Free New Title 1 by Edward Lee, John Pelan Page A

blimp. And, anyway, she’s got nothing to do with Goon. There’s no information I could worm out of her that would be relevant to this investigation.”
    “That’s where you’re dead wrong, Captain.” She pulled him closer, whispered more fervently. “Goon’s manager used to be her manager. If you slept with her, you could pump her for all kinds of information.”
    Straker couldn’t believe what she was proposing. “Well you can forget that ‘cos it ain’t gonna happen.”
    Her pursed lips told all. “I guess I was right about you. Won’t go the extra mile to get the job done.”
    “Ain’t gonna happen,” he repeated, determined.
    “We’ll talk about this later.”
    “No. We won’t. ‘Cos it ain’t gonna happen.” Her silence unsettled him but he didn’t care. What she wanted him to do was clearly absurd, not to mention wholly unethical. But before he could mull it over any further, a great gong sounded, and suddenly some dork in a tux was standing in the middle of the ring with a microphone.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, our main event. This is a title match for the DSWC heavyweight championship belt!”
    The crowd stirred in frenzy; the arena was actually shaking. Tux went on after another gong. “Entering the ring from your left, from Minneapolis, Minnesota, six-foot-three and weighing in at 243 pounds…”
    The gong sounded yet again.
    “…12-time World Heavyweight Champion! The styler and profiler! The fourth horseman of the apocalypse! Ladies and gentlemen, the Deep South Wrestling Conference Heavyweight Champion! The Wonder Boy! Sliiiiiiiiiiick Dare!”
    A spotlight snapped on, illuminating the ring entrance, and there he was. Straker frowned as the arena quaked. Dare stood pompously, fists on hip, draped in a glittering purple robe with a white fur collar. Cropped hair bleached close to snow white, and a California tan. In spite of the age lines in his face, and a web of forehead scars, and in spite of the falseness of all of this, the man seemed to project some kind of aura that affected Straker as genuine. But Straker couldn’t voice that, so instead he reverted to sarcasm. “Six three my ass. That guy’s five-eleven if he’s anything.”
    “They exaggerate a little. Once they’re in the ring, the really do look larger than life. Almost like gods.”
    Gods. Gimme a break.
    Melinda seemed keenly focused, staring at this bleached blond icon. Under her breath, she even commented, “I can see why all the ringrats are nuts about him. He’s really…hot.”
    Straker frowned hard. “He looks like a broken-down jalopy. What is he, sixty?”
    “He’s forty five, but twenty years of bodyslams, suplexes, and drop-kicks to the face will wear anybody down. At least Dare’s aged with grace.”
    “Oh, make me puke,” Straker countered. “What did he do, dig up Liberace for the robe? Oh, and I love his hair. I hope this guy can write hair bleach off on his taxes. And, Jesus Christ, look at that hammy tin-foil belt.”
    “Captain Straker,” Melinda coyly suggested. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
    Straker laughed. “What have I got to be jealous about? That guy’s a busted loser.”
    “Yeah? Well that busted loser has probably made ten million dollars in the last twenty years.”
    Straker paused and gulped. “You’re pulling my leg.”
    “He’s the most successful wrestler of all time. In his heyday he could write his own ticket, he was the biggest draw in the sport.”
    Straker’s face pinched up. Ten million dollars? These guys make that kind of money for this phony farce?
    “And just wait till you see him in the ring,” she added.
    Eventually Dare broke from his pretentious stance, then strutted to the ring as the crowd’s roar rose. Melinda grabbed Straker’s arm again, and he secretly gasped. Just being touched by her, however cursorily, sent a line of prickles up his back…and through his groin.
    “What?”
    “See that guy there, standing just at the locker room