He recognized Doak Brookings’ voice: “Welcome back, wrestling fans. Let’s head up to the ring and the very handsome Bill Fick.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a one-fall contest with a thirty-minute time limit. In this corner, from Sarasota, Florida, at two hundred thirty-six pounds, Steve ‘Doc’ Russell.”
Russell drew a smattering of cheers that was drowned out by an avalanche of boos and catcalls accorded Delaney’s introduction. The bell rang, and Brookings began his call of the match. No mention of the fate of Delaney’s last adversary.
Russell and Delaney circled the ring and locked up. For Brewer it was more of the same, like an oft-repeated bedtime story, except he had lost the renewable surprise of childhood.
Delaney forced Russell into the ropes. Referee Tom Scruggs commanded the break, but even as Delaney complied, he provoked the ire of the ringside fans with a humiliating bitch slap across Russell’s face.
Russell stomped around like a kid having a tantrum.
“No doubt this is exactly the reaction Delaney wanted,” Brookings said, “trying to goad Russell into a mistake.”
Something was visibly diverting the arena crowd’s attention, turning heads. The high-angle camera pivoted awkwardly to capture a man rushing the ring, his identity concealed by a hood.
What a circus, Brewer thought. But his mild contempt for the latest masked marvel evaporated; something about the new arrival’s odd combination of headsman’s hood and civilian clothes, the way he moved, sent shallow fire along his skin. The last time he had flashed this much adrenaline had been overseas, that night when Bud had waded into an enemy emplacement armed with only an entrenching tool, ignoring the Germans’ screams and upraised hands. Then as now, Brewer had felt spellbound, ambivalent. And as there had been no stopping Bud then, there would be no stopping him now.
Brookings’ voice reflected excitement bordering on panic as he called the action, some of which eluded the camera.
“The intruder is entering the ring and charging Delaney. Oh, man! A kick to... uh, let’s say the lower abdomen!”
Delaney crumpled to the mat in obvious agony. From under his jacket, the interloper produced an iron pipe.
“Good Lord! He’s beating Delaney to a pulp!”
At this point, Doc Russell, moments ago Delaney’s bitter adversary, broke kayfabe and came to his aid. An almost casual elbow and swipe of the bloodied pipe sent him to the canvas too.
“Here comes IWL President Smiley Rose, and he’s frantically waving in the reinforcements! There’s Iron Mike Bailey! Fred McKenzie! Here come the Bavarian Storm Troopers! This is... what the hell is going on here? Excuse me for that, folks, but one by one, they have all fallen victim to this maniac and his weapon. The ring is littered with fallen gladiators. Now the assailant is turning his attention to Smiley Rose! Rose isn’t a wrestler, so why would... the masked man has dropped the pipe and grabbed a pleading Smiley Rose in a front facelock, delivering a devastating spinning neck-breaker to the IWL president! Oh, no! Rose is lying on the mat, his head turned at an impossible angle, motionless. The masked man sits down in mid ring amidst the carnage and — what? Is he crying?
“We’d better go to a commercial. We’ll be right back — I think.”
Girl Feeding Birds
by Elizabeth Zelvin
Elizabeth Zelvin is a poet, short-story writer, mystery novelist, and psychotherapist. Her three mystery novels feature series character Bruce Koehler, a recovering alcoholic; the most recent entry in that series, Death Will Extend Your Vacation, was published by Five Star Press in 2012. For her short fiction, the New York author has received three Agatha Award nominations and a Derringer nomination from the Short Mystery Fiction Society. She joins us this month with a nonseries tale.
I stumbled up the broad steps of the Metropolitan Museum six paces behind Cousin Ashley. My arms ached with the weight of the tower of books and files she’d loaded me up with. Every time I bumped another step upward, the whole pile threatened to escape from under my clamped chin and slide away. I nudged one knee up and braced my arms to grip the load more firmly. I winced as something sharp nicked my arm and added paper cuts to the list of hazards I hadn’t considered when I agreed to work for Cousin Ash.
I had only done it because, as Ash had predicted, in a bad economy I couldn’t get a job with my MFA in art conservation from NYU. It was infuriating when she was right.
“Let’s face it, Janny darling,” she had said, “you can’t be anything in the art world without a doctorate or good connections, especially if you’re not gay.” Her brow had furrowed prettily as she rummaged in her bottomless store of zingers. “If only you actually had talent. But we both know you’re not an artist.”
I remembered Ashley practicing that furrowed brow in the mirror in the room we shared, summers at Aunt Gwen’s in Southampton. And she remembered how to get to me. It had been the hardest decision of my life to accept that what Ash called “your little gift” was less talent than a working painter needed. I had thrown myself into the discipline of conserving and restoring the masters. I had grown to love the work. But she could still make me feel like a failure.
“You’d better come work for me, darling,” she’d said, “if you must work. Oh, that’s right, you don’t have a trust fund, do you?” She knew damn well I was the poor relation. She’d tossed her head without disordering the Bergdorf-blond hair.
“You could go to retail.” Retail was the Met’s bread and butter. “Anybody can do it, and they always have openings. Still, you’ll do better as my assistant.” Silvery laugh. She’d practiced that too. “Unless you’d rather be a guard?”
So I’d sold my soul to the devil and taken out the change in wear on the teeth I couldn’t help grinding in my sleep. Things got better when I met my current boyfriend. Joel was a guard at the museum and a gifted painter. Now he waved from the top of the steps as Ash sailed past him. He reached out to help me with the stack of books as Ash’s entourage of sycophants swept by, nearly knocking me down. Joel’s big, competent hands steadied me.
“Hey, you,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. Listen, I got Cousin Ashley to promise she’d look at your portfolio.” Joel needed recommendations for the prestigious MFA program in painting at Yale, where he hoped to get a fellowship. I’d offered to call in a few chips with Ash.
“You didn’t have to.” He hugged me hard. “I hate for you to owe her anything. But thanks.”
“Janny! I don’t have all day!” Ash’s shrill voice floated back, impatient and commanding, like Hannibal telling the elephants to get a move on. “We’ve got a major event in less than two days, in case you’ve forgotten.”
I hadn’t forgotten. The museum was unveiling a major acquisition, a newly discovered Vermeer. For this occasion, the Met would throw a party on the scale of the Saturnalia in ancient Rome.
“Gotta go,” I told Joel. “Are you working the party tomorrow night?”
“Yep. Have you seen the Vermeer?”
“Not yet. Ash did. Even she was impressed.”
“Jan-ny!”
“You’d better go,” he said. “Can you get away at lunchtime?”
“Not a chance. Too bad.” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. Joel and I could sometimes find half an hour in the workday to talk and even kiss. We would meet in a small gallery of late Roman architecture, most of it in fragments. Hardly anybody ever entered it, and those few only by accident. It had a marble bench and a little fountain whose gurgle was enough to mask soft conversation.