Job Girl (Fight Card)

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Job Girl (Fight Card) Page 3

by Jack Tunney


  DECATUR, ILLINOIS, 1956

  “Hell!”

  Vicky pushed up from her knees and hobbled across the room. She dropped back down, legs close together in her tight black dress, and peered under the armoire.

  “Double Hell!”

  Back up to her feet. Actually, one foot as the other was in a pointy white pump with a tall, slender heel. Vicky peg-legged her way to the bed and slumped next to the nightstand. She rolled her eyes and picked up the phone.

  “Did you find it?”

  “Of course I did,” she lied. Her gaze darted to random spots in corners of the room, then to little piles of clothes and other shoes, then to shelves, then anywhere. “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

  “The kind who always loses things.” Martin’s voice was mocking wonder. “Shoes. Rasslin’ matches. Shoes before rasslin’ matches.”

  “All right, enough,” Vicky again looked everywhere in the tiny apartment. “I’ll be down in five.”

  “You better be. It starts in ten.”

  “Okay.”

  “I swear kid,” Martin clicked his tongue or something. “You’d lose your own child if—”

  “Shut up!” Vicky was standing, fist clenched in front of her chest. “I…” She shook her head.

  Martin’s voice quivered. “Vee, what’d I say?”

  Gripping the phone receiver, she shook her head and waved her hand out in front of her, eyes closed. “No, it’s…sorry, Marty. I really must find that shoe is all.”

  “But I thought you said you found it?”

  She dropped the phone receiver to the cradle, her rear end to the bed and her head into her hands.

  “He doesn’t know,” she spoke to herself out loud as she made fists in her hair. “Not his fault. Okay.”

  She hobbled the two steps to the closet, which was ajar, and opened it. The white pump, pointy with a tall slender heel, matching the one on her foot sat in its place on a spindly metal rack.

  She looked down at her feet. “I guess this was the one that was lost.”

  With both shoes on and the overloaded closet pushed closed, Vicky adjusted the white sash tied snug around her waist just above her hips. She cleared her throat and tilted her head to arrange her hair over the scar. She shrugged. “Time to be elegant and charming.”

  The phone rang.

  The apartment was tiny, but Vicky was still closer to the door than the phone. She grunted and waved at the latter and went to the former.

  But the third ring was more persuasive than the first two and, though she had doorknob in hand, Vicky strode the three steps to the nightstand and grabbed the receiver. “Marty, I’m on my way down, I swear.”

  “Hey, Queenie. Glad I caught you in. Whattsa matter? No social life?”

  Wayne.

  Her weight shifted over one hip as he giggled at his own greeting.

  “What do you want, Wayne?” she asked. “I have someplace to be.”

  “I know you do, Queenie. I know you do. You gotta be here.”

  “What do you mean? Where?” Hand on her hip. “The arena?”

  “Yeah. You knew I was runnin’ tonight.”

  “‘Course.” She turned up her palm. “But I’m not booked. Isn’t Mammoth out of town?”

  “Mammoth? Forget Mammoth.” His dismissive wave was in his voice. “I need you to come down tonight. Ellie Laredo, the cowgirl, is swingin’ back through town on her way to Chicago.”

  “Oh. C’mon, Wayne. Her again? Already?”

  “Actually…”

  “Besides,” Vicky waved him off as if he was in the little apartment with her. “I have a thing tonight. I really can’t.”

  “Queenie, I need you, sweetheart. Hear me out now.”

  She wrapped an arm around her white-sashed middle. “Yup.”

  “It ain’t the cowgirl. She was working with another girl up in Cedar Rapids and Sheboygan, said this girl would go over great here.”

  “Oh.” She rolled her eyes at the cracked ceiling. “And here I thought you were gonna say she would go great going under me.”

  Wayne was silent.

  “I’m not serious, Wayne.”

  “Good. You know why I love you, right? You make these girls look like a million. Plus, everybody—”

  “…Loves to see me get beat. I know.” She looked at her nails, all pretty and neat for the opening. “I just can’t do it.”

  “Come on, Queenie, I need ya. What do we always say? A worker works. Right?” His lips smacked through the line. “I give you double your usual payoff.”

  Vicky’s eyes widened and her breath caught, but she didn’t betray any of it to the phone. She bobbed her head side-to-side, weighing it, then found herself looking at the five-by-seven of herself and Martin on a flowery carousel. From there, her gaze found the leopard print costume and slingbacks heaped by the door.

  She blew out her caught breath, eyes closed.

  These shoes always end up hurting anyway.

  “What’s the angle?” she asked.

  ***

  It was a weak Irish whip, but Vicky ran as hard as she could into the corner and spun just in time to take the impact of the top turnbuckle right below her shoulders, generating a little bit of whiplash that reminded her she’d eaten the last turnbuckle she faced.

  “Ooof.” She went slack. Arms draped over the top ropes, head lolling, feet slid forward so only her heels were on the mat.

  Across the ring, all 300 pounds of Katy Barthedoor got up a crowd-powered head of steam and charged at Vicky with a baritone bellow.

  “Aaaaaahhhhh,” said the crowd beyond the smoke and lights.

  Vicky waited until the beast in the single-strapped black singlet was one step away before snapping straight up in the corner with her shoulders and arms rolled forward. They took most of the impact of Katy Barthedoor’s chest, breasts and wide, robust stomach.

  “Oooooohhhhh,” said the crowd.

  “Awwwwwwwww,” poured out of Vicky.

  “Yeah.” Katy Barthedoor stepped back away from Vicky and pumped her fist for the crowd.

  Vicky staggered out of the corner, noodle-armed and wobble-kneed, to the center of the ring, where she got up on her toes, held for just a moment, and flopped forward face-first to the canvas.

  Though her right shoulder took most of the impact.

  The crowd cheered when she hit the mat. Vicky smiled beneath the sweaty tendrils of red hair plastered over her face.

  A worker works.

  Katy Barthedoor bounded to the center of the ring with the referee circling in from the other side. The bulky beast in black dropped to her knees next to Vicky, curled her paws around the prone girl’s shoulder and hip and pulled her over onto her back.

  Vicky laid out like the catch of the day, belly up, one arm up over her head, the other at her side. Most of her hair plastered to her face; she blew deep, gasping breaths through puffed-out cheeks.

  The referee dropped into position as the black-clad monster pushed up to one knee and, pretty gently actually, put four rivet-head fingers on Vicky’s slick, shiny chest.

  The crowd kept time with the ref. “One…Two…Three.”

  “That’s it.” The referee got to his creaky knees and raised an arm toward the time keeper.

  The crowd, ready to burst with the bell, swallowed its cheers when Katy Barthedoor grabbed the ref’s wrist. “Five.” She held up that many breakfast-link fingers in the ref’s face. “I want five on her.”

  “C’mon now, Katy. That’s it.” The ref windmilled his arms. “The match is over. You won.”

  A meaty, sweaty paw snatched the ref’s wet collar. “Five.”

  “Okay, okay,” the man in the zebra stripes begged off, resuming the position. As did Katy, who returned three thick fingertips to Vicky’s breastbone.

  The referee and the crowd restarted the count.

  Vicky, who’d done nothing but pretend to suck wind while her opponent bullied the ref, pulled one leg off the mat between
four and five and gave a weak kick in mock protest of the pin, but her shoulders stayed flat on the mat.

  The bell rang, the crowd cheered and the ring announcer coughed to life. “The time of this one-fall – with a little extra – special attraction is five minutes, nine seconds. Your winner is The Beast from Baltimore, Katy Barthedoor.”

  ***

  Vicky was already in her angora sweater, pencil skirt and simple flats by the time Katy Barthedoor, in shower shoes, a white terrycloth robe and a towel turban, burst through the little corner of the locker room’s curtain. “Woo-wee. That was something.”

  “Think so?” Vicky smiled as she herded her hair into a ponytail destined to be released before she took her scar out in public. “I’m glad.”

  “Hell yeah.” Katy dropped her bulk to the bench opposite Vicky with a satisfied grunt. “That was fun. And I haven’t signed that many autographs after a match in, jeez, maybe ever.”

  “Really?” Vicky sat on her bench and crossed her legs like a pro. “That’s boss.” She nodded. “I thought we got some nice pops.”

  “Yeah, this place is hot. It’s a nice change for me.” Katy undid her towel topknot and shook the remaining water in her short, black mop of hair out all over the floor and Vicky’s shoes. “I’m usually the monster heel out there, you know?”

  Vicky mock rubbed her not-aching back. “I believe it.”

  “Yeah.” Katy smiled. “This was nice. Usually I’m the girl everybody hates. It’s fun, but this was something else again.” She flashed a grin and nodded toward the arena, where the semi-main tag team match was headed for its finish. “They must really hate you.”

  Vicky giggled and threw up an exaggerated shrug. “What can I say?”

  “Ha. I believe it.” Katy stood and dropped her towel to the bench.

  Vicky flinched at the sight of Katy’s nude body, which looked like a stack of whitewalls. She averted her gaze to the lockers beyond. It was several seconds before she realized the other girl was talking to her. “What?”

  “I said how are your feet?” Katy dropped her deodorant in her gym bag and stretched a pair of big panties into readiness to receive her. “I’ve worked girls who don’t wear boots before and never understand how you do it. I couldn’t.”

  “Oh.” Vicky flexed the ankle of her crossed leg. “That was pretty much an accident. I was already Tonda the Jungle Queen as Mammoth’s – that’s our champ around here – as Mammoth’s valet. He works a sort of caveman gimmick, which I know doesn’t really have anything to do with the jungle, but…”

  “Uh-huh.” Katy arranged herself into her bra, but kept her gaze on Vicky.

  “Anyway, the first couple of times I worked a match it was booked as a spur-of-the-moment thing where I’d go all wild on some girl paired with an opponent of Mammoth’s and try to take her out.” She wagged her crossed leg over her knee. “Nobody thought about getting me boots, including me. The first night I worked a match, we were about to start and I was like, oh crap, I’m out here in heels.”

  They shared a giggle, Vicky shrugged again. “But then we realized it went with the jungle gimmick, so…”

  Katy belted herself into a pair of wide-legged trousers. “And,” she nodded at Vicky’s wagging foot. “They don’t get ripped up on the mat?”

  Another shrug and a red-cheeked smirk. “I’m not really on them all that much during the match, if you catch my drift.”

  “Yeah.” Katy returned to her bench and dropped a pair of blocky black boots between her stocking feet. “Ellie told me you only do jobs.”

  “Yeah.” Vicky played with her ponytail and looked at the floor. “Well, that and valet…”

  “That’s crazy, I think.” Katy shoved her second foot into a boot and banged it into place on the dirty tiled floor. “You’ve got a great look. That scar. That really works.”

  “Ellie said the same thing.”

  “She’s right.” Katy sat forward, forearms on her thighs. The position put a little labor in her voice and breath. “You should see what else is out there.”

  “I’m only trained to bump.” Vicky slouched on her bench, hands on the wood to either side of her hips. “Never was much of an athlete anyway. The headlock I grabbed off the tie-up is pretty much my repertoire.” She put both legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. “I’m pretty much just a punch, kick and…” She flashed her nails. “…claw girl from there.”

  “Well, you bump like a dream.” Katy stood, grabbed her gym bag. “And there’s always people who can give you more training.”

  “I guess.” Vicky stared at her shoes. “Like I told Ellie though, I’m not sure.”

  Katy’s thumb and forefinger cradled Vicky’s chin. “In fact…” She raised Vicky’s chin until their eyes met. “What’re you doing with the rest of your night?”

  All the saliva drained from Vicky’s mouth and tongue, so she just sat there, blinking up at Katy’s smiling face.

  Wayne parted the curtain with a flourish. “How are my girl grapplers to-night?”

  If Wayne noticed Katy’s hand jerk away from Vicky’s chin, he didn’t let on. Vicky pulled her feet under the bench and straightened. “Hey, Wayne.” She coughed a little. “I think Katy was just leaving.” She made some sort of vague awkward motion at the bigger girl.

  “Yeah, time to shove off.” Katy smiled sidelong at Vicky, then turned to Wayne. “I’m gonna to try to make it to Pittsburgh tonight.” She held out her square, puffy hand. “So I’m gonna need the gas money you owe me.”

  “Right.” Wayne gave the girls the world’s most fake smile, which they returned. He dug his filmy hand into his rumpled slacks and pulled out the all-powerful roll of green. “Let’s see now.” He rifled through the bills and separated four Hamiltons from the bunch. “There you go, sweetheart. Thanks for popping my crowd.”

  “My pleasure.” Katy made the money disappear into her clothes somewhere. “But thank your little jungle cat there.” She looked Vicky over, the tip her tongue showing itself for a moment. “She was great.”

  “Yeah.” Wayne nodded too hard and from looked from Katy to Vicky. He crossed his arms. “She really was. Anyway…” He extended a hand to Katy. “Thanks again, Beast,” Wayne said. “Maybe we’ll see you down the line.”

  “Yeah.” Katy pumped Wayne’s hand, but looked at Vicky. “That’d be nice.”

  Vicky slumped with her head in her hands the second Katy was through the curtain. “Jeez…”

  Wayne scratched at his flakey head. “When I came in here, was she…?”

  “Yes.” Vicky’s gaze remained on the dirty tile. “Yes, she was.” She looked up at him. “I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life. Think of that.” She pushed to her feet. “You really know how to pick ’em for me, boy.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know.” Wayne put a hand to his hip and kept scratching. “Although, I guess if you look like a second-place fair hog, you’ll take what you can get.”

  Vicky showed him both palms. “Enough. Now you’re insulting her and me both.” She grabbed her bag from the bench. “Just give me my gas money and let me get out of here.”

  “Uh, not so fast.” Wayne backed toward the curtain. “Hang on a second.” He peeked through the curtain at the balance of the locker room beyond.

  “C’mon, Wayne.” Vicky rolled her eyes and shoulders like a four year old. “Don’t give me this crap. I did my part just like I always do. Now do your part.”

  His hand was around her wrist, gently. The strength of his gaze into her eyes stood her up straight. “Come to my office with me, Queenie, huh? I gotta talk to you.”

  FOURTH FALL

  Wayne’s office smelled like mildew and shower shoes.

  It wasn’t even really his office, or any office, so much as it was a desk with chair, another chair opposite it, a lamp and a filing cabinet with some carpet underneath to one side of a dim, dank shower room with busted pipes and cracked tile. Derelict shower heads, some just thin pipes with no heads, lined the
opposite wall. Most of the drains were clogged with brown.

  Wayne motioned Vicky into the chair, which was just as moist and dewy as the carpet. Vicky tried her best to have as little of her body as possible touch either.

  Wayne slid in behind the desk and sat back in his moldy chair. He extended four fingertips at Vicky. “First, Queenie, I gotta tell you. You were great out there tonight.”

  Her brows knit and she sat up a little straighter in her moist chair. “Thank you, Wayne.”

  “I mean it.” He shook his fingers at her. “That little swan dive you did at the end.” He recreated it with his arm. “Whoop, boom. Looked great and the crowd loved it.”

  Vicky’s hand wandered to her reddening cheek. “You noticed that?”

  “Course I did, course I did. And I’ll tell ya.” His next hand gesture was slower, forceful. “I didn’t know she was going to pull that five-count thing at the end. Did you?”

  Back straight, Vicky folded her hands over the knee of her crossed leg. “No.”

  “Well, you handled it like a pro.” He sat back and waved a palm at her. “A real pro. I got guys running here think their career was ruined they get pinned for eight, you know? I’d never hear the end of it. But you…” He extended the upturned palm her way.

  She nodded. “I thought it worked within the match.”

  “You see?” He nodded, thumb up. “That’s thinking. You think out there, Queenie. I ever tell you that?”

  “No.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You haven’t.”

  “Well, I should have. And, while I’m thinkin’ about it…” Wayne pushed up from the chair and dug the great, green roll from his pocket. “Here.” He pealed out two bills. “Is your payoff.” He flipped the money over and pulled out four more filmy bills and handed them across the desk.

  Vicky took the money between her fingertips and looked it over.

  Wayne retook his seat, grinning. “Like we talked about. Twice your usual payoff.”

  Vicky held four bills. Two Hamiltons were pressed against her thumb. On the other side, against the other four fingertips, were two Washingtons. She held the money up a bit. “What’s the extra two for?”

 

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