I was up far too early Monday morning. It was gray and drizzly, which was fine, because that matched my mood as I sped down Route 1 to Dover. At least I was beating rush hour. I wasn’t thrilled about the way my gym bag was bouncing along on my back, weighed down with my spare clothes and the vest my boss had forced on me.
I was even less thrilled with the Tazer on my belt and the gun under my arm, but least I was keeping it unloaded. For now.
I could live with the baton Dani had slipped me. That felt a little better than the other weapons I was carrying. More personal. More honorable, somehow. I’d managed to fit the sheath along the back of my belt where a shirt could hang over it, and I’d spent yesterday practicing quickly drawing it and snapping it open.
If the moment came that I did have to use it, I was pretty sure I could surprise the heck out of whatever villain needed his arm broken.
I tried to think about the job as I rode, and not what I was leaving behind. Gen and happiness. I wasn’t used to feeling the way I had the past few weeks. I hadn’t even spent Sunday punishing myself for eating on Saturday. Emily and Dani had insisted we take their guest room that night, and we’d spent Sunday doing couples stuff. Walking the boardwalk in Havre de Grace while the wind blew around us and rain threatened without ever falling. Window shopping. There’d been some minor talk about Christmas and what we might be doing then. Nothing definite.
But it made a man want to go out and buy some lights to decorate his boat with. Not that I ever entered the Belle in any contests, or joined any of those lit boat parades. Then again, maybe I would this year. Who knew what the next month might bring?
Once I got off the highway I dutifully followed the GPS directions over my helmet’s Bluetooth speaker to the parking lot of a chain hotel. I saw a big motor coach, two vans, and a long trailer all assembled, a few people milling around them.
I pulled up to a few stares. The roadies looked unimpressed; I could pick them out because they were either smoking or loading bags on the bus or the vans, or rolling boxes on to the trailer. Or both. It seemed like talent and support staff were just standing around.
I revved the engine a little unnecessarily as I guided It into a parking spot. I swung off the saddle carefully, adjusting my gym bag.
I saw one of the security guys I’d seen back in Wilmington. “Mr. Gogarty around?”
He laughed a little. “You think the owner comes out to see the company off? Maybe break a champagne bottle over the bus?”
“Well, if not him, who do I talk to? I’m hired help.”
He took a long look at me. “You new talent?”
“No. Private security for an employee.”
“Better talk to Ms. Stein,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “She’ll be on the bus, staying warm.”
“Thanks.”
No point in being timid about it. I headed right for the bus door, knocking as I climbed up the steps. As buses went, it was the luxurious kind. It had about half as many seats as it could have, and most of them were arranged in pairs around tables, and all had space to recline. It was about a third full regardless, mostly of hulking presences in winter jackets and sweatshirts. I felt distinctly out of place, unwanted, like I’d just intruded into some kind of sacred space.
The darkness inside it was a noted contrast even to the muted late fall morning light outside, so I squinted from the top step. “Ms Stein? I was told to speak with you.”
“You must be Dixon.” A form from the back of the bus disengaged from a group in conversation and moved up the center aisle.
“Yes ma’am,” I said, as Daphne the ring announcer came into focus. She was wearing a puffy red vest over a gray sweatshirt, jeans tucked into boots that almost reached her knee. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail underneath a brown leather flat cap that you usually saw on Irish or Scottish shepherds on PBS.
She gestured to the door and I backed out, then a few paces away from the door. She walked around the other side of the bus, getting us as much privacy as we were likely to find.
“I don’t want you on my bus,” she said flatly as soon as I joined her. It wasn’t a great place to start our working relationship. “The bus is for talent and creative and support only if they can’t fit in the damn vans.”
I was preparing my rebuttal when she held up a hand to stop me.
“However, Mr. Gogarty isn’t giving me much of a choice. He says you go wherever Grant goes.”
“That is my mandate, ma’am.”
“Do I look like a ma’am to you?”
“Absolutely,” I said, but with a smile, a little wattage in it, a little appreciation. “But I can stick with Ms. Stein if you prefer.”
“Hrm.” She cracked a smile. I was moving up in her estimation. “You got gear to stow?”
“Just this bag,” I said, patting it. “And what’s on my back. You should know that I am armed, under instructions from my employer.”
“With what?”
I unzipped my jacket and held the left side out, showing the pistol under my arm. Then I pulled back the right and showed the Taser.
“Don’t go shooting anyone at any of my shows.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Stein. I don’t like carrying a firearm, and I doubt very much that I’ll need to use it.”
“Good. What do you need from me?”
“Well, to be honest, the company’s been pretty slow giving me information. I’ve seen a copy of a threatening letter, and been sent a document that scraped together a lot of negative comments on various wrestling-related message boards and blogs. But I haven’t seen much more than that.”
“Well,” Daphne said, rolling her eyes a little, “if you ask me, there isn’t a whole lot to see. But there have been some calls, and Mr. Gogarty is worried.”
“Are there any recordings of these calls? Transcripts, at least?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“You think there’s anything behind these threats, then?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It does if you’re the straw boss while we’re on the road. I’m protecting Grant, but I’m answering to you.”
“I’ll say this much. Talent that gets fans angry is good, because anger is still engagement. But fans actually threatening that talent? Much less attacking it? That’d be bad as hell for business.”
I wasn’t entirely sure that was true; I could see how a foiled attack could generate some real coverage. But I wasn’t about to say that.
“I’ll do whatever I’ve got to do to make sure that doesn’t happen, Ms. Stein. I do have one question when it comes to gear storage, however.”
“And that is?”
“It might be convenient, or even necessary, for me to have my own means of transportation at my disposal.”
“So rent a car.”
“I have to be next to Grant most of the time. But might there be room on the trailer for a bike?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Show me.”
* * *
The roadies weren’t happy about it, but Daphne insisted they carve out space for It on their trailer. In truth it wasn’t even that hard to do; there was plenty of space and It wasn’t a large bike.
I wasn’t about to take their goodwill as a given, though. Once it was on, I picked out one of the crewmembers and waved him over. “Who’s the loadmaster?”
“Eh?”
“Who’s in charge of the stuff on the truck?”
He pointed to a man standing a few yards away. He wore an old Army field jacket, a tattered black watch hat, jeans, and Converse. I tapped him on the shoulder. A face with the tale of mileage and years turned around to me.
I stuck out my hand. “Jack Dixon. I’m the guy whose bike is taking up space on your truck.”
His grip was like iron. “Braddox,” he said. “Your bike is a pain in my ass.”
“I understand that. Which is why I’m offering considerations to make sure it stays in good shape.”
“What kind of considerations?”
“Twenty bucks for every day it has to take up space. A case of beer or a bottle of whiskey every time it has to get unloaded or loaded back up.”
“Thirty and one of each.”
I shook my head. “Pick one of those two.”
He frowned. “It’s gonna be in the trailer every damn day on this tour. Thirty bucks a day is gonna add up.”
“Not if I deal with my business before this is over.” In truth, compared to what I would make for being here, and being on the clock twelve, maybe sixteen hours a day, thirty dollars a day felt like I was getting off cheap.
“We’ll take the booze, then. Never goes amiss.”
“Alright. But if we wind up in a dry town I don’t want that held against me.”
He grinned. “Your phone’ll always tell you where the county line is.”
“True. Company doesn’t have any prohibitions against drinking on tour, do they?”
Braddox laughed. It sounded like rocks and marbles being rolled together in a dice cup, and it smelled like coffee and cigarette smoke being wafted in my face. “Son, any outfit tries to tell us not to drink is gonna be looking for new crew. So long as we can pack and unpack the truck, nobody cares what the fuck we drink. Or smoke. Or chew. Nobody in my crew snorts or shoots anything till tour’s over, though. Braddox’s rules. You’re wired, you’re fired.”
“Good to know.”
“How ‘bout a down payment?”
“Thought we agreed on booze.”
Braddox shrugged.
I slipped out my wallet and dropped three tens into his gnarled hand. They disappeared faster than an old hand when a Chief Petty Officer was putting together a shit detail.
I was pretty sure I could work with this Braddox. I just hoped they didn’t beat It to hell for being a foreign object on their truck.