The concrete walls were painted a putrescent shade of green, the light above provided by three flickering rows of fluorescent bulbs that washed the color out of everything. Above the solid steel door, the old-fashioned white clock frequently lost track of time. A large, rectangular table dominated the room, securely bolted to the floor. The burnished steel was pockmarked with dents from years of use; it gleamed dully in the light overhead.
Burly guards led the man in the black turtleneck and charcoal slacks to this room five minutes ago. They'd searched his belongings thoroughly, paying special attention to his plain brown leather attaché case. His walking stick had been confiscated, but he didn't much care -- he hadn't brought the good one, anyway. The guards studied his identification carefully: a driver's license and state bar association card, both from the state of Idaho.
'Lincoln Byrd,' they read.
'You've driven quite a ways to meet with your client, Mr. Byrd,' one of the guards said. 'This guy really that important?'
'You have no idea.' Mr. Byrd was not a large man, several inches under six feet tall and about as thick around as your average telephone pole. Without his cane, he listed badly to the left, even while standing, and he gritted teeth into his smile.
The guard (a balding gentleman named Officer Matthews whose wide mustache called to mind the term 'food catcher') grunted as he handed the man his briefcase back. 'Hasn't had a visitor in months. We figured you'd typoed, but no one could spell that boy's name wrong.'
'You're quite witty in making fun of his name, Officer...' Byrd squinted at the nameplate on the man's chest. 'Matthews. I'll include that in my report about how my client is being treated. Now if you'll press that button so the door makes its cute little noise? It's going to take me some time for me to hobble into the room.'
Matthews scowled, but he pressed the button, and, as Byrd predicted, a buzzer sounded beside the door. Byrd limped heavily without the assistance of the cane, tossing his briefcase onto the table well in advance of his arrival.
'Your client is being brought down now,' Matthews said. 'This would have been a lot easier if you'd scheduled this meeting for earlier in the day, like you're supposed to.'
'Yes, well,' Byrd dipped his head as he arrived at the desk, his fingers splayed across its metal surface to support him. 'As you said, I had quite a drive all the way from Idaho.'
'Remember, if he causes you any problems, there's a guard posted outside, and all you'll have to do is -- '
'I know the drill, officer,' Byrd hissed. He tried to hold onto his smile as he lowered himself into one of the hard plastic chairs, left leg held straight in front of him. 'I'll thank you to not open that door again until you're admitting my client.'
'Fine,' Matthews said, putting him his hands in defeat. 'Guys like you are guys that get stabbed because they won't listen, and while your precious goddamn client has been a model prisoner, that doesn't mean he won't cut you. Hell, I'm not sure I don't want to, and I haven't been cooped up in here for... however the fuck long he has.'
Byrd said nothing. He didn't even look up; he simply unfastened the two brass locks on the front of his attaché and flipped it open. Matthews stared at the small man in black for a long moment before buzzing himself out.
It was not until after the other man left that Byrd spoke, a quiet murmur to himself. 'Eleven months,' he noted. 'It's been eleven months, you ape.'
Byrd lifted a pen from his briefcase, sliding a sidelong look at the door as he jotted a few nonsensical and utterly unimportant notes. He tapped the pen to his lips, and he spoke again.
'Hawke to Operator,' he said. 'I'm in.'
The V Bar at the Venetian Hotel, unlike many of its more modern cousins, was neither dark nor moody. That was why Theo Harrison chose to come here after work for Happy Hour; when you live in a city known for its excess, you have a lot of options.
When Theo strolled through the door just after 5:30, like he always did, the barkeep raised a glass in salute. The room was all diffused light and soft reds against hard blacks, with wide, '60s style booths that required small groups to congregate together. The bar itself was surrounded by wooden stools, and one of them always happened to be open when Harrison got there.
''Ey, Theo,' Luis said. 'The usual?' Luis Jimenez was a round Hispanic man; kids used to describe him as 'built like a soccer ball' in his youth, but he was older now, his hairline nearly on the back of his head. He always had a smile on his face, though, and he knew all the regulars' favorite drinks. For Theo, this meant a bottle of Paulaner Hefe-Weizen, already open before the ADA even sat down.
In his rumpled suit and tie, Theo Harrison didn't fit the mold of the barhopping Vegas visitor. He was thirty-something, married, and an admitted workaholic -- the one beer he was going to have tonight would be the only luxury he'd allow himself before going home to his wife.
He sighed into the neck of the bottle, slumping forward in the chair and running a hand through his short brown hair.
'You shouldn't do that,' a woman called as she approached his stool. 'It's bad for your posture.'
Theo turned to get a look at the woman, who lifted a red-nailed hand to signal for Luis' attention. She leaned partway over the bar, one foot dangling in the air, tossing her head to the side as Luis approached. A fall of sandy blonde hair slid across her back. Unlike Theo, she was clearly dressed for a night of dancing and partying, in a deep red, strapless dress a shade longer than Theo might've hoped.
'What can I get you?' Luis asked.
'I'll have...' She turned her hazel eyes on Theo. 'What's good here?'
Theo looked up, his lips a half-inch or so from the bottle mouth. 'You'll want the apple martini. Everybody does.'
'Well, all right, then,' the woman responded. 'Wait. If they're so good, why aren't you having one?'
He hefted the murky brown bottle. 'I like my beer,' he said with a shrug.
'Can't argue with a man who knows what he likes, I guess,' she said, extending a hand. 'Violet Reed; call me Vi. I'm a massage therapist.'
'Theo Harrison.' Theo lazily accepted the handshake. 'Since we're trading occupations, I'm an assistant district attorney.'
'Sorry -- conference-speak gets the best of me, sometimes. But, wow does that sound so more interesting than massaging old lady backs.'
'I think we both get the kinks out of the system.' Theo's grin around the edges of his lips stretched a little bit, then a little more when Vi laughed aloud.
'You're funny! Of course, that could be because this is the third bar I've been to and it's only five-thirty.' Luis slid a green-tinted martini glass across the bar. Vi reached into her purse to fish out some cash.
'Let me get that for you,' Theo said.
'You really don't need to -- '
'Nonsense. That way, if it's bad and you hate it, you didn't pay for it.'
'Okay, but only if we go sit on one of those cool benches.'
'Deal.'
Theo's cellphone buzzed in his pocket as he watched Vi move away from the bar.
'I'll call her back,' he muttered. He didn't, though. He'd regret that.
The prisoner in Cell E-57 had been in AdSeg since he was admitted to the Southern Nevada Correctional Center in the summer of 2006 -- it was the Nevada Department of Corrections' policy to isolate the famous prisoners from the general population. Too many would take a few more years for the rep they'd get from sticking someone the other inmates would know.
Two guards led the man through the halls from Unit Five down to meet with his attorney. His hands were cuffed in front of him and his feet were shackled, though neither guard expected the prisoner to try anything. The man had been a model prisoner his entire stay, with no disciplinary marks and hardly any backtalk -- hell, he'd hardly spoken to anyone.
The man wasn't overly large, though he'd kept himself in excellent condition for a man his age. If it weren't for the regulation orange prison jumpsuit, the prisoner might look out of place in there, with spiky brown hair, a day's beard growth, and sparkling blue-green eyes.
The guards buzzed him into the private meeting room. Mr. Byrd had neatly stacked various papers beside his attaché; he did not look when the door opened.
The prisoner looked at his attorney and did something few other prisoners did when meeting their lawyers.
'Take me back to my cell,' he said in his flat baritone.
'Nonsense, Hunter,' Mr. Byrd said. 'I drove all the way down here, and, though we've never been close friends, I'm sure there's lots we can discuss about your future. Oh, and about those swell kids of yours. They sent Christmas pictures!'
'You wanna go back?' Officer Matthews asked.
Hunter Sabuani -- a man who was once called Peerless, a man who was once called Sublime, a man who was once the very best at what he did -- had not looked away from the other man in the room. Mr. Byrd did not return that look; he merely arranged a stack of 4x6 pictures, lying facedown on the table.
'Nah,' Hunter said. 'I'm good.' Matthews nodded, stooping to unfasten to the shackles around the former World Champion's ankles. Even without them, Hunter shuffled into the room
The guard turned his dark gaze to Byrd, his mustache flaring in a sneer. 'You've got a half-hour. Thirty minutes and one second from now, I'm coming back in here and I'm taking him back.'
Byrd lifted his gaze to Sabuani as the guard closed the door behind him. 'Please, sit.'
'I'll stand,' Hunter said. 'You talked to my kids?'
'Not exactly. But 'we took pictures with a telephoto of them opening presents around the Christmas tree' just doesn't have the same milk-and-cookies ring to it, does it? Do you want the pictures or not?'
'Of course I want the fucking pictures.'
Byrd slid the pile of photos across the table with two fingers. The chains connecting Sabuani's wrists sang as he picked them up. Before Hunter flipped the pile over, however, he met the other man's dark gaze.
'What is it that brought you all the way out here from -- '
'Idaho. Land of potatoes and -- well, potatoes.'
'What brought you all the way out here from Idaho to talk to me?'
'I've been sent to ask for your help, Hunter. We're getting the band back together.'
'Notwithstanding the fact I have thirty months left -- a year with this good behavior shit -- what could you possibly want me for?'
'We want you to do what you do best, Hunter. We want you to wrestle really, really well.'
'And the other thing? I know she always plans ahead.'
'If all goes well, you'll be out of here in a couple days' time.'
'And if it doesn't?' Hunter was absently flipping through the photos now, watching two little girls open presents on Christmas Day. His eyes flicked back, reluctantly, to Byrd.
'Don't trouble yourself with the little details,' Byrd said quietly. 'Don't you miss it? I'm offering you all of it back, Hunter. Everything you want, for the low, low price of doing the one thing people will always say about you. 'Hey, Hunter Sabuani may have rocks in his head, but he's a goddamn brilliant professional wrestler.' Like, wow, do they ever say that.'
Sabuani set the pictures down, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a hard sigh. He folded his hands pensively in his lap. Neither man said anything for a long moment.
Finally, Sabuani spoke again. 'Mister... what do I call you this week?'
'Byrd.'
'Mr. Byrd. They're gonna call me a has-been. They're gonna say I'm washed up, used up, dried up. They're gonna wonder where it is you found me; they're gonna think you're fuckin' stupid for looking. And they're gonna be right. I'm old. I'm tired. I ain't as fast as I was ten years ago. But... I'm ready. Get me out of this place, and I'm yours.'
Mr. Byrd nodded, pushing back his chair. He double-clicked the top of his pen before tossing his neatly stacked paperwork haphazardly into the briefcase.
'Now what?' Hunter asked.
'You keep the photos. You'll need... ah.'
Byrd produced a plain manilla envelope, sealed but already torn open. It was addressed to Byrd & Associates in Boise, Idaho, and the return address was a sticker reading, 'The Sinclair Family, 2343 Highland Road, Rochester, New York 14616.'
'There's a letter in there, too, ostensibly from your ex-wife -- very fine work, if I do say so myself. It has a phone number on it. Get that phone number added to your allowed call list. I imagine either we'll be in touch or, more likely, you'll figure out what's going on. You're a smart cookie. Well, relatively speaking.' Byrd limped over to the door, banging on it with one fist. 'Have a good evening, Hunter,' he said, without turning. 'I look forward to doing business with you.'
Jill Harrison tried her husband again, unsuccessfully. She knew he went to one of the bars on the Strip after work some nights, but he'd usually call if he was going to be really late.
'Probably just has his cell on vibrate,' she mused.
The doorbell chimed softly. Grateful for the distraction, Jill hopped down the steps to answer the door. She laid a hand on the brass door handle, but remembered what Theo had always told her: never open the door before you look to see who's outside.
The girl outside was maybe five-foot-four and lanky, her straw-blonde hair held back by a series of multicolored barrettes. She wore beige slacks and a light blue polo shirt, neatly tucked in. Over the top of the shirt, the girl's tan vest was dotted with several colorful patches, the Girl Scouts of America insignia over her left breast. The girl turned cornflower blue eyes to the side, chewing aimlessly on a piece of bubble gum, hands knotted behind her. The girl turned and looked behind her to the street; a minivan sat there, waiting.
Jill tugged open the door. The Girl Scout quickly spat the gum out of her mouth.
'Uh, hi,' the girl said, beginning her sales pitch. 'My name is Kimmi; I'm from Girl Scout Troop 239 here in Henderson. And, uh, I know you probably spent a lot recently, what with the holidays and all, but the troop is selling subscriptions to pay for a trip to Jamaica.'
'Oooh, Jamaica,' Jill said appreciatively.
Kimmi's grin was positively brilliant. 'We're way looking forward to going, and I was hoping you could, uh, you know... take a look at the list of subscriptions and maybe...' Kimmi looked down, a little bashful.
Jill grinned at the girl's sudden bout of awkwardness. 'And buy one of every one you have to offer? Why don't you come in, we'll find some place to put that gum, and I'll call my husband, see if he likes anything on your list. Or if he tells me he does. Do you have Maxim?' She turned and padded back into the house.
'No, ma'am, we don't. But I'm not allowed in the house; troop policy says I have to be visible at all times.'
'Nonsense. We'll leave the door open. They'll be able to see.' Kimmi took a tentative step past the threshold as Jill spoke.
The door slammed shut so loudly, it shook the windowpanes.
'Jeez! Did the wind catch that?' Jill called from the kitchen. She reappeared in the foyer, bearing a Kleenex and her cordless phone. 'You can open it again, dear, but we may have to prop something against it.'
'It's fine,' Kimmi said. 'I guess Dad can wait.'
Jill laughed, dialing her husband again. 'This should only take a minute -- provided that he answers this time.' Kimmi put the gum into the tissue, and Jill turned to toss it into the trash.
The moment she turned, Jill found a needle-sharp spike prodding her in the jugular vein. An arm, stronger than it looked, snaked its way around to hold the weapon in place and keep the taller woman's own arm immobile. The Girl Scout's other hand slid up the newlywed's arm, wrenching the phone from her hand.
'What... what do you want?' Jill quickly found herself on the verge of tears.
Kimmi's lips were at Jill's ear; her words were a hiss now. 'In a little while, my phone is going to ring. You're going to blubber like a woman who has a knife to her throat, because, hey, funny story, you do. Your husband will make some idle threats; I'll ignore them. Consider that a favor to you; you don't want me to respond. Then he's going to do something for me, because I'm going to tell him it's the only way his wife doesn't bleed to death on his tile floor.'
'What do you want him to -- '
'Don't trouble yourself with the little details. Just pray I won't be lying to your husband when I tell him these things.'
As the girl bound her with duct tape, Jill Harrison couldn't hold back the tears any longer.