The girl got up without response and strolled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
"Your daughter?" Frank asked.
Strong gave him a playful elbow to the ribs. "Better not be."
Frank looked at him, uncertain. "I don't get it."
"I've known her mother for years." Strong moved to the bureau and pulled a joint out of a large gym bag and lit it. "Shit, I've known the kid since she was five or six. I've been working Indianapolis since Christ was a corporal. I used to fuck the mother but she ain't what she used to be. But see, the beauty part is, to these fucking hicks I'm like a big deal – a god, almost, you know? – big fucking celebrity. Being with me, near me – whatever – is like the closest any of them every get to the big time themselves, understand? So now, whenever I'm in town these days I have her drop the kid off for me. Like mother like daughter. She's a hot little piece, huh?"
Frank couldn't believe what he was hearing. "We're talking about a little girl, for Christ's sake."
"Just turned twelve." He chuckled and took a hard hit on the joint. "Hey, old enough to bleed, old enough to breed, baby."
"Are you serious?"
Strong looked confused. "What's the problem, Frank? What… you want some too?"
"You stay the hell away from her," Frank said, moving toward the bathroom. Before he reached the door, it opened and the girl poked her head out. "Honey, come on with me. I'll take you down to the lobby and we can call somebody."
She looked at Strong. "What the fuck's his problem?"
Stunned, Frank froze in mid-step. Strong flashed her an angry look and she disappeared back behind the bathroom door.
"You're not gonna touch that kid," Frank told him.
"Oh really?" Strong laughed. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to?"
It was a good question. Frank studied him without bothering to hide the disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I don't have to take this shit." Strong stabbed a finger at the air between them. "I'm gonna talk to Charlie about this."
"Go right ahead. Charlie works for me."
"That's not how I heard it."
"Then you heard it wrong."
"Here's what's gonna happen, slick." Strong butted the joint in an ashtray and put his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out like Frank had seen him do on television dozens of times. "You either shut the fuck up, mind your business and go wait for me in the car, or you can pay me my money and cart my ass back to the airport right now."
Frank saw himself peeling off the cash from the roll in his pocket, throwing it at the bastard and telling him to drive himself.
In reality, all he did was stand and stare.
"I heard the shot's a sell out. What you got – fifty, fifty-five grand in gate receipts? How much of that goes in your pocket?" Strong smiled. "You wanna go tell five thousand screaming fans why the guy they came to see – the guy they paid to see – ain't there? Face it, without me you got a card that couldn't draw flies, asshole."
Their eyes remained locked for what seemed an eternity.
"I'll be in the bar," Frank heard himself say, wishing it was someone else's voice instead of his own. "Hurry up."
Despite the two drinks he'd had at the hotel, Frank still couldn't relax, and the drive to the venue turned out to be the longest thirty minutes of his life. Frank tried to distract himself by concentrating on the seemingly endless expanse of utterly flat land that surrounded them, but the foreign surroundings only served to heighten his discomfort.
He thought back to the hotel cocktail lounge. A flashy bar and a cluster of tables separated by a small dance floor and a riser on which live bands apparently played on occasion. Quiet, nearly empty, a young bartender worked busily, wiping down an already pristine counter. The only light came from the mirrored bar and candles encased in glass fixtures on each table, yet an overall element of darkness prevailed. Like wandering into a cave of sorts, Frank had thought. And upon seeing the patrons – the early birds, who by their very presence interrupted the sanctity of such a setting – he understood why. Those quiet moments before a bar is invaded with noise and too many people and everything that turns it from a sanctuary to just one more thing to run from was lost. The aging salesman slumped at the bar and staring down at his drink through already bloodshot eyes, suit wrinkled, body worn, doing time. The bored housewife with a new hairdo, pretending to be staying at the hotel, positioned at a table clearly visible to all who enter, her best and lowest-cut dress bathed in flickering candlelight, her smile coy but not too, for fear she might be ignored altogether. And Frank, just another customer at The Stereotype Bar and Grill, he'd thought. Yet sometimes such things were true. Fear, however played out or displayed, was as real as anything else.
They arrived at dusk, and drove onto the school grounds, past the football field. The ring had been assembled on the fifty-yard line and was surrounded by a sea of fans in folding chairs and crowded onto portable bleachers. The bright stadium lights cut through the haze of increasing darkness, casting a surreal glow over the entire area.
Frank drove behind the main school building and parked just outside the rear entrance to the locker room, where they were greeted and escorted inside by Charlie and Vincent.
"We were beginning to get nervous," Charlie admitted as he shook Strong's hand.
"All my fault," he said graciously. "I was running late."
"Welcome to the ECPWL," Vincent smiled.
"I appreciate you having me, brother."
"I need a favor, Nick," Charlie told him. "There's a group of kids here from some don't-drink-and-drive organization that wanted to know if you could make some time for them after the show. Just a couple pictures and autographs – nothing heavy."
Strong beamed. "Be happy to, man." He looked at Frank and winked. "Hell, I love kids."
"Terrific." Charlie took him by the elbow and led him off to meet Luther and some of the other boys. Vincent noticed something wrong in Frank's demeanor and remained behind.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Everything's fine," Frank said irritably.
"Then why do you look like you've got a bug the size of my fist jammed up your ass?"
"Don't I always look like that?"
Vincent glanced around, lowered his voice. "Seriously, what's the matter?"
"How long until we roll?"
Vincent dismissed Frank's reaction with a shrug and checked his watch. "About five minutes."
"I'm doing Time tonight. I'll see you at ringside."
Because there was a distance of more than fifty yards from the locker room to the ring, a fleet of golf carts staffed with drivers from Benny's security crew had been parked outside the school building to shuttle the participants back and forth. Frank declined a ride and took the long walk across the edge of the field and down the main aisle, feeling the eyes of thousands in attendance upon him. Several people waved banners and signs; others shouted to him, asking if Nick Strong had arrived yet and when the show was going to begin.
Frank moved across the grassy field to the table at ringside and took his seat in front of the bell and hammer he used to signal the beginning and end of each match. He leaned back a bit in his chair and scanned the crowd, unable to resist the lure of the electricity in the air, and wondered if this was the way he'd live his life forever.
In the opening bout, The Puma pinned Diablo Gonzalez as usual. A few matches later, the Mongolian Crusher nearly caused a riot when he was disqualified for hitting Private Sean Powers with a chair and splitting his head wide open. Delta Diamond whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a close but successful defense of her title, and Luther Jefferson followed suit, disposing of The Lariat in typical dramatic fashion.