Almost two years have passed and a lot has happened. Marcia’s death went down as an accident. I never had any follow-up from Stanley. I didn’t exactly hang around waiting for him to follow up. The day after my defeat to Wanda, I phoned Roz to say I was quitting my job at the post office. I loaded up my car again—I was mostly packed anyway. I left the rest of my stuff with Jimmy or gave it to Goodwill, had my mail forwarded to his address and drove out of Franks forever.
After a couple of months, I let Jimmy know where I was newly settled. I never told him about the Beeklands, about my week in hell, but I did make him promise not to tell anyone how to find me, especially not a creepy, mouth-breathing accountant or a goon with a broken nose. I laid low, ate junk food, drank more wine than was good for me and grew my hair back. Sometimes I went jogging, not for fitness but because it was a way of running out on life. As I ran, I wondered how things could go so wrong. Mostly I sat around doing nothing.
I could afford to. I was a wealthy woman. North American Life paid up, and my new bank account was richer by a quarter of a million bucks. Or two hundred and twenty thousand, after I’d settled Chico’s gambling debts. Because Bernie went after Jimmy when he couldn’t find me, and even though Jimmy told me to sit tight, I couldn’t let them work on him.
But it was my experience with Marcia and Stanley that had really shaken me. It left me jumpy. It left me paranoid. If life had taught me one thing, it was that I couldn’t trust anyone. Monsters like the Beeklands lurked around every corner. Worse, I couldn’t trust myself. I hadn’t actually killed Marcia, but I’d made four attempts at murder and let myself be used by her. What kind of monster did that make me?
Then one day when I was fast approaching bottom, my doorbell rang. I’d paid off Bernie’s people, so he was off my back. I figured it had to be the cops. They’d opened an investigation on Marcia’s death, Stanley had cooked up some convincing story to frame me and they’d tracked me down. I got up, feeling like my body was filled with wet cement. In a funny way, I was relieved. It would be good to have it over with.
“Yo, Lava!” It was Jimmy. He came through my door like a blast of clean air.
“You’re not lookin’ good, kid,” he said as he dumped his duffel bag on the floor. He said he’d had enough of Al and the pit. He said Bernie gave him a pain in the ass. He said he’d decided to put Franks behind him too.
Over the next few months he gave me a lot of grief about my diet and my drinking, made me start working out seriously and began lining me up for mud-wrestling matches.
I got back into things faster than I expected. I started feeling better physically. My self-confidence returned and with it, gradually, my self-respect. I regained my old fighting spirit, my desire to win. I did some promo bouts in Windsor and Toronto. I wrestled Detroit. I did tag-team events in Florida. In California and Chicago I perfected what has now become my victory dance.
Al’s pit and the Beeklands are now a distant memory. My reputation and my purses have grown along with my string of wins. Jimbo and I are a couple now, not in the way you might think. He’s with me on the road as my manager, cheering section, fitness trainer and life advisor. Lady Lava now gets top billing. I don’t have to beg for matches. Jimbo’s grooming me for the Vegas championships.
Tonight, July 10, I’m opening a new pit in Vancouver called Slurry’s. It’s a big venue with a huge purse because this is the premiere match. I go on in forty minutes. Jimmy’s with me in my dressing room, fussing like a mother hen. He’s worried on two counts. The date. It’s the second anniversary of Chico’s death. And my opponent. I’m up against—you got it—Wild Woman Wanda. I haven’t wrestled her since Al’s. She’s done well, too, with a string of wins almost as impressive as mine.
“How’s your head, kid?” Jimmy says.
“My head’s good,” I tell him. I’m fit, a couple of years older and lots smarter. I’ve left Chico behind me and I’m up for Wanda. “I’m going to wipe the pit with her,” I say.
“That’s my Lava,” Jimmy croons. We trade high fives.
The crowd at Slurry’s is yelling, “Mud! Mud! Mud!” as Wanda and I come out onto the floor. The emcee wears a tux and bowtie over a pair of black Spandex shorts. He introduces me and Wanda and tells the cheering crowd that the winner of this match will wrestle a mystery celeb later in the evening, free drinks for the first person to guess who. Someone yells, “Madonna?” Someone else says, “The Pope?”
Wanda makes a point of not looking at me, like I’m not worth the trouble. I use the time to check her out though. She still wears her trademark Tarzan suit, and although she’s maybe gained a pound or two, she looks strong and even tougher than I remember. Her hair has gone from bottle-red to purple.
The yelling is deafening as we step into our corners. The ring is big, eight by eight, and the mud is the color of milk chocolate, clean and good quality. I can tell immediately by the smooth consistency. We do the mud bath ritual. We go into our kneeling crouch. The starting whistle shrieks.
The old Wanda would have contacted immediately. Instead, she circles on her hands and knees, inviting me to come to her. I circle too. The crowd is urging us on. We make a few tentative grabs. Someone yells, “C’mon, ladies. Let’s see some dirt!” I choose that moment to launch myself at her. We slap and grapple. I’m on top and planning to stay there. I straddle her, grab her wrists, go straight in for the pin, but she bridges expertly and throws me off. I roll and scramble to my knees. She hurls herself at me.
We grapple again and roll. The mud is extra slippery and I’m having trouble holding her. She takes me by surprise by pivoting swiftly. She clamps my torso with her legs. It’s a powerful hold, and now she has me on my back. I’m stuck. I kick and twist, trying to build up enough momentum to rock her loose but can’t break her death grip. I know the clock is running out, because I can hear Jimmy yelling somewhere to my left. I give a last tremendous heave and wriggle free. The bell sounds.
Jimmy’s there at ringside, tossing me a towel. “That was close, Lava,” he says. “Watch the leg clamp. She’s strong.”
“She’s like a python,” I gasp.
The whistle blows for Round Two. This time Wanda doesn’t hesitate. She flies at me out of her crouch. The impact is terrific, but I’m prepared for it. We scramble, pushing with our legs and shoulders. She lands on me sideways and goes with me as I skid across the ring. Now she’s on my back, loading on her full body weight, forcing me facedown in the mud. She does her old trick of really mashing me in it. It’s up my nostrils and in my eyes.
“You haven’t learned much, Lava,” Wanda cackles in my ear. Oh yeah? I think. My mouth is too full of mud to say it. I throw my head back and crack her nose. She grunts.
This buys me the split second I need to squirm free. She scrambles after me, but I swivel around and get one arm around her neck, try to lock her in a cradle. She’s too experienced, sees it coming, knows it’s my favorite move, and kicks loose. More scrambling.
Now we’re head-to-head, arms interlocked, walking in circles on our knees, pushing hard against each other. This is where her weight is always an advantage. She has a lot more to push with. I feel her draw her head back, see her eyes, know she’s mad as heck about her nose. I slam my forearm into her throat.
“You try to butt me again, I’ll break your neck,” I spit into her face as the bell rings.
The ref has to pull us apart. I lean aside to towel off and rinse my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wanda staring hard at me. Her face is so covered in mud I can hardly make out her features. She’s the color of a Hershey bar all over, purple hair included. I know I look the same. I don’t like to think what’s going through her mind.
The whistle goes.
We’re both so exhausted we’re happy to buy time, circling on our knees. But we know the fans want action.We crash together with a wet slap. We grapple for maybe fifteen seconds, head-to-head again, until we topple sideways. I grab her around the middle. She’s as slippery as an eel. She breaks out, pivoting fast to come behind me. Her hands clasp together around my neck in what might pass as a chin lock but is an illegal choke hold. She has me tight against her and is really putting pressure on my airway. That’s her objective. I try to drive my chin down, claw to pry her loose.
She’s strong, and by this time I’m seriously needing oxygen. The more I struggle, the more she has me gasping like a landed fish. The ref sees me fading but does nothing because the crowd is loving it. Before my mind goes dark, I remember an August night two years ago when she had me on the wall. I do the only thing I can to break her grip. I put up one last big show of resistance, pulling away and dragging her behind me, then suddenly give way. It’s only for a second, but the feint is enough to unbalance her. I duck my head fast and roll forward, putting everything I have into flipping her right over me. She goes with my momentum, lands on her back with a satisfying splat that sends mud flying. Now I’m swarming all over her, putting my full weight into sinking the bitch. The crowd is going crazy. I hear Jimmy shouting, “Go, go, go for it, Lava!”
“NIGHT NIGHT, HIPPO!” I roar in Wanda’s face. I get the pin just as the bell clangs.
* * *
My victory dance says it all. I pump my arms and circle my fists. I twirl and stomp and punch the air and kick. The fans love it. They’re yelling and whistling and throwing twenty-dollar bills like confetti. The management keeps things at fever pitch by blasting the theme music from Rocky.
The emcee shouts a lot of hype about Slurry’s and the celebrity match that’ll be coming up later that night. Meantime, hit the bar, friends. Jimmy throws a towel over me. I do a final victory pirouette and head to the showers. No hosing down outside first, like at Al’s. The crowd applauds me as I go. On the way, a man pushes through to catch my attention. He’s short and bald with glasses. At first
I don’t recognize him. And then I do. It’s Stanley. “Outta the way, pal,” says Jimmy. “The lady’s got to take her beauty bath.”
“We’re old friends,” says Stanley, trailing me all the way to the dressing room door. I see he’s lost a lot of weight, but he’s still a mouth-breather and a little shit.
“Hey,” says Jimmy. “Get lost.”
“She’ll want to talk to me,” says Stanley. “I found something that belongs to her.”
An old fear falls over me, heavier and colder than a mudslide. “It’s okay, Jimbo,” I manage to say. “I know him.”
Jimmy gives me a doubtful look, senses something’s wrong. “You sure, kid?” He backs off slowly down the hall.
“What?” I whirl on Stanley, putting into it the venom of a spitting cobra.
He fakes a deeply hurt look. “Is that a way to greet an old acquaintance? I have a proposition I’m sure will interest you. You see, mother’s operation was successful. She’s a tough old bird. Taking a lot longer to die than I expected. I need cash. And I found Marcia’s video and all the news cuttings she saved about your husband’s death. So is it Sally Washington or Gina Lopez, or do you just go by Lady Lava now?” He grins. It’s more a leer. “She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she? That’s why you had to kill her.”
My brain reels. I feel like Wanda’s slammed me in the gut. “I had to kill her?” I croak. “It was you! You’re the one who threw her down the stairs.”
He shakes his head. “Not how the cops will see it. Not when they see the evidence against you. Now, I wonder if I can persuade you to do another spot of murder?”