When I Kill You Read online

  WHEN I

  KILL YOU

  MICHELLE WAN

  Copyright © 2012 Michelle Wan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Wan, Michelle

  When I kill you [electronic resource] / Michelle Wan.

  (Rapid reads)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-994-0 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-55469-995-7 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads (Online)

  PS8645.A53W54 2012 C813’.6 C2011-907747-7

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943705

  Summary: When mud-wrestling postal worker Gina Lopez is blackmailed, the results are amusing, confusing and potentially life-threatening as she strives to find ways not to carry out a contract killing. (RL 3.8)

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by iStockphoto.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  To Frances Hanna

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was jogging lightly in place at ringside while Al, the owner of Al’s Roadhouse & Pit, worked up the crowd.

  “Our own luscious Lady Lava,” he yelled, pointing at me. “A homegrown talent, five feet seven, one hundred and thirty pounds of dynamite. And does this lady love mud!”

  I pumped my arms. The crowd, mostly men, whistled and cheered. Jimmy came out from the bar to give me a high five. He was the bartender at Al’s and my main supporter.

  “Good luck, kid,” he shouted over the noise.

  “And weighing in at a hundred and forty-five, five feet eight of sheer swamp instinct, from Sarnia, Ontario…Wild… Woman…Wanda!”

  More cheers. Wanda muscled forward and performed a little jig.

  There was a big crowd out, a hundred at least. Most of the spectators were locals from the town and surrounding area. There wasn’t a lot to do in Franks, Ontario, on a hot Sunday night in August. But they came from all over. Windsor, London, Hamilton, Toronto, some from as far away as Sudbury. Most of the guys had never seen female mud wrestling. Most of them were there for the skin. They wanted to ogle two semi-nude girls scrambling around getting dirty. They wanted a bit of titillation and a lot of laughs. A few, like me, took it seriously. I wore a one-piece suit, not a bikini. I’d been district girls’ wrestling champ in high school, and I knew the moves. So did Wanda. That was what made her such a tough opponent. That and the fact that she’d do anything to win.

  While Al gabbed on about the future of mud wrestling in Canada, which was happening here, thanks to him, we climbed into the ring. The ring was outside behind the roadhouse. It was six feet square and the bottom was covered in mud. It should have been good quality bentonite, the kind of stuff they used in spas, but Al was cheap. It was the coarse stuff mixed with other junk to cut the cost. On the other hand, give the devil his due, Al’s was one of the few places, other than one-off events, where you could see real mud wrestling. The sport had never taken off here the way it did south of the border. Too cold most of the year.

  I was now kneeling in my corner, glaring across at Wanda, who was kneeling in hers and glaring back. I wanted to show her I wasn’t afraid of her, even though I knew she was big, mean and popular. I’d only met her once before. She beat me more by acclaim than on points, because the rules of wrestling are pretty loosely applied. Who wins is often who the crowd cheers loudest for. Or throws the most money at. That’s something Al does his best to encourage.

  We both went through the routine of the mud bath. The first few seconds can be critical in mud wrestling. Smearing yourself with mud straight off makes you slippery and harder to grab.

  “Okay, ladies,” Al mouthed into the mike. “This is a three-round match. You know the rules. No biting, scratching or hairpulling. You must remain in the mud at all times. You may not rise beyond a kneeling position. And no pulling off each other’s clothing.” Boos from the crowd.

  “Are you ready?” He did the countdown. “Mud wrestle!”

  Wanda came out of her corner fast, but I was faster. In mud wrestling it’s speed, not size, that matters. I was on her and we grappled for a few seconds, shoving and sliding. I broke and came back to grapple again. This time I made a neat pass behind her and locked one arm around her neck. I tried to slide the other under her knee in a quick cradle that would tie her up like a package, but she bucked and managed to break my hold. This is where mud really adds another dimension to wrestling. It’s slippery and unpredictable.

  Now we were shoulder to shoulder, pushing and scrambling on our knees. Her weight gave her an advantage. I found myself giving ground bit by bit as she bulldozed me back. One of her well-known ploys was to throw her opponent right out of the mud. It was a real crowd pleaser and usually ended the match. She had me jammed up against the foam wall of the ring now, and the crowd was chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”

  I sensed her tensing for the big push. I let her think she had me. Just as she drove in for the final ram, I managed to twist aside. It was enough to skew her balance. I followed up like lightning, using her momentum to pitch her on her back. Mud flew. The crowd loved it. Then I was all over her in a full body press. She flailed around to shake me, bridging and bucking. I stuck to her like wet clay, trying to force the pin. But she was strong and her shoulders wouldn’t cooperate. The crowd was going nuts. Then the bell clanged to end the round.

  “You’re crap, Lava,” Wanda sneered as we separated.

  When the whistle went for Round Two, I launched myself at her, but Wanda was prepared for me. We slapped skin, shoved head-to-head. Suddenly she ducked and grabbed me around the middle. We rolled. I slithered loose. We came at each other again, locking arms. This time I got her in a leg clamp and held her for a few seconds before she wriggled free. Now it was her turn to toss me around. I tried to stabilize, but my knee slid out from under me. Next thing I knew I was facedown in the mud. She really ground me in it.

  “Eat dirt,” she rasped in my left ear. I hooked my leg around hers, lost the hold, hooked again. Over the shouting I heard Jimmy yelling something at me. I gave a tremendous buck, managed to get my arms and knees under me. She stayed on top of me, but at least I was up for air. My eyes were so caked with mud I could barely see. I was thankful when the bell rang.

  We were both breathing hard as we went i
nto Round Three. We slammed together, sort of falling onto each other. More grappling, shoving, circling. Wanda got me in a wristlock, did a quick shift, got behind me and threw a half nelson. She had me for a moment before I wriggled free. We separated and came together again. But I was running out of gas. She sensed it and used it to her advantage to throw me sideways and slam me on my back. Along the way she drove her knee into my stomach—hard. It knocked the wind out of me, and suddenly she was straddling me, heavy as a landslide, going for the pin. I struggled to bridge.

  She growled, this time in my right ear, “You’re dead meat, Lava,” and gave me a quick, sharp head butt that had me blinking stars. Al, who was refereeing, pretended not to see. But I could hear Jimmy in my corner yelling, “Foul!”

  The butt stunned me, and that was all Wild Woman Wanda needed. She threw her full weight on me in a press. Al was with us in the ring, bent double, hand out, waiting to signal the pin. I tried to kick free but was too exhausted. My shoulders sagged. Al’s hand lowered for the count. One! Two! Three! I was down for the fall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I had mud in my eyes. And in my hair and mouth and up my nose. That’s the worst of mud wrestling. When you lose, you lose dirty. I staggered around the building to the hose-down pad. The plumbing at Al’s is old, and he doesn’t want mud clogging up his drains. So the “talent,” as he calls us girls, has to hose off outside before we hit the showers. Shower, I should say, because there was only one, and we had to queue for it. Meantime the crowd was going crazy for Wild Woman Wanda. I could see her as I turned the water on. She was pumping her fists over her head and making biceps, posing left and right.

  Jimmy appeared as I was rinsing out my mouth.

  “Tough break, Lava.” He shook his head. Jimmy was a little guy, skinny as a wire, twice my age, twice as wise and a good friend.

  “She butted me!”

  “I saw.”

  “I—want—a rematch,” I told him between gargles.

  “Give it a rest. This is the second time you’ve lost to Wanda. You’re not ready, kid. You gotta get more fit.”

  “Hey, I jog.”

  “When you feel like it. And you eat lousy.”

  “I want the rematch, Jimbo.” I was in no mood for lectures. “Next week. I’ll swamp that hairpulling hippo.”

  Right then Al showed up to bawl at Jimmy that folks were lining up for drinks and was he going to take all night?

  “Keep your pants on,” muttered Jimmy. He hurried away.

  By now you know my dimensions and my stage name, Lady Lava. What you don’t know is that I’m otherwise Gina Lopez, twenty-six, brown eyes, blond hair that only needs a touch-up now and then. Like Al said, I’m a local girl, born and raised in Franks. A postal worker during the week and a mud wrestler on weekends. Right now I wrestle in Al’s pit for the experience, racking up smalltime wins and, yeah, the occasional loss. I want to build my name and hit the action south of the border. Vegas is my dream. I certainly don’t wrestle for the glory or the money. The purse, as Al calls it, is a lousy fifty bucks a match. He’s never short on takers though. You may not believe it, but there are always chicks who think it looks like fun. Or who do it to please their boyfriends. Or to attract a guy. Al is ever ready to oblige. Any female who’s willing can wrestle.

  “Listen, girls,” Al says to us. “I’m a big promoter of the sport, which is why I run the pit. If I was a businessman, I wouldn’t do it. I’m not getting rich here.”

  He’s lying, of course. We women pull in the crowd for him. Semi-pros like me and Wanda, and wannabes out to try their luck. He pockets the profit. We get to supply our own shampoo and towels.

  There’s something else you need to know about me. I’m also a recent widow. I buried my husband Chico exactly thirty days ago. To be honest, I was more down about my loss to Wanda tonight than I was about Chico.

  First, because I hate being beaten. Second, I hate being beaten by a dirty fighter like Wanda. Third, Chico wasn’t worth grieving over. Not after what he did to me. Or tried to do.

  I was just entering the Ladies when someone called my name. I turned. It was a woman, fiftyish, faded hair locked in a hard perm, a discontented face. She was small and kind of doughy. Her flesh bagged around her ankles and her expandable watchband cut into her pudgy wrists. She wore a frilly blouse, a print cotton skirt, canvas flats and carried a straw handbag. She didn’t look like one of Al’s regulars. In fact, she’d have been more at home at a church picnic.

  “Are you Gina Lopez?” Her voice had a hoity-toity lift to it.

  “Lady Lava to you,” I said. “Look, I’m not signing autographs right now. If you don’t mind.” I pushed through and headed to the shower.

  She followed me in and shut the door behind her. “I don’t want your autograph. I want to talk to you.”

  Oh cripes, I thought. Not another one who wants to tell me mud wrestling is un-Christian or degrading to women. I keyed open the locker where my stuff was stowed. There were two of them—battered metal high school gym rejects—for the wrestlers. The only thing, other than mud and water, Al supplied.

  “Can’t it wait?” I peeled off my wrestling suit. She looked away, like seeing me in the raw was improper. I stepped into the stall and turned the water on full bore.

  But she wasn’t going to be put off. She went on talking at me while I showered. I could see her mouth working through the gap in the curtain even though I couldn’t hear her. I took my time soaping off and followed with a good long rinse.

  “Hand me my towel, will you,” I said when I had finished. I pointed to my stuff in the open locker.

  She didn’t oblige. Instead she got pushy. “I said, in case you didn’t hear me, I saw what you did.”

  “Well, it wasn’t my best performance,” I had to admit. I brushed past her to get the towel myself. She jumped back, like getting wet would ruin her clothes.

  “I’m not talking about your wrestling,” she said. “I’m talking about the tenth of July, Lovers’ Leap.”

  It took a minute or two for her words to sink in. She watched me, like a cat eyeballs a bird. I registered the date and place all right. Despite the hot shower, I suddenly felt a chill. I dried off slowly, pulled on my bra and pants. Was she talking about Chico’s death?

  “What about it?” I said at last.

  “I saw you push him off that cliff.”

  I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. “You what? Who the hell are you?”

  She held her straw handbag in front of her like a shield.

  “My name is Marcia Beekland,” she said, talking real fast. “And I’m here to tell you I was hiking up on Lovers’ Leap that day. I saw you struggling with a man at the edge of the cliff. I saw you push him over!”

  “You’re crazy!” I shook my head and backed away from her. That wasn’t how it happened.

  She smiled her cat smile.

  “I have the proof. I videoed it on my iPhone. I found out who you were from the newspaper. They called it an accident. A Tragic Anniversary Picnic. You’d both been drinking. Your husband—Chico—tripped and fell. It was a hundred-foot drop. I made some inquiries. He had a life insurance policy worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, didn’t he? A pretty good motive for getting rid of him.”

  “Listen.” I moved so fast she barely had time to flinch. I grabbed her shirtfront, jerking her in close. She batted at me with her hands and dropped her purse. “The life-insurance policy was his idea, and it was the other way around.” I gave her a few shakes just so she’d get my meaning. “Sure, there was a struggle. But what you think you sawwas actually Chico trying to get rid of me. And by the way, the coroner’s verdict was accidental death. Plain and simple. Now get out of my face before I wreck you!”

  She pulled loose from me and straightened her clothes.

  “I doubt that’s how the police will view it,” she said primly. “Or the insurance company when they see what I have to show them. They’ll want their money back.”

/>   In fact, North American Life was dragging its feet on paying out. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell her that. Or the fact that the cops had talked to me. But I had stuck to my story of an accident, and in the end they let it go.

  “Get out,” I said.

  She bent down, retrieved her purse and pulled out her iPhone.

  “Maybe this will convince you,” she said and held it up.

  On the screen I saw a tiny Gina and Chico seesawing on a cliff edge. The scene lasted for only ten seconds or so before Gina gave Chico what certainly looked like a push that sent him over. It was enough for me to realize how things would be interpreted.

  I snatched the phone from her and slammed it on the counter. I slammed it again and again until it came apart in little pieces.

  She laughed. “You’re not stupid enough to think I didn’t download this?”

  “Are you threatening me?” I said, realizing she was.

  She had regained her confidence now.

  “Let’s just say I’m concerned about your welfare. I’d like you to stay out of jail. I’d like you to collect a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “And what’s in it for you, all this concern for my welfare?”

  She smirked.

  “A small favor. In return for my silence. You seem pretty good at getting rid of people. I want you to get rid of someone for me.”

  When I got my breath back, I said, “Are you nuts? You’re trying to blackmail me into killing someone for you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse. I’ll be in the IGA parking lot at nine tomorrow morning. Look for a white Ford Fiesta. We’ll talk then. And, Gina, I want you to know, if you don’t show, I’ll go public. So this is a meeting you don’t want to miss.” She walked to the door and pulled it open. Over her shoulder she said, “Nine am sharp. I’ll expect you,” and walked out.

  I stood there, not believing what I’d just heard. Then I put the toilet seat lid down and sat on it and held my head. I could see what it would look like to the cops. And to the insurance company, who would love a reason not to pay up.