The next day on the bus was all the same kind of jokes, at least for the first hour. It was a long ride, all the way up into Pennsylvania for some shows in and around Reading. Not exactly the Aesir’s home turf, but a hell of a lot closer than I liked. I had emailed Bob and asked if he could give me information on their known clubhouses and the like, hadn’t gotten anything back yet.
As I got on the bus, everyone put their hands up on top of the seats in front of them and stared at me, giggling.
I ignored them, took my seat next to Grant, and tried to get lost in reading. It worked, for a while. Every now and then someone would make some small gibe about checking a passing car for guns, that kind of nonsense.
I was able to tune it out until Daphne came by and nudged my seat with the toe of her boot. I elbowed Grant awake, since she had a business face on.
“Local TV station in PA wants to do a package on you,” she said, pointing at Grant. “Including stuff about the threats, your bodyguard, and so on. Probably worth doing.”
“Oh, hell yeah it is,” Grant said, at almost the same time I said, “Absolutely not.”
“This is going to be a company decision, not a security decision,” Daphne said.
“Well, I’m not going on camera. That’s not in the terms of any agreement you signed with my employer,” I said. I was desperately hoping that was actually true, as I had no idea.
Daphne tapped her finger against her chin. “That’s how we can spin it, then. You can’t appear on camera for security reasons. We’ll give ‘em some of our tape from the shows and cast you as a mystery man.”
“That’s not really going to have the operational security effect I was looking for.”
Daphne shrugged. “Too bad. We own that footage, and you’ve been appearing in front of our cameras for the last week and a half. Stuff’s been uploaded to our YouTube channel, our website. We might even start streaming shows if we can get a sponsor for ‘em.”
“I’m still not talking to local news,” I said. “I won’t be on camera for them. It’s a goddamn security risk for multiple reasons.”
“What,” Daphne said, smiling, “you got enemies, Jack?”
“I might.” My thoughts about wannabe Viking bikers had receded, but every so often I found myself staring hard at a group of bikers through the bus window, looking for the symbols on their cuts.
“Man of mystery spin it is, then,” Daphne said, “for anyone watching local news. But anybody who knows how to use the internet will see your face just fine.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” I said.
* * *
The news crew was waiting at the hotel when we got there, having set up in one of the dingy conference rooms available. I stood around in it while Grant got makeup applied. The producer asked me if I needed any and I had strongly indicated that I would not be appearing on camera so no, it wasn’t necessary.
“Not even in the background, looming a little?”
“No,” I said.
“It would make for a great…”
I didn’t like being rude, but I turned my back to her and walked away. My patience and capacity for being around this many people for this protracted a time period was drawing perilously thin. I was going to get in a real fight with someone, with real consequences, if I didn’t find a way to get my head screwed back on right.
I needed a proper gym, a proper cocktail, a proper bunk, and a date with Geneva Lawton. Not necessarily in that order.
I projected enough anger while Grant was doing his interview that nobody else from the local broadcast team tried to talk to me again. After it was over, Grant shocked me by expressing a desire to work out, so we were off to the hotel fitness center. He engaged in what looked like an exhausting routine with the heaviest dumbbells the room had, then bouts of pushups, and isometric exercises.
He worked up a good sweat, I’d give him that. I sat in a corner and sulked. I hated that I was doing it. I hated being here. I hated myself and this job and everything about it.
“You gonna sit in the corner and sulk, or are you gonna get some work in?”
The fact that even Grant noticed shocked me a little bit out of my stupor.
“I’m not sulking.”
“Yeah, you are,” Grant said, breathing a little hard while doing push-ups. Then he curled his left hand behind his back and kept doing them. “What’s the matter? Angry that I’m getting all the press?”
“I couldn’t care less about that.”
“All could’ve been yours. Shit, man. You could’ve gone to the Olympics. Could’ve been somebody. If you’d cared.” He paused for breath, and switched to one-handed push-ups with his left arm. “As much about wrestling as you did.” He fell to his knees, striving for breath. “About…whatever it is you’re doing right now.”
“You know what, Grant? If you want me to care about what you have to say, my rates are going up.”
He popped back to his feet, sweating and breathing hard. “You think you’re better than me, huh? Well at least I fuckin’ finished what I started. I graduated.”
“Yeah, with a degree in what? Some bullshit so fake they won’t even let you be a P.E. teacher in a middle school in Iowa, of all godsforsaken places.”
“Christ, you’re an asshole,” Grant said, and he strode determinedly out of the gym. I followed him quickly, not letting him outpace me despite the difference in our natural strides. He tried to slam the hotel room door in my face, but I caught it with my boot and kicked it back open.
“Sure, I’m an asshole,” I said as he turned to face me. “But I’m still getting paid to babysit you. So that’s what I’m goddamn well doing.”
Grant just shook his head. “Don’t even need this anymore,” he muttered, as he walked towards his bed. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the drive for confrontation seemed to have gone out of him, so I left it there. I got out my tablet and alternated between mindless surfing and trying to read a book.
His phone buzzed; he flipped on the TV and navigated to a local broadcast, where his segment on the news came up. He didn’t say anything, but he sat up, beaming. An anchor came onscreen, chattering about pro wrestling and death threats.
In the video package that accompanied it, I was clearly visible at ringside, in my suit and vest, looking around the crowd. If you knew what you were looking for, you could see the gun under my jacket.
Then Grant’s face was onscreen, huge and sweating, answering banal questions. Until they asked him point blank if his bodyguard was part of an “angle,” and the interviewer made the air quotes with his fingers.
“Absolutely not,” Grant said, grinning. “Jack Dixon is an old wrestling teammate of mine, a decorated veteran, and a crack private investigator and security guard…”
“Jesus, Grant,” I said, falling back on the pillows of my bed, “what the fuck is that about?”
“Gotta play it up while it’s working,” was all he said.
I tried to ignore the TV for the rest of the night.