005: chandler

SOMETIMES IT WAS GOOD to be invisible, at least in the estimation of the man who paused before crossing the threshold of the Irish pub. There always seemed to be a dive like this near every police precinct. The man walked over the threshold, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his purple-streaked hair. Squinting, he waited for his eyes to adjust from the dying afternoon sunlight to the gloomy interior of the bar.

He'd spent the better part of his wrestling career lubricating his brain in places like this.

The nostalgia was like a slap in the face and he wished Chauncy were here.

His black boots rang out in the silence as he crossed the floor, affecting a John Wayne swagger that did nothing to make up for his lack of stature. He ambled towards the bar, slouching his shoulders as though he wanted to be invisible. Nobody noticed him— that is, except the bartender, who saw nothing but a wallet, and a long face. Those two together meant a nice profit.

"Pick your poison," he said with a smile, sidling up as the small stranger perched on one of the wooden stools at the end of the bar.

"Pine float?" The small man managed a shaky smile, and got a raised eyebrow from the barkeep. "Uhm, glass of water and a toothpick. I'm waiting for... a friend. If you want me to buy something…" his hands moved from the bar top, digging into the pockets of his worn out, beat up jean jacket, pulling out a few handfuls of crap that he dropped on the bar. Linty mints. Old matchbooks. A creased Polaroid of a stone-faced man. A folded, grease-stained piece of paper with spidery handwriting smeared across the lines. A few assorted coins, and a couple of mangled bills. The latter he pulled from the pile, and smoothed out, counting them. Five singles. He pushed them towards the bartender.

"It'll get you a pint, if you're so inclined."

He pushed the rest of the junk back into his pocket, hesitating over the picture of the man— it was Brad Jackson in the picture, with the words YOUR BEST FRIEND written on the strip at the bottom. He wasn't really sure why he was still carrying it around but a small part of him rebelled against the notion of tossing it. He might be with Chauncy but there would always be that part of him that still loved Jackson-

"You want a beer? Got Pabst and Sam Adams on tap."

"Sure." The man hesitated and Gowan literally facepalmed. "Surprise me… either's fine." He was dying to drink something right now but he knew he wouldn't simply because Chauncy was back at the hotel.

The beer appeared, and foam cascaded down the side of the glass. "Where ya haulin' from?"

LG blinked, looking confused, "beg pardon?"

"Not a trucker? Damn, I had ya pegged as a trucker when you walked across that floor, squirmin' like you know you're outta your element. Y'ain't from around here."

"No, I'm not. I spend far too much time in California, actually. Land of sunshine and citrus fruits."

"Yankin' my chain, partner. Don't have much of a tan for a guy haulin' from that state— don't have that godawful surfer accent either."

"You're right. I'm Canadian, born and raised. Been on the road round 'bout thirteen years now. Longer, I guess, since I was touring with a band before that." He stared at the beer with intense longing, or perhaps as though he expected it to do tricks, but he didn't touch it.

"How long ya been on the wagon?"

A rueful chuckle escaped the small man's lips. "Shows, huh? Was a year in January. Working on the two-year chip now. Just figured it was expected. Place like this probably gets busy, and you don't want the dude drinking Diet Cokes taking up a seat. Leave the beer. I kinda like looking at it. That's not too weird, is it?"

The barkeep shrugged, "p'raps not, but all the same…"

"Never was one of those twelve steppers. Just… took losing someone close to me to drive that message home, you know? My brother…" The man fell silent again, watching the foam die down in the beer.

"You in a band now?" The bartender set a glass of brown soda down next to the beer, pushing it slightly towards him.

The man chuckled, looking up, the light of the neon Coors sign glittering in his pale blue eyes. "Nah, nothing so fun. I'm a wrestler… sorta. I mean, I was, then I retired, and now it's sorta complicated." He shrugged, ducking his head as though embarrassed, "my partner and I have a tag team. In fact we're wrestling this weekend in Cincinnati."

"You don't sound too thrilled about that," the tender commented, picking up on the unease in Gowan's tone.

He paused, taking a drink of the soda before speaking again. "It shows, huh? Yeah, see we're in the middle of this feud against these crazy girls— they come out to Helter Skelter—"

"You wrestle girls?"

He nodded, "yeah, sure. It's progressive, I know. Not like the good old days when the women were just models paid to look pretty. These girls are aggressive. They're kinda… scary, even. The thing is, they kinda want to kill us… ah well it sounds dumb, and you probably don't care."

The earnest way he spoke made the bartender almost feel the contrary. For one moment, he did care about the small man, and the fear he saw in those eyes for a split second before the spark of amusement returned. "Listenin's what I do best round here, other than fill the glasses."

The man chuckled again, and polished off the rest of his glass of half-warm diet cola. When he set the glass down a bit of the liquid glistened on his upper lip. He didn't seem to notice. "Talkin's not really my thing, if it's all the same to you… I think maybe I'll just sit here. Wait for my friend..."

The air smelled like stale beer, and brine from the massive jar of pickled eggs beside him. Smells that made him want to spill his guts. Forget a shrink's office— this was the place he wanted to talk about his woes in. From the kitchen, he could hear a radio playing softly, and the sizzle of food. The tavern was soothing. Very soothing.

The bartender nodded to himself, refilled the soda and set it in front of the man. "Free refills," it wasn't their policy, and they both knew it, but something about the hangdog look on the little man's face was more than he could bear. "Prob'ly some fries that are about dead… you hungry?"

The small man nodded, looking almost embarrassed again. "Yeah… but no… I don't eat fried food."

The bartender nodded, and slipped through the swinging door, emerging a moment later with a red basket of greasy fries. He tossed it down in front of the man, shrugging his shoulders. "Better than tossin' 'em."

Hunger was the best seasoning, and the salty potatoes were like heaven in his mouth, washed down with that flat fountain pop. If he closed his eyes, and breathed through his mouth, he could almost pretend he was drinking again. "Gowan." He said through a mouthful, getting a strange look from the bartender.

"What's that? French or something'?"

"No," the man swallowed hard. "Merci beaucoup is French… Gowan's my name. It's Scottish-"

"Larry Gowan." The voice startled him, and he looked up to see Raymond Chandler standing at the end of the bar, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his heavily muscled and tanned forearms. Sinking down on the stool next to Gowan, he reached for the pint, pulling it towards him. After taking a long pull of it, he sighed and kicked off his shoes, bringing his foot up on top of his knee and rubbing the aching arch. He was dead on his feet and it was only mid-afternoon. It wasn't the only way he spent his life now, behind this desk pushing paper, but it was a large part of it.

"The prodigal son returns," Chandler quipped, looking him over, "heard about IWF. Hell of a thing. How'd you make out in that lawsuit?"

"Never filed one. Didn't seem like it was worth it."

"Ah," his shrewd eyes took in Gowan's disheveled person in a single glance. Occasionally he missed the adrenaline and the roar of the crowd, but he'd never missed watching it gut people from the inside out, leaving them hollow. The statistics were staggering towards suicides and statistics, and everyone was worried they were going to be the next one to turn up with the brain of an Alzheimer's patient. Chandler had gotten out while the getting was good, and hadn't really regretted it. Being a homicide detective seemed safer by comparison. And every single day he knew he'd made a difference.

"You look good, Ray." Gowan fidgeted, avoiding Chandler's eyes.

"It's been too long, Larry." Raymond's fingers delved into the greasy fries, stealing a few and stuffing them in his mouth. "Kinda surprised you called me out of the blue."

Gowan shrugged, sitting forward and clasping his hands together. Something about Raymond Chandler had always commanded his respect. That's why he was here. "Ray, I need to talk to you about something."

"Of course you do. And it's a topic that you couldn't bring up over the phone or toss out in an email, huh?" He leaned back in his chair, fixing Gowan with that shrewd and knowing look that only cops could pull off. "How'd you know I still came here to unwind after work?"

Gowan swallowed hard, looking uncomfortable. "We came here a couple years ago, the night you told me you were going back to the force. Might've been plastered that night, but I still had the matchbook with the date written on it."

Everyone had their quirks and LG had his memory problems. It was just part of his coping mechanisms. He collected things. Mementos.

"Shoulda known." Chandler nodded, holding out his hand as he stood up. Gowan rose to his full height, where he stood even with Chandler's armpit. He looked at the hand, and then took it as he stepped closer, shaking it firmly. "Screw that," Gowan muttered, putting his arm awkwardly around Ray's back and giving him a quick hug that turned into an impromptu feat of strength as Chandler bear hugged him back, crushing the air from his lungs. "Ray…" he began, backing away to sit back down with a sigh.

"Advice? Is that what you want? You're here because you think I have some secret answer? Not me, Lare. I can't tell you how to get inside their heads. You want to talk about your yips and hinks, call a priest or a shrink." He shook his head.

Gowan shook his head, feeling the dread settling back in his stomach. He sat there for a moment, staring at Chandler, a pained expression on his face. It was killing him to be this honest. The only sound in the bar was the air whooshing from the vents and the creak of the chair as Chandler adjusted his weight. It was as though time had suddenly stood still. "It's not that… I…" he trailed off. How could he even broach the subject?

"So, why are you here?" one eyebrow quirked in puzzlement, "why didn't you go to Brad? I'm sure he could tell you how to beat the shit out of girls, and not lose sleep over it." There was no love lost there; Chandler hated Jackson. He always had, even when all three of them were members of the Knights of Anarchy.

"It's not that, Ray. I don't… I mean, no. That's not what I want to do. I mean, I want to win and…" he trailed off, biting his lip, "they want to actually hurt us, Ray. I mean honest-to-God want to maim us."

"The place you're in unionized? Talk to your rep about unsafe conditions-"

"I can't do that," he said quickly, "I can't make waves. And Chauncy loves it there. I mean, really, really loves it."

"So what do you want from me, Larry?"

"I'm starting to think that I shouldn't have left CPW the way I did. I was The Champion." He said the words with such reverence that they seemed to be capitalized, as though that title was the most important thing in his mind. "You once told me that disrespecting a belt was worse than punching a baby. I disrespected it. I did worse than that, Ray. I… turned my back on the people who trusted me and I walked away like a coward. It's been hell since then. I can't-"

Chandler laughed, bitter and humorless. "Is this about gold? C'mon, Larry. You always told me gold wasn't what it was about."

"It's not. It…"

Chandler cut him off again, "if this is about me saying you couldn't legitimately use the KoA name for merchandise until I'm dead, I wasn't serious. I said a lot of shit back then, Lare. Don't put all your stock in that. Just words. And it's just wrestling. Not like it's life or death. Not like it's-"

"In a way, it is. This is my last hurrah, Ray. I'm getting old." LG bowed his head, closing his eyes. He could smell the beer in that glass where it sat sweating on the bar. It was making him feel worse in ways he didn't really understand. "Ray, SVW is a good place. Better than…" he sighed softly. "I'm here for the obvious reason. Are you going to make me say it?" He blinked rapidly, trying to fight down the panic that was building. "Brad and I... we're not… really… on speaking terms right now. He hit Chauncy with a baseball bat."

Chandler indulged himself in a hearty chuckle, favoring Gowan with a smile. "There's a surprise and a half." Sarcasm dripped from the words. "Larry, I honestly don't have the answer you're looking for. If you wanna ask me about when Castle comes back from hiatus— September, most likely— I'm your guy. If you want to ask me how many pints of blood you can spill before you're legally dead, or whether or not it's a crime to play kissy-face with a dead hooker... then sure. But this? It's been seven years, Larry. I'm so far removed from the business, it's not even funny."

Gowan's face fell, his expression crumbling. He looked like a child then, almost like he was going to cry. He could feel the scream of outrage building, roaring up from deep within him. It was nothing but a cold bullet of horror, and he was choking on it. "You don't understand, Ray… how hard it was for me to come here. Swallow my pride after all these years; it was tough."

"Not tough enough," Chandler replied, completely nonplussed by Gowan's impending emotional meltdown, "since you made it here after all. Life begins with a single step in the right direction."

"Hah! What's that? Confucius?"

"Nah, the department shrink spouted that one to my ears a couple years back."

Gowan grappled with himself in those two or three seconds; he fought grimly for control of himself just as he had been doing for the last week or so. He won, but just barely. Maybe the next time he'd lose control completely. His tongue was bleeding from the sudden, involuntary bite he had just given it. The warm, coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, causing him to shudder in revulsion. His mind whirled, and somewhere, deep inside, a piece of that good guy died.

"Ray, do you believe in ghosts?"

"Sure I do. They show up at crime scenes and whisper in my ears. Tell me how to solve their murders."

For a few moments he sat still, breathing shallowly. Tears shone in his eyes. "Ray? You're mocking me, aren't you?"

"No." Chandler replied, turning his inner gaze to the case file he'd left back on his desk. "I just pushed your buttons, Larry. That's all. You want another title, go out and win it. You know you're good enough to do it. You can get in that ring and dominate anyone. Don't make this about the mess you made of your reputation in WCWF. Nobody cares. WCWF is dead and buried. Are you afraid of repeating what happened in MWA? Maybe you're afraid that wrestling Graham Clauson after that bullshit tournament has turned you into an evil person? Maybe you're sick of turning the other cheek because the people you work with are still stuck in the 80's, hating on your kind."

"No, they're actually quite tolerant. Chauncy and I aren't the only ones there." Was Nathan still employed?

"Alright, so what's the deal? Am I hitting the ballpark? You're running away because you're terrified of what will happen if you start winning consistently again. You're terrified to feed that little ego of yours. You just can't handle that, can you? Not even now. You're afraid you're going to go off the rails and end up like him, aren't you?"

Gowan let his head hang, his voice a low mumble as he replied, "yeah, pretty much. End up crazy like him or dead like..." he swallowed hard, "Shawn. I guess maybe I needed someone to call me out on this."

"So what's this shit about ghosts, huh?"

"Oh, huh… nothing." He swallowed hard, looking away, "was just making conversation." He chickened out. Suddenly he couldn't bring himself to ask if Ray could look a little further into Shawn's death.

"Anytime," Chandler replied, finally allowing himself to smile as he slipped his feet back into his loafers, "that's not the only thing you came here for is it? Because if it is, I'm going to have to start billing you for my time."

"I didn't-"

Chandler cut him off with a laugh, "damnit, Larry. I'm a cop, not a therapist!" His Bones McCoy impression was pretty spot-on.

Gowan shook his head, laughing. "Ray, you still crack me up. If memory serves correctly, you also owe me a drink." He grinned foolishly, and then laughed, "not that I'm going to collect, unless you'll spring for a six-pack of Diet Coke Cherry. Haven't slipped up yet. Trying to make it stick this time. I have," he paused, thinking of Chauncy, "a really good reason to."

He spoke with that earnest vehemence that Chandler recognized well. Serious Gowan was serious. "Nice to see you two kids finally made that official. Took you long enough, shit." The hobbit-sized wrestler's issues with sobriety were no secret to Chandler, who slapped him on the back in a show of ancient camaraderie. "Good for you, though. Staying off the sauce is no easy task, believe me. You still owe me a dinner, you know."

"What? From when?"

Chandler ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, casting his memory back. "Wrestle War 2002, you ate my steak and three baked potatoes after you turned up too late to order at the team meeting. All you left me was that disgusting Greek salad, and you know I hate olives and that nasty cheese that tastes like feet."

"Paid for that, too," he grumbled, thinking about how sick that steak had made him, "but… that was ten years ago!"

Chandler chuckled as the two made their way towards the door. "Well under the statute of limitations then," he exclaimed as he pulled the door of the pub open, letting Gowan walk through first. "You can buy me dinner, and then you can tell me what the hell's actually on your mind…"