During our night at the Longhorn Saloon—where Declan and I had stepped up our game by graduating from cans of Guinness to twenty-ounce Imperial draught pints of Red Racer’s Extra Special Bitter strong amber ale—the late lumberjack Jasper Adams and I forged a sudden and unlikely bond.
How? By engaging in some good, old-fashioned, booze-induced reminiscing about the lost loves of our lives. Naturally, I shared way too much, especially the regret I felt over how things had been left with Vancouver Police Detective Constable Rya Shepard, my father’s police protogé and the only woman who had ever made my heart ache in both good ways and bad.
***
“She was a really, really, special girl,” I said to Jasper, not fully aware of quite how tipsy I had become in the rodeo drinking hole. “And she smelled like lilacs.”
“Did you love her?” he asked.
I sighed and killed what remained of my ESB. “Always.”
“I hear that. I think you need some more medicine, ‘Hammerman’.”
“‘Hammerhead’.”
“What?”
“I’m not a contractor and I don’t dance around to nineties pop rap in parachute pants, damn it. It’s ‘Hammerhead’.”
Declan, with his back to us both while he ogled the many scantily-clad ladies dressed in country and country themed clothing grinding on the dance floor, glanced back over his shoulder and decided to toss his two cents into our conversation.
“Aye, he’s speakin’ the truth, Mate. Me cuz is too legit to quit.”
Jasper liked that one and snorted in laughter so hard foamy white beer suds bubbled out of his nostrils. He wiped his nose on his arm while my cousin leaned closer to me and whispered.
“Besides, lately I think ya should bloody well change yer name to ‘Hammered’ Jed.”
I shot Declan a dirty look and thumped a fist on my chest. “You can’t touch this,” I mumbled, slurring my words a little.
“Easy, Boyo. I’m just bustin’ yer barse. ‘Tis good for ya to blow off some steam after all that shite with yer lady drama.”
I nodded begrudgingly, unable to deny the fact that the last big case I worked shattered my self-esteem, nearly left me for dead, and drove a wedge between Rya and me so deep she wouldn’t even respond to my texts or phone calls. Despite my best efforts to keep myself distracted, the experience had shaken me to my very core.
Having recovered from his near spit-take, Jasper flagged down our bartender and signaled her for a round of shots of Crown Royal Canadian Whisky.
“Nah, I’m good, Bub,” I said.
“C’mon, ‘Hammerhead!’ You can’t have earned a nickname like that without being able to handle a headache after a boilermaker or two.”
I glanced at Declan, a renowned boozer in his own right, who delivered a stinging jab to my deltoid. “He’s got ya there, Boyo,” he said
in solidarity with our new drinking buddy. “Tell Jasper here about yer hot cop angst while I go drain me skin flute at the loo.”
I rolled my eyes as he ambled off, but couldn’t resist his suggestion. After a few moments I gave in. “Her name is Rya. Wicked smart, funny, and also probably the best member on the VPD since my old man retired from the job.” Jasper nodded, “And she’s a hottie. More than that. More than beautiful. She … radiates elegance.”
If there was an antithesis to elegance, I found it when the busty bartender’s cleavage jiggled as she smacked the bottoms of our shot glasses down on the bar, splashing us with droplets of whisky.
“Does your handsome pal here want to make his a ‘Dolly Delight,’ Jasper?” she asked, smirking and tugging on the big flannel knot of her sleeveless top just above her taut, tanned, and tattooed midsection.
“Maybe next round,” replied Jasper. Our server gave me a wink before making herself scarce.
“‘Dolly Delight?’” I asked, curiously.
Jasper gave me a pat on the back. “It’s when you drink the Crown Royal out of her belly button,” he said.
“Guess I missed out.”
Jasper chucked. “You have no idea. She’s got a deep, lint-free, innie that’ll put more wood in your dagger than I chop in a day.”
“An adventure for another time,” I said, before dropping my whisky shooter into my glass and chugging down the double drink. Jasper didn’t miss a beat and did the same. I stifled a burp then continued. “You haven’t told me about your heartbreak yet.”
Jasper winced. “Kelly Lewis.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say things didn’t end on the best of terms.”
“How come?”
“We lived hard … and we loved hard. Part of the rodeo way.”
I nodded, knowing all too well what he meant. “Hey, I get it. I used to spend three hundred days a year on the road, moving from one Podunk town to the next, putting on matches like I was an oiled-up, testosterone-charged transient. You click with people quickly when that’s your lifestyle.”
“Indeed.”
“This Kelly was another loggersports athlete I take it?”
Jasper shook his head. “Rodeo clown.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Must have made for some good role play in the bedroom.”
“You have no idea.”
Like a great white shark smelling blood in the water from nautical miles away, Declan breached the space between our shoulders in seconds, popping his head up and grinning from ear-to-ear. “Did I hear one o’ya dryshites say somethin’ about role play?” he asked, excitedly.
“For God’s sake, D, if perving out were a superpower you’d be in the goddamn Justice League.”
Jasper laughed so hard he nearly fell off of his bar stool. “Sorry, Declan, but he’s got you there.”
My cousin all but ignored our new pal’s remark. “Mmmm…” he moaned, before taking a pull of the fresh pint he had somehow procured in such a short time. “If ya only knew the things I’d get up to with Wonder Woman and her Lasso o’Truth,” he said, devilishly.
I shook off Declan’s lecherousness and focused my attention back on Jasper. “So, where’s this rodeo clown now?”
“Here,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “But we’re not exactly on speaking terms.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I hear that.”
Jasper sighed deeply and took a big sip of his ale. “I just miss him,” he said, wistfully. “More than I ever thought I would.”
“Him?!?” exclaimed Declan. “Jasper, ya devil, I had no idea ya were fond o’the purple ridgebacks. Settle a bet I have with me mate back home—do ya fellas prefer the one-eyed boys with their shirt sleeves up or Kojak’s rollneck?”
I put my elbows on the bar and placed my face in my hands. Even for Declan, this was painfully incorrigible. Jasper delivered a desperate nudge to my side with his elbow. “Jed, what the hell is he talking about?”
“Penises,” I replied. “He’s talking about circumcised and uncircumcised penises.”
***
I snapped back to the present while we continued along the asphalt away from the lumberjack pit and Jasper Adams’s lifeless body. How we had gone from Declan’s annoying banter about euphimisms for genitalia to Jasper’s head nearly cleaved in half in less than twelve hours was beyond me.
The sun was just beginning to sink from its midday peak. The smell of rawhide, leather, and manure hung in the air like a frothy mist. Declan pounded what was left of his Harp Lager, flattened the can into an aluminum pancake, then tossed the disc away beside him like an ultimate frisbee. I didn’t even bother to chastise him for not recycling. Even worse, no one seemed to notice or care about his littering as his refuse quickly found company alongside other empties spread about on the ground.
“You have to admit, D, you kind of made a bit of a spectacle over Jasper being homosexual.”
“Bollocks! I was genuinely interested in his opinion. Jaysus, what bloody luck. I finally get meself a gay friend and then some barmy bastard goes all Lizzie Borden on his arse.”
The song “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy” by Big & Rich pounded over booming speakers in the distance as we reached the eastern entrance to the Stetson Bowl, which was the Colossal Cloverdale Rodeo and Country Fair’s infamous outdoor stadium. The folks we could see in the five-thousand seat capacity arena were standing shoulder-to-shoudler in the nosebleed section, which combined with the thunderous cheering, made it obvious that the venue was filled to capacity. The Stetson Bowl was sealed off by large wooden gates with spiked tops, as well as a collection of beefy security guards stealthily sipping longneck bottles of beers while on the job, who apparently had not yet been alerted that a murder had taken place nearby.
“Can I help you, Partner?” asked a jacked man wearing a red shirt.
“I hope so,” I replied, turning my attention to the backwoods bodybuilder with the word STAFF in white letters stretched so tightly across his chiseled chest I could see his pecs rippling beneath the fabric.
“My name’s Jed Ounstead. I’m a private investigator.”
Ripplechest eyed me curiously. “Where’s your ID?”
I patted around my spandex-clad butt before turning my palms up in the air. “I’m a pro-wrestler PI. I don’t exactly keep it with me when I’m in the ring.”
“No ID, no entrance. And even if you had it, you’re no cop so I don’t have to let you in.”
“Just need a quick word with Kelly Lewis,” I said. “He’s one of the rodeo clowns.”
“Beat it, Bargain Basement Batista.”
I exchanged a look with Declan, who despite appearing irritated, had the slightest of smirks starting to form at the corner of his lips.
“Last chance, Bub. We don’t want any trouble. And Batista’s bald, by the way. This mane may look fall-out-of-bed perfectly tousled, but it requires a conditioner that costs more than you make in a day,” I said with a healthy dose of snark, running a hand through my hair which was still damp from the log boom pool.
Ripplechest crossed his arms defiantly. With no other recourse, I gave my cousin the green light he had been so desperately awaiting with the slightest of nods. Declan beamed and took the lead in what was quickly becoming an escalating confrontation.
“Jaysus, yer as dried up as a nun’s tit,” he sniped.
“What?” snapped Ripplechest.
“Ma liked a few schoops when ya were a bun in the oven, eh?”
“Schoops?”
“Aye. Explains why ya got a bake on ya like a joyrider’s front bumper.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“That ya ain’t no Yeats, ya arseweed! Now sod off an’ let us save the day then, yeah?”
“Fuck you!” bellowed Ripplechest, who then shoved Declan backwards with one of his meaty paws. The security guard’s outburst caused his security pals to suddenly flank him with raised arms and angry glares.
Declan took the aggressive push in stride as he recovered his footing, but I could tell he was pissed off.
“Forget it, D. We’ll find another—”
Before I could finish my sentence and in a flash my cousin rammed both of his palms into Ripplechest’s musclebound man-boobs. “Step aside, ya scut!”
The large man stumbled backwards so hard and fast he nearly fell down. Even his buddies were both stunned by my ripped but sinewy cousin’s deceptive strength.
And just like that, once again Declan had gone too far. Ripplechest and his fellow security staff regrouped before all but snarling and charging forward. I leapt between the triggered mob of testosterone and alcohol-charged brawn and my shit-disturber cousin.
“We’re leaving!” I announced.
I grabbed Declan by the arm and yanked him away before Ripplechest and his cronies had a chance to process what had just happened or even consider pursuing us.
“You’re about as subtle as a Samoan drop,” I lamented.
“Ya bloody well let me off the leash, Mate.”
“I guess I did,” I huffed, “but the clock is ticking. Jasper is dead. If we want to dig up any answers ourselves, we need to act fast before the Mounties show up and shut things down.”
“Aye, yer right. Sorry, Mate. Me buzz got the best o’me. I’ll behave.”
“That’s all well and good,” I said, after we had put some distance between us, the Stetson Bowl, and Ripplechest and company. I slowed to a stop and my cousin and I looked at each other amidst the steady stream of rodeo fans walking in both directions to and from sales kiosks, food trucks, and events. “But you just burned our one chance to get into the arena. How the hell am I supposed to talk to Kelly now?”
Declan scratched his head and we both stood there stumped for an answer. A moment later, the yokel universe threw us a bone. A big-bellied rodeo clown walked by right in front of us, clutching a six-pack of canned Molson Canadian in one blue-gloved hand and a giant cone of pink cotton candy in the other.
“How do ya feel about a wee bit o’face paint?”