Page 19 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

The ride into the heart of Newark took half an hour. The Prudential Center arena is known as the Rock, a reference to the Rock of Gibraltar on Prudential's logo. The New Jersey Devils hockey team played here, and that was about it for the pro teams. The Nets ended up moving to Brooklyn, abandoning their roots, but Myron had seen a lot of college basketball games here, and Springsteen twice.

Myron picked up the tickets at will call. They also got laminated backstage passes.

"Good seats?" Mickey asked.

"Ringside."

"Sweet."

"Your aunts take care of us. You know that."

Tonight's entertainment: professional wrestling.

In the old days, before the Internet made images of scantily clad women readily available, adolescent boys watched titillation in the guise of women's professional wrestling on Sunday morning local television. The undercard for tonight's main events featured a return to those days, to the days of FLOW, the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (originally they wanted to call themselves the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling but the local networks had issues with the ensuing acronym), and some of the organization's all-time favorites.

FLOW had gone out of business many years ago, but somebody, mainly Myron's friend and former business partner, Esperanza Diaz, had resurrected the organization. Nostalgia was in, and Esperanza, known back in her FLOW days as "Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess," hoped to cash in on it. She didn't hire hot young female wrestlers to dazzle the adolescents. That market was already satiated.

Welcome instead to the "cougar tour" of pro wrestling.

It was the "senior tour" of professional wrestling. And why not? Golf's senior tour was a big draw. Tennis had one. Those autograph conventions with old actors from seventies TV shows were hotter than ever. Just take a quick gander at the schedule of rock performers at your favorite venues--the Rolling Stones, the Who, Steely Dan, U2, Springsteen--and you realized that either youth was out or maybe they just had no disposable income.

So why not capitalize?

Tonight's Tag Team Championship in the Cougar Division featured the team of Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama.

Aka Esperanza Diaz and Big Cyndi.

When they entered the ring--Esperanza still teeth-meltingly rocking a skimpy leopard-print suede bikini with a hair lasso; Big Cyndi, all six six, three hundred pounds of her, squeezed into some kind of leather merry widow and a full feather headdress--the crowd erupted.

Mickey turned to his right to see the opponents coming out of the tunnel. "What the . . . ?"

The crowd began to boo.

Here was where FLOW really tested the boundaries. If Esperanza's and Big Cyndi's ages might qualify them as "MILFs," their evil opponents--"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Axis of Evil, Commie Connie and Iron Curtain Irene!"--would fit more into the "GILF" category.

For those who might be a little slow in the area of acronyms, the G would stand for "grandmother."

Still, Commie Connie proudly (or defiantly) wore the same supertight, revealing red costume with Chinese stars and pictures of Mao that had made her famous, while Irene sported a two-piece that formed an old Soviet sickle across her cleavage.

Mickey started playing with his phone.

"What are you doing?" Myron asked.

"I'm looking something up."

"What?"

"Hold on." Then: "According to this, Commie Connie is seventy-four years old."

Myron smiled. "Looks great, doesn't she?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

Mickey didn't get it. Then again, he was sixteen. Myron had been ten when he watched Connie, so maybe he was still seeing her through his childhood goggles the same way we hear our favorite bands through childhood earphones. Whatever. As they sat back and watched the match unfold, Myron downed popcorn.

"So Aunt Esperanza is supposed to be Native American?" Mickey asked.

"Yes."

"But she's Hispanic, right?"

"Yes."

"And Big Cyndi is?"

"Anyone's guess."

"But she's not Native American."

"No, she's not." Myron glanced at him. "There isn't much about pro wrestling that's politically correct."

"More like downright insensitive."

"Yeah, I guess. It's a role. We can be outraged about it tomorrow."

Mickey grabbed some of the popcorn. "I told a couple of my teammates I knew Little Pocahontas."

"I bet they were impressed."

"Oh yeah. One says his dad still has her poster in his weight room."

"And that's probably politically incorrect too."

In the ring, Big Cyndi wore enough makeup to put a Kiss concert out of business. Then again, she wore the same in real life too. Big Cyndi made a quick move near the turnbuckle, grabbed Commie Connie in a headlock, and then, with her free hand, she blew Myron a kiss.

"I love you, Mr. Bolitar," she shouted.

Mickey loved that. So did the crowd. So, well, did Myron.

Again, the "senior tour" for the "cougar division" title was all about memories, which was tantamount to wanting your favorite band to play its old hits. So that was what the four wrestlers gave the crowd.

Little Pocahontas had always been a fan favorite. She would always be winning on skill, all lithe and tiny and beautiful, dancing around the ring, darting to and fro, earning high marks and cheers from the crowd, when suddenly her evil opponents would cheat to turn the tide. This cheating usually took the form of either jamming sand in Little Pocahontas's eyes (Esperanza was great at acting out "burning eyes") or using the dreaded "foreign object" to render her helpless.

Tonight Commie Connie and Iron Curtain Irene did both.

With Big Chief Mama being distracted by the crooked referee, who had been seduced by Commie Connie's promise of sexual favors, Iron Curtain Irene used the sand in the eye while Commie Connie jabbed Esperanza in the kidney with the foreign object. Little Pocahontas was in trouble! The two evil wrestlers now teamed up on Little Pocahontas--something else that was

illegal!--pounding her mercilessly, the crowd begging someone to help the poor beauty, when finally Big Chief Mama saw what was happening, pushed the referee out of the ring, and rescued the hot heroine, and together Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama faced down the Axis of Evil.

Massively entertaining.

The crowd, including Myron and Mickey, stood and roared.

"So why were you in London?" Mickey asked.

"I was helping an old friend."

"Do what?"

"We were trying to locate two missing kids."

Mickey turned to him, his face suddenly serious. "Wasn't one found?"

"You saw that?"

"It was on some news alert. Patrick something."

"Patrick Moore."

"He's my age, right? Disappeared when he was six?"

"That's right."

"What about the other kid?"

"Rhys Baldwin." Myron shook his head. "We're still looking for him."

Mickey swallowed, turned back to the match. In the ring, Little Pocahontas had just swept the leg of Iron Curtain Irene, knocking her to the mat. Commie Connie was already on the ground and--gasp--Big Chief Mama was standing on the top rope.

"The big finale," Myron said with a grin.

Seemingly defying gravity, Big Chief Mama bent at the knees and leapt off the top rope and high into the air. The crowd held its collective breath as, almost in slow motion, she began to hurtle back toward earth, landing on both of her opponents with a clearly audible splat.

Neither opponent moved.

When Big Chief Mama rose, you half expected her two adversaries to be pancake flat on the canvas, like Silly Putty or something out of a cartoon. Big Chief Mama rolled over Connie. Pocahontas rolled over Irene. Together they pinned their opponents and the bell rang and the ring announcer shouted, "The winner and still Cougar Tag Team Champions, from the reservation straight to your heart, let's hear it for Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama!"

With the entire arena up on its feet, Big Cyndi lifted Esperanza onto her shoulders. They waved and blew kisses as the applause rained down on them.

And then the next match began.

Chapter 13

An hour later, Myron and Mickey flashed their passes and headed backstage. Big Cyndi, still in the leather merry widow and headdress, ran over to Myron and shouted, "Oh, Mr. Bolitar!"

Big Cyndi's makeup had started to run, so that her face resembled a box of crayons left too close to the fireplace.

"Hey, Big Cyndi."

She wrapped her tree-trunk arms around Myron and pulled him close, lifting him ever so slightly off his feet. Big Cyndi was still covered with sweat, and when she hugged you, it was all consuming, like being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.

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