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I park in front and quit the engine. “We’re here.”
I look over at Chey. I can tell she’s fighting for something to say that will not hurt my feelings. Her visible struggle alone makes me want to laugh. I clear my throat instead.
Camie, Chey, and I get out. Before we can close the doors, Bob bashes through the front door, bellowing. “Well, I’ll be damned! As I live and breathe. If it isn’t Ronan Bronson.”
Bob lumbers down the stairs and bear hugs me. I bear hug him back. We both manage not to break bones.
I glance over at the girls. They’re standing back, and it hits me that probably neither of them has come face-to-face with a Bigfoot. Bob is eight foot, six inches, about four feet wide, and covered in long bristle-brown hair.
Bob’s odor hasn’t changed a bit. Still a mix of beef jerky, bourbon, and chewing tobacco. Regardless of what the so-called Bigfoot research community experts say, Bigfoots do not stink. They like baths like everyone else.
I consider telling the girls Bob’s actually the runt of his family’s litter. But I’m doubtful it would get their jaws off the ground. I figure they’ll get used to his size.
Bob slaps me on the back. His black eyes bore into mine. He doesn’t even turn to acknowledge the girls. Bob’s an asshole like that.
“How long has it been? Four years, five?” Bob flashes his Chicklet-gum-like toothy grin.
“At least five, I figure.”
“Listen, you lout. I forgive your absence ‘cause I’m such a Lawless fan. But I’m damn glad you finally showed your face. Come on in.”
Bob finally looks over at Camie and Chey and makes way for them to enter the venue first. But he still doesn’t say a word. I know Bob’s supposed snobbery won’t go down well with Chey. I’ll worry about smoothing over that slight later. It’s time to make a deal with my old wrestling buddy.
The four of us enter the main ring area. The bleachers are the old wooden type with more coats of paint than there are colors in the rainbow. The arena lighting is old, perching on a rickety iron catwalk above. The bulbs offer more glare than illumination. The ring has seen better days, too, but the ropes are good and strong and the floor is level. What more can a fighter ask for?
Bob ushers us to the judge’s table, and we take our seats. He slams his giant hands on top. The girls jump, but Bob just stares at me. “Okay, pal, ‘fess up. Why are you here? I know this is no friendly coffee klatch you’re after.”
Bob always gets straight to the point. I like that about Bob.
“We three are looking for a venue. Simple as that.”
Bob leans back in the chair and crosses his massive arms, the hair strands swinging in unison. “Makes sense. I noticed you and your Lawless character were AWOL in the town’s main arenas. No newspaper sports page headlines. No line-up promotions.”
I clear my throat, unsure I want to go down that road. “Yeah, well, things change. Chey here and I are trying out new moves and new character brands, and we need a constant venue to do that. My mind went straight to yours. Low key, where we can iron out the kinks.”
Bob’s black eyes sparkle. He slams the table once more. None of us jump this time.
“Hot damn! Sure, the Bang-ga-lang is all yours. Me and my investors would be pleased as hell to have a big ticket like yours to fill the rafters.”
I make no mention of Chey’s falling fan numbers or my rift with Murphy. What Bob doesn’t know is better for us.
“That’s good, real good. Listen, about the place…”
Bob leans forward. “Don’t say another word. My boys can clean up the joint for you and the little ladies here. Redo the locker rooms. Get in the supplies you need. Don’t you worry your handsome orc head about details like that.”
I look over at Chey and Camie. With or without their shades, their first impression of Bob isn’t good. Chey looks like she wants to punch the big galoot into tomorrow, and Camie looks like she’d like to throw a grocery bag over his smug face. Bob’s macho vibe isn’t hitting on all feminist cylinders. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this has been a huge mistake.
“Right. Listen, bud, let us think it over. We really have to scram. Agent meetings to attend, all three of us. I’ll call you.”
I nuzzle the girls to the front door, and they quickly get the message and happily oblige. It’s not until we get outside that I realize my arm has been around Chey’s waist the entire time like it was the most natural thing to do. Most surprisingly, Chey doesn’t seem to mind because she hasn’t said a word.
She smells like fruity body spray, something with melon and grapefruit. It sets my nostrils flaring as I fight the urge to lean in closer, to take another whiff.
I shake off the shock and get into the car before Bob can lumber out and drag us back in.
* * *
The three of us start our warmups and stretch back in our gym. No one says a word about Bob and the Bang-ga-lang. I’m relieved.
