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.