The portable was nearly a kilometer away from the fairgrounds. Located in the back corner of an oversized strip mall parking lot, it still had an abundance of white lines and empty parking spots surrounding the transportable building, despite the bustle of Saturday afternoon shoppers making their way in and out of the Home Depot store with renos on the brain, carts full of paint cans, or pallets stacked with plywood.
I had driven Grasby and Declan in my Ford F-150 pickup truck, but despite the extended cab and relatively roomy backseat, my cousin was still miffed that I had allowed Grasby to ride shotgun. Declan pounded back an entire Harp Lager tallboy on the minutes-long drive and had popped the top on a second one as we entered the headquarters for the Colossal Cloverdale Rodeo and Country Fair. Although he seemed wary of the speed at which the former IRA operative crushed cans of beer, Grasby kept his head down and his mouth shut until we entered the building and he introduced us to the four people who awaited us.
They were seated around several folding tables pushed together to create the centerpiece of a makeshift boardroom, save for one small Latino man, who texted on a smartphone while pacing back and forth. His spiky dark hair with platinum-blonde frosted tips and short-sleeved shirt covered in flames were matched by his tawdry, orange-tinted, translucent glasses. Upon seeing us, he clicked his phone off, stormed over, and glared upwards.
“Since when do you call a meeting?” he demanded of Grasby, giving him the stink-eye.
“Special circumstances, Quentin.”
“You can’t just do that! And on the big Saturday afternoon? That grub hub can fall apart in a heartbeat if I’m not there. Do you even know how much business you could be costing me?”
“You won’t lose a dime and we both know it,” Grasby replied, pointing at the barbeque stains on his sleeveless velour top and shorts. “Besides, this will only take a minute.”
“I still don’t like it. Ribfest is MY turf and call.” Quentin shifted his attention to Declan and me, as if noticing us both for the first time. “What’s with the roid monkey entourage?”
“Pull yer wire, ya poxy wee bollocks,” growled my cousin.
Quentin’s eyes widened momentarily in fear before he correctly interepreted the context clues present in Declan’s Irish slang and quietly took a seat at the table.
Grasby proceeded to introduce us to the remaining three people.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Everyone, this is Jed Ounstead, former WWE superstar, current XCCW main event talent, and esteemed private investigator.”
My cantankerous kin cleared his throat before taking another swill of his beer. Grasby continued, clearly irked. “And this is his cousin. He’s, uh … Irish.”
“That’ll do, Pig, that’ll do.”
If Grasby recognized the heartfelt quote from the ending of the movie Babe he certainly didn’t show it. Then again, since it was Declan, he may have figured being referred to as swine was simply a case of getting off easy.
“Over here are Fred and Tammy Milligan,” he said, waving a hand at the middle-aged couple. “They own Milligan’s Traveling Carnival and Amusement Park and this is their first year at the Rodeo.”
The modest husband and wife nodded their heads and said hello. They were dressed in casual clothes and had the look of folks who had been putting in long hours for even longer days.
My part-time employer continued. “Which leaves us with—”
“Someone who’s wondering if you’re trying new gimmicks outside of the ring, Grasby,” said a sultry voice. A striking woman in her mid-twenties wearing a hot-pink, short-sleeved, button-down put her calloused yet feminine hands flat on the table and stood up slowly. Her shirt was tucked tightly into her form-fitting, classic blue jeans, and she sported matching dusty brown cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. “Are you trying to renegotiate for a bigger slice of the pie with the Seven Heads last minute cuz your baby oil brigade has been packing more asses into the seats than expected? Because we have a flat rate deal.”
She locked eyes with me and strode over to us, moving with a lithe athleticism and a level of self-assuredness that almost took my breath away. She smelled of sweet sandalwood and smiled, extending a hand toward me. I was lost for words so I just shook it repeatedly as I looked into her sparkling green eyes, only then noticing her strawberry blonde hair and freckles around her high cheekbones.
After a few moments Declan coughed into his fist and muttered “Dúisigh”—Irish for “wake up.”
I snapped out of my smitten state and managed to blurt out a greeting.
“Hello,” I said, lamely.
“‘Hammerhead’ Jed,” she said, smirking. “Ain’t you a tall glass of sweet tea. I used to have a poster of you in my room.”
“Really?”
She shrugged. “They were sold out of all the Hemsworth brothers’ posters at Walmart.”
I chuckled heartily. She flashed a genuine smile and I felt a flutter in my chest, before I realized I was still shaking her hand.
“And you are?”
“Georgiana June Tibbs. But everyone just calls me Annie.”
“Nickname, eh?”
“Yup.”
“I know a little something about that.”
“I’ll bet you do,” she said, flashing a demure yet darling smile. “My father Gus and I run the rodeo events at this country fair.”
“And where is Gus?”
“He’s got his hands full at the moment with some dinks.”
Declan nearly choked on his beer. “DINKS!” he crowed, before doubling over, clutching a hand to his temple, and feigning head pain.
“Are you okay?” asked Annie, genuinely concerned.
“Too … much … piss … to take!”
“Grow up, Jackass,” snapped Annie. “A ‘dink’ is rodeo slang for a bronc with no buck in it that’s gotten loose in the arena.”
Declan inhaled sharply as if to go for the jugular with a response, but noticed my uncomfortable expression. Although it might not seem that way to most, he could read me like a book and could tell I was already a bit sweet on Annie. He slowed his hearty laughter, acquiesced, and headed toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
Declan shooed me away with a wave of his hand. “Fag,” he grumbled, before begrudgingly sauntering out of the portable. I watched him leave, only to turn back around and find the faces of Annie, the Milligans, Quentin, and Grasby staring at me in shock.
“Irish for cigarette,” I said, by way of explanation.
“That guy is your cousin?” asked Annie.
“Yeah. And sometime sidekick.”
Annie huffed. “I think I liked you better when you tag-teamed with ‘Mad Max’ Conkin.” The mere mention of my former partner only brought to mind memories of his broken neck and how his accidental paralysis not only changed his life permanently, but mine as well. Annie must have seen some kind of melancholy on my face because a moment later she wrapped her hand around my forearm and gave it a squeeze.
“You okay, Big Guy?”
I pulled it together and cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
Annie smiled softly as her hand slipped away slowly, and I only then realized her touch had triggered a tickle of goosebumps on the back of my neck.
“Grasby, you said I was going to meet the ‘Seven Heads of the Rodeo.’ You speak for wrestling and this chuck wagon chump here does the Ribfest,” I said, motioning toward Quentin as he threw his hands up in the air in protest while aggressively working a toothpick around his mouth with only his tongue. “That means if Annie and her Dad handle the cowpoke contests—and the Milligans rep the carnival—then I only count four honchos on hand.”
“That’s cuz we’re still missing a few,” he replied. “Randy Pippen isn’t here, but he runs the loggersports, so he’s likely on site dealing with the cops and the fallout from your lumberjack buddy’s murder. Then there’s Jim Kootnekof. He coordinates the Marketplace located in the row of red barns beside the casino and behind their amusement park,” said Grasby, nodding to Fred and Tammy.
“And the last person?”
“I don’t know him. Some dude acting as the proxy for the proprietor of the Agri-Zone, who’s back in Calgary.”
“Agri-Zone?”
Annie interjected. “Yeah, it’s like a whole super-sized animal area. There’s multiple petting zoos, pony rides, a reptile habitat, and even more critter attractions. I actually just met the guy earlier today. Kind of a cagey fella. And a little weird.”
“Weird how?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, I went over there because we just found out we have a pregnant mare and wanted to ask if he’d consider stabling her for a couple of days as a professional courtesy. He was nice and all, but only agreed to speak with me if I accompanied him ‘for a balmy stroll’.”
Annie used her fingers to do air quotes for the last part or her sentence. “He actually said ‘balmy stroll’ instead of ‘walk?’ I asked.
“Yup.”
“So, he likes some exercise,” said Grasby. “What’s strange about that?”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just … he’s kind of a fancy fella. Was dressed all prim and proper, you know? I mean there are literally animals galore all over that place, which means he’s knee deep in hay, dirt, and manure, but the guy’s walking around in a crisp three-piece white suit without even a speck of dust on him. And then when we went on our walk, he brought two pets, each on its own leash. A wiener dog and a goat.”
“That is weird,” concurred Grasby. “What’s that guy’s name again? Simmons? Sparks?”
“Sykes,” I replied, with certainty.
Annie clapped her hands together and stomped her boot on the floor like she was doing a line dance. “That’s it!”