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.
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 works 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.”
