and that mouth, get the crowd on his side, bring in the cash for the promoters. He even hired a guy in Akron to print up some shirts with his mug on them. Sold a couple hundred in his heyday.
“He retired a little before I did, seemed to have a better mind for the commercial aspect of the wrestling biz. Took a job with a new federation starting on the island.”
There’s a guy starting a new territory out there on the islands, bringin’ in some Samoans and Japs, real flashy stuff he said to me over the phone. The guy wanted Donnie to help manage it, show the foreign kids the ropes. Manufacture some good faces. Seemed like a no-brainer, really.
“He’s quite handsome. Hard to believe he was involved with such a brutal sport” she says. She seems to be getting a little uncomfortable, like she wishes she hadn’t asked.
“Yeah. Girls always took a liking to him. I always thought he was the smart one, too. Guess he really wasn’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t be flyin’ out to Honolulu to find him.”
Nobody on the mainland seems to know exactly what happened. He up and disappeared. No body, no sign of nothin’. Not even the local muscle I talked it over the phone with seemed to know much more. I wasn’t buying it. It stunk. All these promoters are crooked, I don’t care what land mass they’re living on. It’s the same in Waikiki as it is in New York as it is in Tokyo: graft pays. I know it. Some are just less professional than others.
I realize I haven’t even touched my milk yet. I take a big gulp, wipe my lips with the napkin the Polynesian girl gave me. I calm down a little. Relax a little. I fuckin’ hate planes.
First thing I do when I get off the plane, touch solid ground, and get my neck decorated with leis, is find a goddamn toilet. I can’t fit in the fucking things on the planes. So I have to hold it in. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but I really can’t fit in that tiny little lavatory. Thankfully, I did enough tours in Tokyo to build up my constitution. I can hold shit in for a really long time. More info than you probably needed, I’m sure. Mama would slap me for talking about such things.
I take care of my business and step back out. Sammy told me they arranged a driver for me, so I look around. I spot a little guy with slick black hair and a Hawaiian shirt holding a sign. “Hoskins,” it says. I can’t tell what he is. Jap? Korean? Maybe Filipino. He’s wearing sandals. What a revoltin’ development. He immediately recognizes me. Must’ve been a fan.
“You Murdertrain?”
“Well I’m not Nixon.”
He laughs.
“Nice to meet you, Murdertain. Is it okay if I call you Murdertrain?”
“Course it is,” I say back as I grip his tiny hand in my mitt, “You can also call me Bo if you want. But none of that ‘Mr. Hoskins’ business.”
“No problem, Murdertain,” the smile never leaves his lips. “My name’s a mouthful, so everybody just calls me Pick. Should we get your bags?”
“Sure thing, Pick.”
We collect my bags and walk out of the terminal to the curb. We pass a statue of an interesting looking fella with a fancy hat and a cape. “King Kamehameha,” he says, bobbing his head in the statue’s direction before leading me to his car at the curb. It’s a black Chrysler New Yorker, polished up real nice, an interesting image to go with the Hawaiian shirt and sandals. He tosses my suitcases into the trunk and tells me to take a seat in the back. I hate riding in the back. I’m not important enough for that kind of shit, but I do as he says. Don’t offend the locals.
I get in and there’s another fella waiting in the back seat for me. Big fella. Bigger than me, even. Very familiar looking, but I can’t quite place him.
He reaches his meat club of a hand out as I get settled in.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hoskins.”
We shake. He’s dressed in a white suit, no tie. They must have good tailors out here for guys our size. Might have to hit one up while I’m in town.
“I’m Eddie. Everybody just calls me Eddie. I’m a huge admirer of your work, Mr. Hoskins.”
“My current work or my previous line?”
“Oh, Murdertrain, (can I call you Murdertain?) back in ‘69 you were one of the best.”
I know already I’m gonna like this guy.
“So where we headed?” I ask.
Pick’s taken his seat at the wheel.
“Well, my brother here figured you might feel a little cramped up from those tiny seats, so we’re taking you to your hotel room. It’s nice a big one. Let you stretch out, relax.”
“Sounds good enough to me.”
The drive to the hotel is nice. We take the scenic route. Along the way I chat it up with Eddie and Pick. Brothers, sons of a pretty Hawaiian girl and a Japanese businessman that got tired of the hectic Tokyo life and met each other when he got off the plane. Love at first sight and all that. It’s real nice. The kind of story I’d like to be able to tell my own kids if I had any. Eddie’s an old grappler, too. “Headbuster Honda,” he called himself. Now I remember where I saw him. He was pretty much a kid at the bottom of the totem pole when I was last in town. Had a good match with the Bruno brothers. I tell him, he laughs nervously. Sweet guy.
Now the two of them work for Jimmy Chin doing pretty much the same line of work as me. Pick drives the car, can get me pretty much anything I want or need on the island. Eddie’s got connections with the local law enforcement.
“You know that show with Jack Lord? Crock of shit, my friend,” Eddie says. Cops are the same everywhere. “They’re just as crooked and mean here as they are in Vegas. But they‘re helpful when I need them.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say. Considering I’ll have to be dealing with them. It’s a missing persons angle, after all. I don’t want to think about having them comb the beach for a body.
They dump me off at my hotel. Pick tells me they’ll swing by for me around nine, give me a few hours to rest up and take a hot shower. The hotel’s a big, swanky place, all white. Lobby’s filled with manufactured tiki idols and fake coconut trees. Everybody’s wearing a lei. I realize I’ve still got my pile of leis hanging around my neck from my arrival at the airport. Lots of families. Bellhop takes me to my room. Scrawny little redhead kid with a face I feel like punching. Talks like some kinda hotshot, trying to get me enticed with all the touristy shit.
“I’m just here on business,” I tell him curtly.
“Say no more, say no more,” he says. I think he’s expecting some fat tip in his future. He can go fuck himself.
I’m getting grumpy. It’s the goddamn plane ride.
We get to my room and I give him a buck before closing the door in his face. The room’s typical: Cramped, stiff, and smelling of polyester. I lay on the bed (a full-sized one) and it’s just big enough for my huge frame. I feel some of the springs giving out from under me. Same shit, different town.
That’s when it all hits me. My knees, my hips, my back… just sharp pains and dull aches all over. Years of abuse on a big, heavy body are taking their toll. They’re all pissed off at me for shoehorning them into that plane. I manage to peel my loafers off using only my feet and sit up on the edge of the bed. I pick up the phone on the nightstand while my other hand removes my socks. The phone picks up on the other end and it’s the redheaded bastard again.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hoskins?”
“I need aspirin, kid.”
I hang up before he says anything else and knead my bulbous toes into the orange plush carpeting.
I take a shower. The shower, thankfully, is just big enough for me. I was worried it was going to be one of those tiny ones like in Tokyo. Goes to show what little I know. I wrap the biggest towel I can find around my waist and step out into my room. When I get out there’s a tray on the dresser with a tall glass of something with a little umbrella. The glass is in the shape of a tiki god. Next to the glass sit two little aspirins and a note:
Mr. Hoskins-
Hope this does the trick. The drink is on the house. Anything you need, let me know.
-Benny
“Well, thanks, Benny,” I say to myself before trying a sip of the drink. Benny must know who I am, because it’s a rum punch; my favorite drink. Not too bad, either. I down the aspirins and take another gulp of the punch. Not too bad at all. I amble over to the phone and ring up Benny again.
“Yeah, Benny. I’m gonna need more aspirin. Just bring a whole bott-”
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