Act I
“Four Days Down in the Valley”
-1-
New Mexico
Two weeks ago
The sun was beginning its long descent from the sky when he saw the car moving inward from the horizon. It was far enough away that when he held his hand up and closed one eye he could block the image of the car with his thumb. If the driver could see him it’d look like he was giving a skeptical thumbs up to the vehicle. A can of beans cooked over the fire in front of him. It wasn’t necessary to cook them that way, the microwave in the metal trailer behind him would have sufficed, but it was just something that he liked to do.
It helped pass the time.
The sky had turned a purple wash by the time the dark sedan came rolling, and crunching into the valley where he parked his pickup with the trailer in tow. The cliffs behind him cast long shadows, interrupted only by the crackling fire. The headlights from the car raced over him and he put a hand up momentarily to shield them from the glare. A second later the lights switched off and the engine died with a few clicks.
The driver’s side door opened and he watched a rather tall, black man step from the vehicle. He wore a dark, gruff beard on his face and his skin was lined with age marks. The two stared at each other for a moment. Neither saying anything as if they both wanted to listen to the night enveloping around them.
“Angelus?” the man asked, and it echoed in the valley.
He’d been leaning in the lawn chair with his back against the trailer and at the sound of the name he slunk forward letting his feet drop to the dirt in front of him.
“Come again?” he asked.
“Are you Angelus?” the man said and had started to take a step forward. “I was told I could find you out here.”
“By who?”
“Not important,” the man stated. “Are you him?”
“No one’s called me that in a long time,” he called over. “But I suggest that if the person who sent you knows me by that name you should probably tell them that I’m not interested and you should be on your way.”
“He said you might say that,” the man said and was approaching closer now. “I just need five minutes of your time. If you’re not interested, hey it’s no skin off my back, I’m only here to deliver an offer.”
“You selling magazines? Case you can’t see I don’t have a mailbox hanging off the pickup.”
“Not selling anything,” the man said and he had made it next to the fire. He glanced down at the can of beans roasting there and said, “I think your beans are a little well done.”
“Say your peace and be on your way,” he said. “I got work tonight.”
The man reached into the front pocket of his long jacket and pulled free a manilla folder. He stepped closer, kicking up dust with his boots, and passed it over. Anj opened it in his lap, skimming the contents of the folder, then he quickly shut it.
“This for real?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” the man replied. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“I don’t fight anymore,” Anj said. “Haven’t in a few months now.”
“Look,” the man said. “I don’t have any interest in who you are. What you do. Where you come from. I was told to drop that off. I was also told that if you’re interested you call the number on the header of the first sheet. They’ll send you a plane ticket to the post office box you keep in town.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“What are you are liberty to say?” Anj asked.
“Nothing,” the man replied with a smirk. “Enjoy the beans. I’m on my way now.”
Anj watched him go. The sedan’s engine fired up and again he was momentarily bathed in the white glare of the headlights. When the burning red brake lights of the car had reached the horizon again, he opened the folder on his lap.
Near the top of the page was a blue logo with sharp, exaggerated lines:
He shut the folder and goddamn it if he didn’t need a drink.
-2-
Indianapolis, Indiana
Now
The cab pulled to a stop outside of the Bankers Life Fieldhouse. Angelus climbed out and slung his navy shoulder bag across his body. He paid his fare and placed the headphone buds back in his ears. He looked around, and for the second time that day missed the warm sun of New Mexico.The sky was overcast here, the rain falling in steady currents and his hair was soaked before he reached the arena doors.
He was in full on shiver by the time the guy working security let him pass through the vestibule and into the service hallway. He went ignored by the throngs of people buzzing by on headset walkies, cell phones or walk-and-talk conversations. He followed the long corridor until he reached a double-door where someone had taped a handwritten sign that read: “Locker Room - Men”
“Excuse me, but you don’t have authorization to go in there,” a voice said to his right, his hand had barely touched the doorknob.
“Yeah?” he shot back. “Who said?”
“I do. If you’re looking for the rest of your crew they’re busy setting up the lights for the house show tonight.”
Anj looked over and saw a young man with horn rimmed glasses and hair cut close to the scalp. He wore a black polo with the XWF on the left breast pocket. In his hand was a clipboard with another company logo stamped on it.
“What are you the bosses son or something?” Anj asked.
“Not quite,” the other man said. “My name is Broyles. I’m in charge of personnel and talent relations.”
“I work here,” Anj said. “And not as part of the crew. Check your little clipboard.”
The young man looked down, and pulled a pen out from under the clip. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Angelus.”
“Oh, Mr. Angelus. Glad you could join us just four hours after we were expecting you.”
“Flight got delayed,” Anj said. “Now can I go set my stuff down and grab a hot shower? I don’t know if you can tell it’s raining outside.”
“Very well,” Broyles said. “Later, if you like I can introduce you to our staff. It’ll be beneficial to know who they are before your match on Saturday.”
“Whoa,” Anj said. “What do you mean match on Saturday? I just got here.”
“According to Mr. Carver,” Broyles said looking down at his clipboard again. “You’re to have a match with Hank Lane on Saturday Night Impact. Extreme Rules. That means if Mr. Lane wants to hit you in the face with a tire iron he can.”
Broyles said that last line flashing a wide, pearly white smile.
“Who in the hell is Hank Lane?”
“I suggest you do a little homework then, Mr. Angelus. We’re arranged to give you five minutes of interview time before the house show tonight. I suggest you use it wisely. Most newcomers don’t even get that much.”
With that Broyles was off as his attention was diverted to a passerby who had stopped to ask an equipment question. Anj looked back at the locker room door.
Match that Saturday?
Five minute interview?
Just what had he walked into?
-3-
New Mexico
One week ago
There was a bar in town called The Black Emerald. It wasn’t quite the swanky roadhouse environment that gets romanticized in the movies, but every now and then a good old fashioned brawl would break out on a Saturday night. When that happened Anj stepped in and made sure no one went through a window.
It was Wednesday though, and the bar was dead apart from a few regulars hanging their head over their poison of choice. There wasn’t even a house band that night. Anj stood at the end of the bar, sipping a cranberry juice, and absentmindedly listening to a top 40 hit drone on through the room.
He was just about to check his watch for a third time when Wade Daniels walked through the door and scanned the room. He spotted Anj, gave a head nod in recognition, and sauntered over. Wade gave him a clap on the shoulder as he took a seat at the corner of the bar next to where Anj was standing.
“Took you long enough,” Anj said.
“Fucking wife,” Wade said shaking his head. “I couldn’t get out the house without her trying to get me to run one of her goddam errands.”
“Look at Wade Daniels all domesticated.”
“Fuck you,” Wade said with a chuckle and flagged the bartender down. “You try telling Tina no. She ain’t having it.”
“What do you got for me?” Anj asked once the bartender left after dropping off Wade’s drink.
“It’s not much,” he said. “I pulled the favors like I told you I would, but this guy hasn’t been on anyone’s radar in years.”
“It’s what he’s best at,” Anj said.
Wade reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown folder, not too much unlike the one the man who had visited Anj had given him. Anj leaned over the bar and took a look at a few black and white snapshots of a man getting into a dark sedan and leaving a hotel.
“Sonuvabitch hasn’t changed,” Anj muttered. “Looks almost exactly the same outside of the twenty pounds he’s packed on.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Where were these taken?” Anj asked.
“Tallahassee.”
Anj nodded, still absorbing the photos as Wade gathered them up and placed them back in the folder.
“I’m going to give you some friendly advice,” Wade said. “I know you’re not going to want it or listen to it, but me saying it I feel like at least I can say, hey I did my best to stop Anj from doing anything stupid. My advice? You got the confirmation you wanted. Cobb is alive. He’s out there. Now let it rest. It’s over. Move on.”
“C’mon Wade,” Anj said. “You know it’s not over for me.”
“I know,” Wade said and gave a sad smile as he drained his glass. “Just one more piece of advice. You do this, you open up the door to this rabbit hole, there is no going back. I don’t know what you intend to do, and I don’t want to know, but I know it ain’t good.”
“Consider your advice under review,” Anj said.
“Ah, don’t bullshit me. I know you made up your mind on this. All I’m saying is, at the very least sleep on it. Heck, sleep a couple nights on it. There, now I’ve done my part as your friend. I’ve absolved myself of guilt.”
Anj gave Wade a pat on his back.
“It’s time for me to get out of here anyway,” Anj said. “This was just a temporary stop in the line.”
“Where you thinking about going?”
“Don’t know yet, but I did get a pretty lucrative job offer not too long ago. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately.”
“Doing what?” Wade asked. “Security? Bouncing?”
Anj flexed his hand opened, then closed, cracking the knuckles.
“Not quite,” he said. “But it’ll let me use my hands again.”
-4-
Indianapolis, Indiana
Now
He returned to his locker drenched in sweat after running the stairs of the arena. It felt good to get a burn going in his lungs and his heart was hammering away in his chest. As he was wiping the sweat away with a towel, he felt someone hovering behind him and his first instinct was that it was Broyles back again to be the little pill that he seemed to enjoy being. Instead, it was a slender man with a long, angular face.
He was looking Anj over skeptically.
“Help you?” Anj asked.
“You one of the newbies? Primetime?”
Anj laughed.
“Do I look pompous enough to call myself that? I’m Angelus, but everyone calls me Anj for short.”
The man looked relieved and extended a hand.
“Thank god,” he said. “I can’t handle any more of these arrogant asshats throwing their weight around. I’m Steve Sayors by the way.”
“Don’t blame ya,” Anj said. “And nice to meet you.”
“I hate to be a pain,” Steve said, “but we’re scheduled to tape a promo before the house show kicks off tonight. We got five minutes and if we go now we can knock it out and I can have you back here in no time.”
“I’ve been thinking about this while I was on my run.”
“Fantastic, and don’t worry, the bar is set low. We had a rookie up from the D league who puked on live TV.”
“Comforting,” Anj said.
“Normally I’d say hit the showers before we shoot, but you look jacked up so I say let’s just go now. Work for you?”
“Let’s do it.”
Anj followed Steve out of the locker room and over to where the backstage area was for the show. There was a big Saturday Night Impact sign hanging in front of long black curtains. Steve showed him where to stand and where the camera man was going to be setup.
“We’re red lighting in three-seconds,” said Steve. “Here we go.”
Anj took a hard swallow.
“Good evening folks!” Steve said into the mic. “Hope you’re enjoying the action tonight at ringside. Alongside me right now is one of the many new XWF newcomers, he calls himself Angelus and he’s just days away from his first match against Hank Lane.”
Steve turned toward him and pointed the mic in direction.
“Angelus, first welcome aboard here to the XWF and do you care to share any thoughts on your match this Saturday with Hank Lane?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Hank Lane wants to conduct little interviews like he’s some hotshot or something and then he goes on to rant about how I’m going to be in for the match of my life. All I have to say in response is this: can we get a birth certificate on this guy? I’m pretty sure he’s a card carrying AARP member and I’ll be surprised as anyone if he doesn’t have a stroke during our match.”
“Fair points,” Steve said with a laugh, “but in all fairness Hank Lane has shown us experience in the ring before. He’s got a mean streak. And no offense to you, rook, but we haven’t seen you out there yet. Would it be fair to say you should be concerned?”
“Concerned about what? A guy with a Tom Selleck mustache who should be in the twilight of his career calling me out? Hell, this simpleton was waxing poetic about fighting Ricky Steamboat! We’ll be lucky if he makes it to Saturday without breaking a hip getting out of bed.”
“You gotta love a competitor with confidence and Angelus you seem to have plenty to go around. I know these fans love that. Before I let you go, do you have anything else to say to Hank? We know he’s going to be watching this.”
“Let me say this,” Anj started, taking the microphone from Steve. “Hank, it seems that on Saturday we’ll find ourselves in a match together. I want you to bring everything you got. Fluff the mullet up. Toss on the jean jacket. Put Whitesnake on in the tape deck of your Thunderbird and bring your walker if you need it. Because if there’s one thing you need to know about me it’s that I’m a man of great discipline and come Saturday you’ll find out why I’m the whole damn show!
The red light in the camera went out.
“We got it,” Steve said. “Great stuff.”
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