The walk to the arena was short, but the weather was brisk enough to cool me down. Grant didn’t seem to know what to make of what had gone on, so I took it upon myself to explain.
“Your company’s security guy doesn’t like that I’m here. He wanted to establish an order, see if he could push me around. Daphne maybe put him up to it. If they try it again, I’m gonna have to get loud about it.”
“I wouldn’t, man. Shawn is kind of a scary dude.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. Army Ranger, ex-cop. Says the money’s better in private security.”
“Well, here’s hoping we don’t have to find out what’s what.” I wasn’t too worried. My guess was that Shawn had fewer options and more scruples than I did if it came to some kind of fight. But I still wasn’t looking for one.
The arena turned out to be a pretty nondescript event space—the kind that would host most any kind of mid-sized performance. Anything from ballet to theater to political rallies to, apparently, wrestling. The theater’s sign indicated that DELMARVA WRESTLING FEDERATION was in town for ONE NIGHT ONLY, featuring Derrick Rigg and Spitfire.
From the little I’d seen, those two certainly deserved to be the headliners. Nothing was going on in it tonight. In the central amphitheater it looked like the ring was under construction, with roadies testing the ropes and smacking the canvas.
I followed Grant into the backstage area, where he began exchanging greetings with familiar figures. I saw Blake, wearing a plain gray sweat suit and smelling faintly of Icy Hot.
“You’re here early,” he said, with no small amount of surprise in his voice.
“Yeah, well.” Grant gestured at me.
Blake reached and shook my hand. “Are you here to instill a work ethic in our boy while keeping him safe?”
“Well, life-coaching usually costs extra. But with the right retainer, I can roll it into the standard Elite Protection package.”
Blake snorted. Grant didn’t seem to get the joke, or if he did, he didn’t much like it. His face clouded and he said, “Well, now that I’m here early, what am I gonna do?”
“Stretch,” Blake said, “then get in the ring and we’ll block some stuff out. Practice a little.”
“Fine, fine,” Grant said. “I gotta hit the bathroom.” He looked at me. “You don’t have to follow me there, do ya?”
I sighed. “I should probably stand outside.” I followed him down the hall and so did Blake. When Grant went in and shut the door, I turned to him.
Time to start unofficially questioning the company, I guess.
“Grant not usually one for early work?”
He shrugged. “It’s the boring stuff.”
“Being willing to do the boring stuff is usually what makes someone good at something.”
“No,” he corrected me, “it’s what separates good from great.”
“Fair. So…you heard anything about the threats?”
He shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to anything going on outside the ring. Just here to wrestle.”
“Well, how do folks feel about Grant?”
Here, Blake frowned a little under his mustache. I was probably asking him to break some kind of backstage omerta.
“He’s a little stiff,” he said.
“Stiff?”
His frown deepened. “It’s easier to get hurt working with him than with other wrestlers.”
“I got it,” I said. Just then, the bathroom door opened and Grant came out, wiping wet hands on his pants.
“Let’s get to it,” Blake said.