Cheap Heat, page 6
“I write for Squaring the Circle,” he said, as if I should know what that meant. I stared at him till he turned to face me.
He was probably my age, with round glasses, soft cheeks, a light dusting of stubble over his pale skin.
“And that is?” I finally said.
“A wrestling blog?” He sounded a bit indignant that he’d had to explain.
“Ah. I don’t really follow, the, uh…scene.”
“How’d you get these seats then?”
“Old friend of Grant’s.”
That got his attention. “U.S. Grant’s?”
“Well, uh, I just knew him as Grant.”
He stuck a hand out. “Tommy Wilkerson,” he said.
“Jack Dixon.” I took his hand. It was a little sweaty, but this close to the lights, so was mine. His grip had more wiry strength in it than I would’ve guessed.
“That dedicating his match to a vet thing is all part of Grant’s gimmick,” he said. “Does it at every match. I sometimes wonder if the person he singles out is even a vet.”
“Gimmick?”
“Yeah, you know, his character, his schtick, his angle.”
Meanwhile, in the ring, Spitfire was shouting in Derrick Rigg’s face, incoherently, while he looked on, amused, free hand in his pocket.
Daphne was trying to separate them, to no avail.
“They been teasing the build up between these two for so long I’m beginning to think they’re never gonna book the match,” Tommy said. “And they’d better hurry, because either one of these two is likely to get poached any day now.”
“Hrm?”
“They’re too good for DWF,” he said. “Rigg’s too solid a character, and Spitfire is, well…” He gestured at her. The heels on her Docs put her well over six feet tall, and she was in shape. Certainly she was worth gesturing at. “She’s fearless,” he said. “She’ll climb anything, fly off of anything, bleed the hard way…”
“Bleed?”
He nodded. “They’ll do weapons matches if they think the crowd will go for it.” He looked around the building and said, “Probably too much of a suburban crowd here. Too many kids. But she’ll take a bat right to the abs.”
“Jesus.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s what people want.”
Meanwhile, Rigg had just finished proclaiming that he just didn’t see one woman as a challenge. Spitfire grabbed the mic and said, “Well, you’re in luck then, yank.” She pointed to the tunnel and more music started. I recognized it, vaguely, but I could only have told you it was associated with Russia in movies.
Out came a shape in a dark cloak, hood pulled up, with what seemed like a pair of green eyes glowing underneath of it.
“Huh,” Tommy said. “Two-on-one?”
“Who’s that?”
“The Night Witch,” he said. “Been both an enemy and an ally of Spitfire but it looks like they’re teasing a team-up here.”
“That has…interesting historical connotations,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Spitfires were British WWII aircraft. The Night Witches were a unit of female Russian bomber pilots…”
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” Tommy said. “Can I use that?”
“Sure,” I said.
Night Witch was making a slow and stately progress toward the ring. Rigg was backing away, having ripped his aviators off, eyes wide and wild, as if in fear. Spitfire was glaring at him with a sweet and dangerous smile on her face.
God help me, I was getting interested.
And it was just then that my old pal Glen tapped me on the shoulder.
“Grant’s ready to talk to you backstage,” he whispered.
Chapter 12
I had followed Glen reluctantly. A part of me was surprised at how effective the show had been at capturing my interest. I was disappointed to have to stop watching.
But work called.
I followed him once more into the backstage warren, this time he led me to a different dressing room. There were some snacks laid out here, but more selectively—sports drinks, protein bars, packets of gel, fruit, cheese that didn’t look like it had been sitting under a light for a week.
Grant, wearing a t-shirt and toweling at his sweaty head, was sitting on a folding chair. Blake Irons was there too, stretched out on the floor, his knees and elbows wrapped up in bandages with icepacks. His wrists, too, sat on the ground with icepacks above and beneath them.
I had to step carefully around him, and he said, “Sorry, gotta do the poor man’s whirlpool, ain’t got one in the clubhouse.” I laughed a little and went to meet Grant, who was once again shaking my hand.
“What’d you think?”
“Ah, it was…well I’m not sure I’m equipped to judge, you know, but…it was good. I got invested. Ending was good.”
“I’m thinking of calling that The Vicksburg,” Grant said, with a grin. “You like it?”
“Uh, sure.”
From the floor, Blake said, “You’re gonna call it the career-ending herniated disc you don’t learn to balance the weight better, kid.” His voice told the story of a lifetime of sore joints and muscle spasms. I winced hearing it.
“I’m working on it, man, I’m working on it. Thank God I got you to help me sell it. So, Jack, you ready to come work for me?”
“Grant, I don’t even know what you want me to do.”
“I told you there’s threats.”
“Yeah, but that’s not a particularly informative statement. Threats are also something you can take to the police.”
“Yeah,” he said, his face falling a little. “I, uh, would rather not go to the cops.”
“I think this is my cue to get scarce,” Blake said. Slowly, and so very obviously painfully that I was torn between offering help and being afraid that would be a blow to his dignity, Blake picked himself up. He bent down to try and collect his icepacks, pausing halfway down.
I stood, snatched them up, and handed them to him. He had to put a hand on his back to straighten himself up. He looked at me then when he did. His eyes were blue, his face wrinkled in pain.
“Thanks.” He studied me for a second. “You were a wrestler, weren’t you? I don’t mean like this, I mean…”
“Yeah,” Grant answered for me. “Damn good one too. Could’ve won us a National Championship…”
I waved the words away. “Long time ago,” I said.
Blake nodded, perhaps sensing that I didn’t much want to talk about it, then shuffled off. I think a shuffle was about as fast as he could move at that moment. Ice rustled and settled in the bags wrapped around his joints. He looked like some kind of golem made of ACE bandage and athletic tape and animated by pain rather than speech.
When we were finally alone, I turned on Grant.
“What the hell was that about, pointing me out at ringside?”
“I always try to point out a veteran as a tribute…”
“Yeah, well, don’t make me one of ‘em. I was just a cook, alright? Now why do you think you want to hire me?”
“I told you there’ve been threats against me.”
“When? Where? What kind?”
“A phone call to a venue just after we left that said we should never come back. Couple emails. A letter.”
“And what did the threats say?”
“That they’d kill me if I ever came back.”
I grabbed a folding chair and pulled it to within a few feet of Grant. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out the firm’s client-intake paperwork.
“This is cop stuff, Grant. Somebody makes a threat on your life, you call the police, and they determine whether it’s credible. I’m the guy you call if you suspect a business partner is trying to screw you. Or your wife, I guess.”
“Well…the company ain’t real keen on calling the cops.”
I resisted the urge to lift a hand to cover my eyes. I kept one hand on the paperwork and the other in a light fist on my lap. It was difficult.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “They don’t want that kind of attention.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “You know…lotta people work for the company. I mean, it’s small, as promotions go. But beyond the talent, and the creative folks, you got the security, and the lighting and sound people, and the roadies…”
“And either there are enough illegal substances floating around, or enough folks with records—or on probation, or on parole, or who aren’t supposed to be leaving a state—that nobody wants any actual police around.”
“Pretty much,” Grant confirmed.
“What do your own security people say?”
“That it’s probably nothing to worry about.”
“And why don’t you trust that assessment?”
“Because they’re basically just bouncers. Doormen. They aren’t, you know…” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Investigators.”
“Okay. Would it be you hiring me, or the company?”
“What do you cost?”
“Depends if we’re talking retainer, how many hours…” I held out the paperwork and he scanned it quickly. His eyes suddenly widened.
“Uh, I think the company’s gonna have to cover this.”
I started wondering just how much Grant was making for risking his health and spine for the Delmarva Wresting Federation. But it was a rude question to ask this early.
“Well, then you better get the okay from somebody and get that paperwork filled out, and let me know when you want to start working.”
He looked up. “Well, we’ve got the next week off. Thanksgiving, you know? But the Monday after that we go back on the road. Dover, couple of beach towns, down into Virginia, then around D.C., then up into PA…lotta wrestling fans in PA, ya know…”
“Wait. What exactly are you saying? You want me to travel with you?”
Grant smiled broadly. “Hell yeah, bro! On the bus, twenty-four hours a day, man.”
“Provided the company can pay for it.”
“They’ll pay for it or I’ll call the cops,” he said, with a shrug. “Should be easy.”
I thought that Grant’s negotiating position wasn’t as strong as he thought. It was likely that he was an independent contractor and had next to no recourse if he was fired. But I didn’t have the heart or patience to try and explain that to him just then.
“You know I’m not a cop, so I can’t arrest anyone or pull in cop resources. I’m also not really a bodyguard.”
“You got this, man. I’m sure you do.”
I sighed. “Alright. But if you want me on the bus, twenty-four hours a day…this isn’t gonna be cheap.”
“I’ll call the boss right now,” he said, waving the papers in his hand. “And we’ll get you on the bus in Dover next Monday, okay?”
I still doubted his ability to get me hired in precisely the way he wanted. “I think your boss is gonna want to talk to me and, you know, understand what she’d be spending money on.”
“Look, man, just show up in Dover next Monday. We’ll get you on the bus, I guarantee it.”
“Grant, I can’t get on the bus unless I’m hired. Officially. Through the firm. That’s the only way, legally speaking, for me to work for you or the company and be protected.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…a lot of complicated legal stuff that I don’t really understand, except that I’m under strict orders from my boss not to do any work unless I’ve got it all squared away.”
“Alright. Cool. I’ll text you the address. See you next Monday?”
“Sure,” I said, without much feeling.
Chapter 13
I found an empty room and took the time to file some preliminary reports and what billing info I had via the firm’s app on my phone. I wasn’t really thrilled about the idea of going out on tour with the DWF.
But after doing some figuring of how many billable hours this would run up, I didn’t see how I could turn it down. I also typed up an email to Jason, explaining the situation as I saw it. I included a note that I thought it unlikely they’d actually want to hire me in the way the principal—Grant—really wanted.
That done, I got back to my seat just in time to see Spitfire climbing a ladder that had been erected ringside. Meanwhile, the Night Witch was holding Derrick Rigg prone in the center of the ring in a leglock that would’ve dislocated his knee by now if it was being applied with malicious intent. He writhed and pounded the middle of the ring, appealing to the ref, who stood against the corner ropes in some kind of daze, totally unresponsive.
The crowd was in a frenzy, cheering, screaming, applauding, while Spitfire got to the top of the ladder and raised her arms to egg them on.
She spread her arms, bent her knees, and dove from the top of the ladder.
I found myself holding my breath.
She landed square atop Rigg with a tremendous, canvas rattling crash. Night Witch had rolled away and slipped out of the ring. The ref came out of his daze just in time to slap his hand on the mat three times and give the victory to the high-flying Englishwoman.
If the ending was anything to go by, I had to admit I kind of wished I’d seen the entire match. There was some post-match mic work, Daphne coming back out to work up the crowd, but it looked like the actual wrestling was over. I decided to head back out to the front and wait for Gen and her dad.
The crowd straggled out bit by bit while I leaned against the wall, between the wide open doors. Eventually the trickle became a flood, I spotted Gen the instant she came into view, and I glided up behind them, tapping her on the shoulder. We hit up a Mexican place for dinner while her dad gushed about some of the performances—particularly Spitfire’s.
Thankfully neither of them asked about that little ‘tribute’ Grant had made. Perhaps they hadn’t seen it. Regardless I spent the whole meal dreading answering any questions about it. And avoiding the chips.
Your standard Mexican restaurant menu didn’t offer a lot of options that my typical diet would accommodate. I contemplated a selection of salads, eyed the enchiladas with lust in my heart, and settled on some fish tacos—after making sure the fish itself wasn’t breaded.
They weren’t bad, and I was happy to keep the conversation light. I was distracted—and not, as usual, by Gen. Or at least, not as much as usual. I was thinking about working, thinking about living on a bus and the road with a bunch of professional wrestlers and roadies for…how long? A couple of days? A week? A month?
I was pulled back to the reality of dinner by Gen asking me a question for a second time, then repeating my name. “Jack?”
“Ah, sorry,” I muttered. “Just losing myself in thinking about this job Grant wants to hire me for.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Eh, I’m not sure I can say. I don’t even know if I’ve been hired yet. Something about threats.”
I explained the offer I thought I had, to go on the road with them starting the following Monday.
“Sounds like good money,” her dad said.
“How long will you be gone?”
“I think it would be, and I don’t know.”
Gen frowned for a moment, then steered the conversation back to the wrestling we’d watched. Bill seemed particularly impressed with Spitfire, lauding her leap from the ladder and speaking approvingly of how Rigg had sold the ending.
“Sold?”
He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like that leg lock the Witch had him in was all that restrictive, right? But he made it look good.”
“What was going on with the ref?”
“That’s the Witch’s gimmick,” Gen answered. “Temporarily stuns the ref with some kind of puff of smoke and light. Flash paper up her sleeve, probably. Never the opponent, because that’d be too easy, right?”
My days of watching wrestling were long past, and I hadn’t really been that sophisticated a viewer. Seemed like I had a lot to learn.
Thankfully, I could be a quick study.
* * *
That night, back in Gen’s apartment—with a backpack full of clothes and a dopp kit I’d picked up back at the Belle—it seemed like time to Talk. I wasn’t thrilled about it. It had been so long since I’d had to Talk I wasn’t sure I still knew how to do it.
“So,” I began, as she leaned against me on the couch, some music playing softly from a streaming station on her TV.
“Yes?” She looked up at me from under her eyelashes and I almost forgot how to talk at all.
“I might be gone a while,” I said. “I don’t know how long…”
“Doesn’t seem like you can really pass on it.”
“Provided the company meets the firm’s rates and covers expenses…yeah, I think I have to do it.”
She sat up and put her back against one arm of her couch, looking at me directly. “And?”
“I just, uh. Where does that leave us?”
“Where are we starting from?”
“Right. That.” I swallowed hard and looked at her. She was a beautiful woman, and a damn sight smarter than I’d assumed when we’d met in an office, the first morning of a new case, just a couple of months ago.
What was she even doing, sitting on a couch with me? Looking at me?
“I met your dad tonight.”
“Yep,” she said. “He likes you. Of course, taking him to his first wrestling show in years didn’t hurt. He’s not thrilled about the motorcycle, though.” She smiled.
“So meeting your dad is kind of…a thing. Right? Isn’t it?”
“What’re you getting at, Jack?”
“Well, I guess…what’s the term or the word for…you know, whatever we’re…what am I?”
“Hrm.” Gen’s face got serious, her brow furrowed. “I think the conventional term is ‘boyfriend.’ Is that what you’re asking?”
