by James Swain
Having nothing better to do, he timed the fire trucks. They reached the condo in six minutes flat. That was why people loved firemen. Because they knew how to hurry.
Three trucks and a pair of ambulances crowded the front entrance. The night guard came outside, followed by a half dozen cops who'd been hiding in a back room.
He stared at the condo's glass walls, trying to guess which unit Brandi occupied. And wondered why a woman who had everything money could buy would get involved in something like this. It was one more piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.
He thought he saw her looking down from the top floor. The penthouse. He dialed her number.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Brandi?”
“Mr. Valentine?”
“Nice try,” he said.
32
The Man in the
Purple Suit
The Armory's parking lot was full, the faithful braving the weather to drink beer and watch wrestling. Valentine squeezed the Mercedes between two sorry-looking pickup trucks. It was nine-ten. Kat went on in twenty minutes.
He sat for a while and felt the car grow cold. The question was, would Kat help him? Although he wasn't well versed in the ways of modern love, he knew that an invitation from a woman was a big thing, and Kat had asked him to come see her wrestle. She liked him. If he played his cards right, he was sure he could end up sleeping on her couch tonight.
The ticket taker would not take his money. “Show started an hour ago,” he said. “Have fun.”
Valentine went inside and bought a bucket of popcorn. The Armory had always been a bastion of male aggression, and he was having trouble imagining Kat doing battle within its walls. Pushing open the double doors, he was greeted by a roar.
The auditorium was packed, the mostly male audience yelling itself hoarse. Up in the ring, a man in orange tights was being pinned by a cartoon character wearing a hockey mask. Valentine found a vacant seat in the last row and fell into it, his feet slipping on spilled beer.
The wrestlers were both giants. Orange tights' girlfriend, a slinky miss in a red gown, entered the ring holding a folding chair. Soon her boyfriend's opponent was lying facedown on the canvas. The crowd stomped its feet and cheered.
Hockey mask staggered to his feet. Orange tights offered his hand, being a gentleman about the whole thing. The blue-haired woman sitting beside Valentine did not approve.
“Cold-cock the motherfucker,” she screamed.
Hockey mask obliged and threw a punch at his opponent, missing by a country mile. Popcorn flew into the ring. He tried again, and got a little closer. More popcorn. The third time, it almost looked real, and a collective cheer filled the auditorium.
Somehow, the contest ended with everyone being friends. If someone had told Valentine the script had been written by a ten-year-old kid, he wouldn't have been surprised.
The old woman with the dirty mouth pulled out a program. Valentine said, “Who's on next?”
“Vixen!”
“She good?”
“As mean as a junkyard dog.”
“Who's she fighting?”
“A big-titted slut named Judo Queen. Doesn't stand a chance.”
“Who said Judo Queen's a slut?”
The old woman drew back in her seat. “No offense, mister. You related or something?”
Valentine started to reply, then heard cheers. Kat was coming down an aisle on the opposite side of the auditorium. She slipped through the ropes and began dancing around. She looked great, her mane of hair flowing seductively down her back, her lips painted red. The sacred crane was nowhere to be seen. Atta girl, he thought.
Vixen came next, drawing boos. She was accompanied by her manager, a massive guy wearing a purple suit. He looked like a grape, and Valentine laughed so hard it made his stomach hurt. By the time Vixen reached the ring, other people in the crowd were laughing as well.
“What's so funny?” the old woman asked.
“The guy in the purple suit.”
“Fits pretty good, if you ask me.”
Vixen disrobed. About five-ten, done up in leather, a cat-o'-nine-tails strapped to her waist. Not a girl you'd bring home to Mom. She strutted around the ring, getting the crowd to shout her name. Vix-en! Vix-en!
The referee slipped through the ropes. Right away, Valentine saw a problem. He was about five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet. A snack for either one of these ladies. And Vixen had trouble written all over her.
A bell rang and the women started to tango. There was lots of pushing and foot stomping but no real fighting until Vixen grabbed Kat's hair and started yanking. Kat let out a yell, then put Vixen down on the canvas with a perfectly executed hip throw.
“Kick her in the face!” the old woman yelled.
“You're all heart,” Valentine said.
Vixen got up slowly, mouthing off to Kat. They circled one another, the distance between them growing smaller. Vixen got her hands in Kat's hair, and Kat emitted a scream that sounded real.
The crowd stood. Valentine found himself standing with them. The old woman strode past him into the aisle.
“Make that bitch pay, Vixen. Make her pay!”
Kat and Vixen rolled around, kicking and screaming until Kat ended up on top, holding Vixen in a hammerlock. Valentine found himself yelling his head off. As the midget referee started to count Vixen out, he joined him.
“Three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .”
Then all hell broke loose.
Vixen's manager jumped into the ring. Grabbing Kat by the hair, he yanked her up, allowing Vixen to escape. He jerked Kat up and down. Then Vixen started slapping her face.
Kat was crying. Blood appeared beneath her nostril. Valentine ran down the aisle toward the ring. As he slipped through the ropes, the referee ran over.
“You're not allowed up here,” the referee said.
“So what's the grape doing?”
“He's her manager.”
“Well I'm Judo Queen's manager. Feel better?”
“It's just a job,” the referee said defensively.
“Yeah, and you stink at it.”
Valentine walked up to Vixen's manager and socked him on the jaw. The grape hit the canvas, dropping Kat. Valentine tried to break her fall, then heard a scream. Vixen landed on his back and dug her long fingernails into his arms.
He wasn't keen on fighting women but didn't see that he had much choice. Shifting his weight, he flipped her over his back. She hit the canvas like a bag of cement.
He helped Kat to her feet. The midget referee raised her arm into the air. The crowd was close to rioting they were having such a good time.
“How's your nose?” he shouted over the din.
“It's fine,” she said. “Haven't you ever seen food dye before?”
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“You are one flaming asshole,” she informed him.
As it turned out, Kat and Vixen—whose real name was Gladys LaFong—were as tight as sisters. They had daughters in middle school together, and liked to share vegetarian recipes they found on the Internet. Gladys had been in the wrestling racket for five years. The grape, her husband, was Donny LaFong, the same Donny LaFong who'd played football for the Jets and fumbled the ball on a crucial play in the Super Bowl, putting him in the Hall of Shame with many other sports notables. In person, he was a hell of a nice guy, as Valentine found out when he tried to apologize.
“No problemo,” Donny said, pressing an ice pack to his swollen jaw. “They don't call it the hurt business for nothing.”
“I really feel bad,” Valentine said, glancing over to the corner of the dressing room where Kat and Gladys were huddled. “I really messed your act up, huh?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Donny said, picking up a can of Bud with his free hand. “You want a cold one?”
“No, thanks. Is there someone I could call, explain what happened?”
“That's not how it w
orks in the rassling business,” Donny explained.
“What do you mean?”
Donny killed his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They call you. The promoters. They pull the strings. It's their show, and we're the hired clowns.”
“I'm really sorry,” Valentine said for the fifth time.
“Don't worry about it.”
Valentine put his hand on the big man's shoulder. “I was in the end zone when you ran that fumble in for a touchdown against Miami in the playoffs.”
Donny flashed him his best aw-shucks smile.
“Thanks for remembering,” he said.
Gladys and Kat were not nearly as forgiving. They sat with Donny's purple jacket spread between them, trying to stitch up the popped shoulders. Neither woman looked up when he came over. Valentine cleared his throat. “Hey, look, if there's any way I can repair what I did . . . please tell me.”
Gladys refused to acknowledge him. Without makeup she was a plain-looking, freckle-faced woman in her late thirties with an honest face and a soft Virginia twang. Kat said, “No, Tony, there isn't anything you can do.”
“Maybe I could call the promoter, explain what happened.”
Kat pulled him out of the dressing room into the tunnel. The night's final match was wrapping up, and the crowd's cheers rocked the building. Pinching his arm, she said, “Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused? We're not allowed to improvise, Tony, it's in our goddamned contracts.”
He swallowed hard. “I thought you were getting hurt. The way Donny was bouncing you around. I don't know . . . I just had to do something. I'm really sorry.”
“Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because it's a pattern with you. Remember the night we met? You climbed into the ring and knocked me down. Okay, maybe I deserved it, but it still didn't make it right. You can't just go jumping into things and beat people up.”
He started to reply, then stopped. He'd been knocking people down for most of his life, and had a sneaking suspicion that it was too late for him to stop.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“I think you've run out of those.”
He kicked at the floor. “I need a favor.”
She crossed her arms. “What's that?”
“Can I sleep on your couch tonight?”
Her hand slapped his face, the sound as loud as a popping balloon. He saw tears in her eyes. Storming into the dressing room, she slammed the door behind her.
Valentine wiped freshly fallen snow off the Mercedes' windshield before climbing in. Sticking the key in the ignition, he played with the radio and finally found Sinatra singing “That's Life” on a jazz show on the public station. He jacked up the volume. The song ended sooner than he would have hoped.
Sinatra had a way of making the world a lot clearer, and it occurred to Valentine that he'd run out of options. Taking out his cell phone, he turned the power on. He needed to call a couple of attorneys and get one to take his case. With an attorney's help, he'd work out his story, then call Davis and negotiate his surrender. He was going to have to go on the defensive, his life about to become a living hell. He decided to call Mabel, desperately needing a friendly voice to talk to.
“Oh, Tony, I'm so glad it's you,” his neighbor said.
“What's wrong?”
“I've got a woman named Lin Lin on the other line.”
“Is this about Yun?”
“Yes. Three thugs abducted him. The thugs told Lin Lin to get ahold of you.”
Valentine leaned his forehead on the cold steering wheel. “Did she say where they were taking him?”
“To a dojo, whatever that is. They told Lin Lin if she calls the police, they'll kill him.”
“Tell Lin Lin I'm going to the dojo right now.”
Mabel put him on hold. The parking lot was a zoo, with everyone trying to leave at once. Throwing the Mercedes into reverse, he backed out of the space, then threw the car into drive. With his hand stuck against the horn, he made his way to the front of the line. His neighbor returned.
“This has been an awful day,” she said.
“What's wrong?”
“Cujo attacked me.”
“You got the dog?”
“Yes. While I was fixing dinner, he tried to take a pork chop out of my hand. I hit him with a skillet right in the kisser and he started going at my ankles so I jumped up on the table so he couldn't get at me.”
“Where are you now?”
“I'm still standing on the table.”
“Why didn't you call the cops?”
“I did. There's a disturbance at the Seminole Indian reservation in Tampa. The operator said I would have to wait.”
“Maybe you should call a neighbor,” he suggested.
“Aren't you Mr. Helpful,” she said, and hung up.
33
The Death of
Tony Valentine
The stairwell groaned beneath Valentine's size twelves. The building that housed Yun's dojo had been ancient when he'd first started taking classes. At the second floor landing he stopped. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and poked his head in. The dojo was a large, high-ceilinged room with padded walls. A naked bulb shone over the locker room door.
Only bare feet were meant to walk on the dojo's parquet floors, and he left his shoes by the door. Crossing the dojo, he drew the .38 from his pocket. Opening the locker room door, he stuck his head in.
The room was long and narrow, with lockers on both walls and showers in back. His teacher sat bound to a chair. The Mollos stood behind him. Big Tony, his right hand in a cast, was holding a Louisville slugger. Seeing Valentine, he took a cut at Yun's head. His teacher ducked, the baseball bat whistling past his skull. Joey, his face swathed in white tape, called, “Strike one!” Little Tony pranced around like a demented court jester.
Valentine's heart started to race. “Is this necessary?”
“Top of the ninth, two out, tying run at third base,” Joey said, egging his brother on. “Count on the batter is no balls, one strike.”
“This is for breaking my hand,” Big Tony said. He cocked the bat like Joe Morgan of the Cincinnati Reds, flapping his right arm as the pitcher started to throw the ball, his muscles twitching in anticipation.
“Don't do it,” Valentine said.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't.”
“I won't pay you.”
That got Big Tony's attention. He lowered the bat. For the first time, Valentine became aware of Yun's breathing. It was abbreviated, his teacher slowing his heart beat in an attempt to stay calm.
“You brought the money?”
“Don't have it,” Valentine said.
“Then how you gonna pay us?”
He took the Mercedes keys from his pocket, and let them dangle from his forefinger. “You can have my car.”
Big Tony eyed the logo. “You got a Mercedes?”
“SLK 600 coupe.”
“How many miles?”
“Sixteen thousand.”
“Leather interior?”
“No, plastic. Of course it's got a leather interior. You ever driven one?” Big Tony shook his head. “It's almost as nice as getting laid.”
“Put the gun in one of the lockers.”
“Do we have a deal?”
Big Tony nodded.
“I didn't hear you,” Valentine said.
“We have a deal,” Big Tony said.
Valentine put the .38 in a locker and shut the steel door. He'd been tapping into Neanderthals' wavelengths for years, and knew how the Mollos thought. Before anything else, they wanted their money. He watched Big Tony untie Yun.
Yun joined Valentine by the door. Valentine tossed the keys across the room. Big Tony plucked them out of the air. He showed the keys to his brothers. And then he kissed them.
“What about the title?” Big Tony asked.
“I'll send it to you,” Valentine said.
<
br /> The Mollos followed them out of the locker room, with Little Tony doing a cartwheel as he came through the door. Joey now had the bat and pointed it in Yun's face.
“You're one lucky Chinaman,” Joey said.
Laughing, they disappeared into the stairwell. Valentine touched Yun's arm. “You okay?”
Yun rubbed his arm where it had been tied. “Whose car you give them?”
“Archie Tanner's.”
“Oh, wow,” his teacher said.
Blaring rap music disrupted their conversation. They went to the dojo's wall of windows and stared down. The Mollos had piled into the Mercedes and were hooting and hollering like teenagers. The car rocked up and down like a carnival ride.
“He got insurance?” his teacher asked.
“Of course he's—”
Valentine's eyes shifted to the other end of Ashton. Parked at the corner was a white van, its engine running. The driver's window came down. An arm emerged, holding what looked like a transistor radio.
The Mercedes pulled onto the street. Sitting in back, Little Tony had lit a joint. Big Tony turned, poised to take it from him. And that was the image that remained in Valentine's head when the car exploded.
A brilliant white flash followed, momentarily blinding him. His knees buckled. When he looked down at the street again, the Mercedes was in a thousand pieces. And the white van was gone.
Ashton resembled a war zone. Little Tony lay on the sidewalk and was now much littler, the lower half of his body gone. Joey lay beside him, his torso consumed by flames. Big Tony lay nearby, his head the color of a roasted chestnut. He was still breathing. Valentine took off his overcoat, and slipped it underneath Big Tony's head. Then he died, and Valentine put his overcoat back on.
“You didn't tell me somebody was trying to kill you,” Yun said.
“It's been that kind of week.”
“Turned out okay,” his teacher said.
“What do you mean?”
“This was your car. Cops come, I tell them one of these guys was you. Let them figure out which one. You dead, at least for a little while. That gives you advantage.”