Cheap Heat, page 12
“How’d I cheat?”
“Kicking me in the back of the knee instead of taking me head-on? Fuckin’ pussy. My bad knee too. Bastard’s gonna swell up like a grapefruit.”
I rolled my eyes and decided I would ignore his stupidity to get at the bigger revelation.
“Why would your boss agree to hire me, and agree that I should go armed, and then tell his head of security to disarm me, violently, if necessary?”
“Beats the shit out of me. I don’t know how that old man thinks.”
“You going to let it go now?”
“Hey, man, I followed his order. I tried you out. You’re for real.”
“Christ,” I muttered, wiping sweat out of my forehead. “This is so goddamn stupid. You could’ve just come to talk to me, you know. Professional to professional. Let me know that your boss had second thoughts or wanted to check my damn references.”
“Would’ve defeated the point.”
“What was the point? Now if some shit does go down, both of us are less effective.”
He frowned, and stood up. “I better go see Malik, get some ice. You need treatment?”
“I think it’s gonna look really fucking stupid if we both show up to see the trainer saying we got hurt separately when we’ve clearly been in a fight.”
“Eh, it happens,” Sean said. “People get in fights on the road all the time. He’ll stay quiet.”
I waved him off. “You go. I’ll ice myself up.”
Gingerly, he extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”
I stared at his hand. A part of me, a competitive part, wanted to take his hand by the wrist and finish what I’d started. But that was adrenaline and anger talking. I took his hand, gently, and shook. “No hard feelings. From now on, maybe just talk to me.”
Chapter 26
I grabbed a stack of towels from the fitness room—I wasn’t going to call it a gym—and made my way back up to mine and Grant’s room. Grant had fallen asleep in front of the TV. I gathered up the ice bucket and made three trips to the machine in the hallway in order to get enough for all the towels.
The elbow I’d connected to Shawn’s skull was sending some warning signals. But my lower back was definitely in the lead for most painful spot on my body, where his kicks had connected. I stuck two towels, wrapped around ice, in the waistband of a pair of shorts and leaned back on them. I rested my elbow on another, and just placed the remaining one atop my head.
I read quietly until Grant woke up about forty minutes later. Some contemporary fantasy epic that really could’ve used more plot and less description of grass and animals, if you asked me, but it passed the time.
Grant woke up and took a long look at me, squinting. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Disagreement with someone. It’s all settled. Don’t worry about it.”
“You get in a fight with somebody?”
“Yep.”
“You win?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
“Not really. Was still a waste of time for us both. Pretty dumb all around.”
“Man, that was your problem back in college, too.”
I lifted my eyes from the e-reader app and slid them to Grant. “What?”
“You think too much when you should just, you know, fight.”
“Thinking too much is not a weakness.”
“It is on the mat. You just have to act.”
“I spent enough time on the mat, Grant. That’s one thing I’d prefer not to think about.”
He sat up straighter, frowning, and muttered something noncommittal. He was silent a moment.
“You ever talk to that guy?”
I looked at him again. I wasn’t getting anywhere in my novel. “What guy?”
“You know, the guy…”
“David Rackham.”
“Yeah. Him.”
“I don’t think he’d particularly want to talk to me, Grant.”
“Don’t know unless you try.”
“Some things are destined to remain mysterious.”
“If you say so.”
Grant busied himself with his phone for a while, and I tried to immerse myself in escapism. Then a question occurred to me.
“Hey, when do we get our dinner money?”
“Our what?”
“Dinner money.”
Grant laughed. “You already got it, pal.”
“Thirty bucks a day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”
“You’re getting thirty? Shit, when I went on my first full time tour last year I only got twenty.”
“Usually I get expenses covered when I’m working,” I said. It came out like I was pouting. I didn’t like the sound of it, but there was no taking the words back now.
“Oh yeah? Steakhouses, bar tabs, nice hotel rooms?”
“No,” I said. “More like gas, coffee, the occasional Wawa sub. I’ve expensed drinks and the like, but only because I’d had to go into a bar or restaurant and just sitting there without ordering is the fastest way to draw suspicion.”
“Well, this is as glamorous as this gets,” Grant said, gesturing to the bland room around us. “Get used to it.”
“How’d you wind up here, Grant?”
He shrugged. “There’s no money to be made as a wrestler any other way.”
“Don’t have to be a wrestler.”
“Well, I could go back to my dad’s soybean farm. That pays even less, for harder work. I tried to get a job as a gym teacher and a coach at some high schools back home but I didn’t have the right degree and I wasn’t going back to school for it.”
“What’d you major in?”
“Communications. What was it you were majoring in?”
“Philosophy with a minor in classics.”
“Man, the coaches hated that…”
“Yeah, coaches always hate it when a player is smarter than they are and not afraid to say so.”
“They weren’t all that bad, man.”
I decided to keep my opinion to myself on that. In my entire history of wrestling, from middle school through college, there wasn’t one single coach—not my dad, not anyone else—that I looked back on fondly. They’d made me who I was, sure.
But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Chapter 27
The show that night went off without a hitch. Grant’s act got the crowd booing a little, but it seemed a good-natured booing, if I was any judge. Booing that was in on the joke. Technically it seemed like the match with Blake went better than the first time I’d seen it. More applause, more audience engagement.
Then again, I didn’t pay as much attention to the match as I did to the crowd.
I was still watching the crowd and getting ready to head backstage before the next match started, when I felt a hand tap my shoulder.
I whirled around. I didn’t quite go for my gun, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t tense up a little.
Instead it was the lightly bearded wrestling blogger I’d met back in Wilmington, after Grant had stuck the spotlight on me.
“Tommy Wilkerson,” I said, pulling the name up from wherever I stored them.
“That’s right,” he said. “And you’re here again. Long way to come to watch a match you’ve already seen.”
“Yeah, well, I’m working.” I turned to go.
“Working on what? Got your jacket all zipped up…looks kinda hot. And bulky. Somebody might think you were carrying a gun.”
I turned on Tommy Wilkerson, who suddenly looked a lot cannier than I’d given him credit for.
“You put that together all by yourself?”
He shrugged. “I’m a journalist. It’s my job.”
You’re a wrestling blogger, I thought. But it didn’t seem wise to say. “You just keep your surmises to yourself, then.”
“Hey, if there’s something going on, I might be able to help you figure it out.”
“In exchange for what?”
He shrugged. “Exclusives.”
By then the house lights were going down and entrance music was starting up. I needed to get backstage. Tommy dug in a pocket and handed me a wrinkled and slightly damp business card, which I took reluctantly.
“Think about it,” he said as I retreated.
* * *
I waited outside the clubhouse, which apparently was still strictly for talent only. Nobody—not Daphne, not Glen, not Shawn, not Grant—seemed willing to break whatever sacred prohibition was in place there.
I stood in the hallway listening to the crowd and hearing a little of the buzz in the dressing room. The door cracked open and Blake came hobbling out.
He was coated in sweat and looked like he needed help just to walk down the hall.
“You alright?” Instinctively I stuck a hand out but he waved it off and leaned against the opposite wall.
“I’ll manage,” he said. “I just don’t have a lot left after time in the ring anymore, you know?”
“Seemed like it went better in there. Maybe working with Grant helps?”
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Kid could be good. Just gotta put the work in.”
I neglected to point out that the kid was nearing thirty and that he’d been exactly like this when I’d known him in college.
“You know anything about the threats?”
Blake shook his head, eyes still closed. He was holding himself against the wall, back bent, hands on his knees. “I don’t pay attention to anything but the show. I’m just here to wrestle. If you weren’t here I wouldn’t even know there’d been threats.”
Slowly, Blake turned and, with one hand holding him up against the wall, walked down the hall.
Grant followed a bit after, carrying his vest and hat.
“What’d you think?”
“Crowd seemed to like it.”
“You didn’t watch?” He seemed crestfallen.
“I was watching the crowd,” I said. “That’s what you hired me to do.”
“Fair.” I followed him down the hall to where the treatment room had been set up. Blake was already stretched out on a table.
Grant waited for Malik’s attention. When I went to stand by the table, the trainer waved me away.
“I gotta stay with my principal,” I said.
“Well, you can stay in the room, but get the fuck away from my table,” he said, without looking at me. He stretched out Grant’s arm and said, “How’s the elbow and the forearm? No pain?”
I decided that this was definitely not a fight worth picking and wandered a few feet away. Grant was ready a lot sooner than Blake was, and he led me to the monitors where the talent and backstage folks watched the action.
“Spitfire against Caliban,” Grant said, pointing to the central monitor. The six foot and change redhead was absolutely dwarfed by her opponent—and it looked like she was the one doing all the work, flying off the ropes, swinging around him. He didn’t seem to have much more going for him than a long reach and lunge, and a gigantic physical presence.
“Man, this stuff doesn’t work,” Grant muttered. “She’s gotta do all the work and the crowd knows it. Not even sure why that guy is here.”
We stood around and watched the rest of the show. There was no Rigg vs Spitfire and Night Witch match, but there was a lot of lead up to it, the interstitial stuff between matches seemed to focus on it.
All in all, the first night closed out quietly.
Then we went back to the hotel and got the letter.
Chapter 28
I was reading it for at least the fifth time, holding it with a plastic bag wrapped around my hand, pacing back and forth across the room. Grant sat on his bed, flipping his phone around in his hand nervously. Daphne sat on the other one, watching me pace. Finally, she cleared her throat.
I paused and turned to her in mid-step. “Yes?”
“Have you…” She waved a hand vaguely at the paper in my hand. “Detected anything?”
“Well,” I said. “It’s clearly a laser printer. I’d guess a Toshiba, made between 2006 and 2012 but I can’t rule out later models. Written on a Mac, not a recent model. Typist was left-handed.”
“Really?”
“No. That’s all nonsense. It’s just a piece of paper. I know exactly as much about it as you do.”
She held out her hand. I shook my head.
“Nope. Not putting this in anyone’s bare hands.”
“Got a finger-printing kit in your gym bag, and access to an FBI database? Because otherwise, what’s the point.”
“If we progress to the point of a serious crime being committed, the police are going to want to see this.”
“Aren’t you here specifically to prevent that?”
“Yes, but I’m not perfect.”
“Well you better be, because company policy is we don’t call the cops unless it’s a matter of life or death.”
“That is not legally binding, and you know it.”
“Look, Mr. Dixon,” Daphne said, lowering her hand. “This is a top-down kind of culture. We circle our wagons and protect our own. That’s why we hired you instead of going to the police. If your first instinct at the sign of trouble is to seek outside authority?” She tsked, shaking her head. “Maybe we’ve made a poor decision.”
I decided to ignore her and read the letter again.
Grant Aronson,
We have warned you. We have told you. Perform this inflammatory act of desecration—spitting upon our sacred history and traditions—is unacceptable. Your ignorance of history and culture is no excuse. This aggression—unlike that of your gimmick namesake—will not stand. If you perform this routine in the sacred borders of Virginia, we will take action.
It was unsigned. I turned it over and looked at the envelope. It simply said “US Grant C/O Delmarva Wrestling.” No address. No return address.
With a sigh, I folded it back up, placed it inside its envelope, and sealed it in another plastic bag. Let Daphne get indignant if she wanted; I wasn’t going to go messing up potential evidence.
I tucked the sealed plastic bag into the back pocket of my jeans.
“The desk clerk wasn’t too keen on answering any questions, but it seems like a fair amount of fan mail gets dropped off at the hotel every stop of the tour. At least that’s what he said. That true?”
Daphne nodded. “It’s a bit old fashioned, but yeah. People leave little gifts and letters such. Photos to sign if we’re going to be in town two nights.”
“Who do you know in the towns you play in Virginia?”
Grant shook his head. “Nobody, really. Nobody I can think of. Only person I know out east is you.”
I studied him for a split second. He did not look worried. If anything he was grimacing, like he was trying to look worried and not sure how to go about it.
“The hotel’s got a camera pointed at the front door,” I said. “I can’t compel them to let me see the footage. But maybe I can apply a little pressure.” I looked at Daphne. “How would it go if I threatened that they might lose the DWF’s business if they don’t let me see it? That’s about the only leverage I can come up with.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Fine,” I said, waving to Grant. “Come on. We’ve got some video to watch.”
“Hey, man, I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
I went to the luggage stand and unzipped my gym bag. I drew out a sealed plastic bag with cutlery and napkins, and then pulled out a pristine jar of my current favorite dinner: a creamy almond butter that cost far too much.
“You can share mine or order a pizza.” I sighed. “Where’s the nearest convenience store?”
“Ask your phone,” Daphne said on her way out the door. “I’ve got shows to plan.”
Chapter 29
Grant and I walked to the nearest gas station and procured some bottled cold brew coffee, milk, and yellow sweetener packets. He muttered something about a liquor store. As tempted as I was, it didn’t do to mix a long boring job with alcohol.
He grabbed a bagful of junk food, and we made our way back to the hotel. I had to ring the bell twice to get the desk clerk—a young guy, scrawny and with a patchy beard—to come shuffling out from the little office behind the desk. He looked at me through grease-speckled glasses.
“Help you?”
“I’m with the DWF,” I said.
“The what?”
“The wrestling company that’s taking up half the rooms in your establishment right now.” I leaned forward. “And I need to look at the front-desk security tape from today.”
He blinked behind his glasses, taking them off to rub the bottom of his shirt ineffectually against them. When he put them back on the grease was, at least, more evenly applied.
“I, uh, don’t know if I have the authority to let you do that.”
“You have as much authority in this life as you give yourself…Kevin,” I said, having paused just long enough to read his name-tag, which was similarly spattered with the detritus of whatever fast food he’d had for dinner. “Seize it. Grasp it with both hands. Don’t let anyone take it away from you.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Great,” I said. An investigator’s rule; when it seems even for a second like you’re getting the answer that grants you access to something you probably shouldn’t have, proceed full steam ahead. Redline the engine. Make the boilers glow as you shovel coal into them. I pointed to the doorway that led behind the desk. “Meet you back there?” I started walking, dragging Grant behind me with one hand.
By the time we were around the other side of the desk, Kevin clearly had no idea what to do or what he was dealing with. I wasn’t necessarily above using a little physical intimidation if I had to, but Kevin looked like he went about six-foot-one and one-forty, soaking wet. It would’ve been like yelling at a puppy.
