Post by Johnny Reb on Jan 14, 2012 11:37:12 GMT -5
Approximately Two Weeks Ago (Just after One):
Watery, late afternoon sunlight sifted through wooden slat blinds, casting long, barred shadows in an otherwise darkened office. A man – world-weary, middle-aged and slightly overweight – leaned back in an aging swivel chair, feet propped up on a cluttered desk. The office itself wasn’t much to look at: small and cramped, with aging wood floors that creaked with every step across them. Turning on the light would have only made it worse, shining its unapologetic illumination on the mismatched pair of filing cabinets, the stacks of paperwork on the desk, and the moth-eaten trench coat hanging from an old wooden rack.
The man poured another glass of Jack Daniels from a bottle in his desk drawer, and then resettled himself, pulling the brim of his fedora down over his eyes. He drank. He waited. He checked the generic, round dial clock hanging on the wall. He drank some more. Footsteps in the hallway outside roused his interest. A shadow fell across the frosted-glass window of his office door, blotting out the words that proclaimed his name and profession: Sal Minella, Private Eye. There was even a little magnifying glass next to the words, just in case the message wasn’t clear enough. The shadow knocked.
“It’s open,” growled the private detective, in a rough, Brooklyn-esque accent.
A brief pause, as if the other were rethinking this whole affair. And then, the door swung open. Johnny Reb stepped inside. Sal tilted his hat back to look at him in curiosity.
“Somethin’ I can do for ya, pal?” he asked.
Johnny gazed at him for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Matter of fact, yeah. I need ya to find somebody for me.”
“Two hundred a day, plus expenses,” Sal told him. “Who’s your missing person?”
Reb reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a folded promotional flyer for One, featuring his own picture alongside Doc Henry’s. He smoothed it out on the desk and pointed.
“This guy. Doc Henry. He disappeared at One, with his wife… nobody’s seen or heard from him since.”
“Henry…” Sal mused, “the wrestler?”
Johnny nodded again. “That’s him.”
“You got a beef?”
“Let’s just say… he owes me somethin’. We’ll leave it at that,” Reb said cryptically.
The P.I. shrugged. It wasn’t any of his business. He’d find the guy, get paid, and that would be that. Besides, he knew a little about the history between Reb and Henry – whatever Johnny would choose to do with Doc when he found him was probably too good for him anyway.
“All right,” Sal said. “I’m gonna need a deposit, first…”
He trailed off as Johnny dropped a stack of bills on the desk, still bound with the wrapper from the bank. Sal tried to look as if this sort of thing happened every day, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from widening just slightly. He’d never seen this much cash at one time in his life.
“That’ll work. Now, tell me everything you can about this Doc Henry…”
Today:
The interior of a seedy nightclub, where cigarette smoke rises in a gossamer haze; where a dusky-voiced woman in a shimmering dress commands the audience with her song; where illicit gambling takes place in hidden rooms, and other shady deals go down in shadowed booths. Johnny Reb makes a beeline for a man – clad in familiar trench and fedora – sitting at a table near the stage, and takes a seat.
Reb: Mr. Minella… I take it you have something for me?
Wordlessly, the man slides a beige envelope across the table. Johnny opens it up to find a set of surveillance photos, all of Doc Henry and his wife, all in various locations.
Sal: They went off the grid. Took some doin’, but I found ‘em. It’s gonna cost ya a little somethin’ extra, though.
The Inveterate Confederate raises an eyebrow.
Reb: Extra? Almost two weeks, at your rates…
Sal: Two weeks…and I been across half the country trackin’ this guy. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t cheap. He knows how to cover his tracks.
Johnny gazes at the detective for a moment, as if reconsidering. Then, with a sigh, he pulls a fat envelope of his own from within his coat and sets it on the table.
Reb: That oughta cover it. Now, where is he?
Sal: He’s here. One of the back rooms. High-stakes poker. And when I say high stakes, I mean… life and death. You might not have to worry about Henry anymore, after tonight.
Reb: Nah. He’ll figure out a way to come out on top. Always does. Besides, I need him breathin’. We got a match tomorrow.
Sal: Ask me, it’d be simpler to let the Mob deal with him. I seen what you’re up against…those GLS guys, or whatever. Their promos are a real snorefest.
Reb: Not always an indication of skill…
Minella scoffs at that.
Sal: Trust me, Johnny… I’m old and out of shape, and I could still take ‘em all out.
Reb: Yeah, but you also keep a .38 snubnose in an ankle holster.
Sal: How’d you know that?
Reb: I’m observant. Anyway, I don’t care ‘bout them assclowns. Lerch just threw us into that match to round out the card this week. With or without Doc, they’re goin’ down. Ain’t no question ‘bout that.
Sal: You got a bigger problem, though, Johnny. That contract obligates you to continue competing as a member of the New Confederacy. You beat your opponents this week, and then you’re up for a shot at the tag titles again. You win that match, and you’re gonna be stuck with Henry a long time.
The Inveterate Confederate gazes at the other man with just a hint of annoyance.
Reb: You a private dick… or my manager? It doesn’t matter. The outcome of the match is inevitable. These guys ain’t even tryin’. I seen the promos, too. First they come out and spout a bunch of bullshit that makes it obvious they got no idea what goes on ‘round here… and now midgets? Come on, midgets went out of style years ago.
Sal: Whoa, hey… I was just offerin’ some friendly advice, Johnny. Don’t get your panties in a wad. Relax. Have a drink. Watch the show.
The P.I. gestures at the stage. Johnny’s gaze follows, narrowing when he catches sight of the singer; she looks familiar.
Reb: Is that…? Nah, couldn’t be…
Sal: Nevermind that. Looks like the poker game got over early…
Johnny glances up at some brief commotion at the back of the nightclub. Doc Henry emerges from a dim corridor, his wife clinging to his arm, with a huge smile on his face and a metal attaché case in hand. The Inveterate Confederate stands, all his focus now on his former friend, current enemy, and sometimes partner. Their gazes meet across the room, and for the barest instant, a look of fear crosses Henry’s face. Or perhaps Johnny imagined that. Either way, though, he makes his way across the room with long, purposeful strides.
Reb: Doc Henry, you slippery sonofabitch… you an’ me need to have a little chat…
