V

THE DEAL

“What a man knows not, he to use requires, and what he knows, he cannot use for good.”
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust

IT’S MARCH AND I’M PUSHING my brother in his wheelchair down the middle aisle of Christ Church Cathedral’s nave. He’s his usual self—a stiff, silent thing, pathetic and withered, and unable to communicate without his letter board or computer. His body is wrapped in several blankets and a toboggan is tugged over the crown of his scarred head. Drool runs over his bottom lip.

The church is empty at this late time and dimly lit only by the hundreds of votive candles placed on tiered rows of tables around the chancel and transepts. What silence existed before we came through the doors is now interrupted by the staccato clicks of my Louboutin pumps on the granite floor.

I park Jack next to the front pew and leave him with a pat on the head before approaching the sanctuary and the altar. The collective light from all those flames has coagulated into a deep amber glow. It bends around pillars and casts deep, dark shadows where fixtures or pieces of furniture breaks its reach. The moroseness of the hue climbs upward as well, finding the faces of saints etched in stained glass around the domed ceiling, changing their polished characterizations into sour, almost sinister depictions.

On the altar is an ornate box. The lid opens with only the slightest of a whine. Inside are dozens of small, narrow wax candles. I take one and hold its wick to one of the already lit votive candles. Fire dances across the bundle of threads, which I then move to one of the few remaining ceremonial candles that remain unlit. I transfer the spark and watch slowly as it grows to its full brightness. I then blow out the thin candle and set it down before turning away to find Rick Ravenswood knelt next to my brother, wiping the drool from his chin with a red silk handkerchief.

OH WAIT! They don’t know about him. Let’s reeewwwwind…

THREE MONTHS AGO, Jack was still in the hospital after his accident, connected to a whole suite of machines that did nearly everything for him, from feeding to breathing to managing his pain and IV medications, except cleaning up after his bowel movements, of course. That’s why we have nurses.

I was leaning into the cracked window, blowing the smoke from my black hemp cigarette through the screen when the door opened. I look over ready to argue with another member of the hospital staff but instead of an angry woman in scrubs it’s the physical manifestation of tall, dark and handsome.

He has a woolen coat draped over his left arm and his suit is custom made, judging by the look of the black fabric and the way it was perfectly shaped around his broad shoulders and long frame, the body of a swimmer, no doubt. A matching knit mask was wrapped around his face and hooked gently behind his ears. He had that made to match the material of his suit, didn’t he? It even has the exact tint of red accents to go with his tie.

Oh, how I already hated him.

“Excuse me,” he said in a smarmy British accent, “are you sure you’re supposed to be smoking in here?” His eyes then ticked over to my brother, who is nearly completely buried under casts, splints, bandages and tubes.

“He doesn’t mind,” I said before turning to blow another stream out into the cold air, then added, “ask him.”

He looked at Jack as if he was considering whether or not that was a serious suggestion before laughing a bit at himself. “Sorry, my apologies, miss. You must be wondering who I am or why I’m here.”

“Well,” I said while snuffing out the cigarette in a small cup of water that was already dingy from the butts of five siblings, then took a quick moment to push the window closed before returning my attention to him. “I’m assuming you’re someone important because otherwise they would never have allowed you in here. Certainly not without asking me first. You can take the mask off.”

“Oh my, of course,” he said before pulling the fabric from over his mouth. He has a neatly trimmed beard, just as black as his thick mound of hair which was parted hard to the left and locked in place by what I assumed was a lanolin wax based on the shine, texture and hold.

He stepped forward, around the foot of the bed, and, after extending his right hand to me, said, “Hello, I’m Rick Ravenswood, and I’m honored to finally meet you, Yelena Gorgo.”

“Alright, Mr. Ravenswood,” I said while standing from the window sill to take his hand and give a shake. His eau de parfum had masculine aggressiveness that matched his appearance but it wasn’t overpowering. The layers of scents mingled in harmony, with notes of thuya, heartwood, peppercorn and cedarwood. The cologne was definitely not cheap, which wasn’t surprising given his presentation.

His hand slipped from mine as he stepped backward through our conversation to comment on something I said a moment earlier. “I don’t consider myself important—”

LIAR.

He continued, “—but I do have a knack for getting people to do what I want them to do.”

“Such as letting you into the intensive care unit of a hospital when you aren’t related to any patients on the floor?”

“Right you are,” he said with a wolfish smile.

“And let me guess, now you’re here to get me to do something for you.”

His eyes moved down my perfectly constructed human suit. I can’t tell whether he genuinely was interested in me sexually, or simply wanted me to think he was. Either way, wrong tree, doggie. It wasn’t that I hadn’t fucked men in the past when the opportunity warranted it, but the physical structure of the male body wasn’t my preference, and even if I was looking for that sort of satisfaction, this one certainly wasn’t my type.

As his sultry gaze moved back to my eyes, he said, “I have the deal of a lifetime for you, Yelena, and I promise, gorgeous, you will not regret it.”

BACK IN THE CHURCH, Rick stands next to my brother, bathed in the dusky hue of the countless flames wavering together to create a hypnotic warble of illumination. He folds the handkerchief into a small square before tucking it into his left pocket while saying, “I didn’t take you for the religious sort, Yelena.”

“I’m not,” I say while folding the bottom of my skirt underneath me before sitting down on the pew next to Jack. “I find religion to be a particularly limiting construct used to control people by feeding them answers to questions that are much too big for their tiny minds to answer alone.”

“Fascinating,” he says after taking a second to fabricate the tone to hide his obvious attempt to pander to me by pretending to affirm my position. He walks around the feet of the wheelchair to cross in front of me before easing himself next to me on the wooden bench. His long arm snakes behind me to drape across the seat’s back.

Before he can swiftly wrest control of the conversation, I muse a bit more on the topic. “That’s not to say I don’t accept the possibility of something beyond our limited understanding of the natural order of the universe. I know monsters exist, but they aren’t the absurd beasts you may read about in the bible. They’re worse. True horrors, to be sure.”

“So if you aren’t religious,” he says, quickly moving away from my statement, “who is the candle for?”

“Jack’s mother. He asked me before we left.”

“Asked?” Rick briefly looks past me to Jack’s face, which is contorted in his usual drooping scowl. He looks like a wax figure of his former self that was left out in the sun too long.

“He uses a letter board. He also has a computer that can detect eye movement and blinks, giving him the ability to write on his own. It’s similar to what Stephen Hawking used, apparently, but I don’t give him access to social media, however. That would be much too stressful. Anyway, before we left, Jack requested I light a candle for his mother. Jacqueline Moreau, and being the loving sister I am, I obliged. Of course if I were religious, I would hope that she is rotting in hell where she belongs, what with being a suicide after all.”

I wonder if Rick notices Jack’s swollen, gnarled fingers curling inward, digging into the blanket wrapped around his legs; his knuckles tense, hand tight and shaking, along with a soft, nearly imperceptible groan of anger vibrating in his throat which is pitted with a scar from the tracheostomy he received after his accident.

“Well,” is all Rick manages to say, the word being drawn out until it’s a sad little whisper.

“You didn’t come here to talk about family matters, did you, Mr. Ravenswood? Let’s move on to the matter at hand. I’ve done everything you asked of me in UPRISING. We had a deal. You wanted to devalue the company’s stock to make it easier to buy Larry’s shares. I did that and I sent that five million dollar production truck into the river. You wanted me to make things hard for Old Man Jax to run the show like a 1920’s carny tent. I’ve certainly caused him more than enough stress. Did you see what I said to his wife? I imagine that didn’t go over well in the Jackson household. Maybe I should spend more time with her. Maybe we could be friends for real.”

“No,” he snaps at me, before clearing his throat. Oh my, I wonder what that was about. Suddenly I’m a whole lot more curious about Lyv. Was there something between her and Mr. Ricky here?

After a moment to regain his composure, his lips spread again with that sly little smile. “By that I mean, she’s a minority owner in the company. I cannot afford to drive her further into Jackson’s arms. I think it’s best to leave her out of this business, don’t you?”

If I didn’t want to fuck with her before, I definitely do now, but I wave it off. “Fair enough. Back to the point, you made assurances to me. I get you what you wanted, you give me my title shot. I’ve held up my end of the bargain. Now payment is due.”

He makes a face, like he took a bite of a lemon. “Actually, if you recall, I paved the way for you to face that barmy idiot Chris Mosh when I had security slip you the Lethal Lottery ball. It’s not my fault you failed to capitalize.”

“I did capitalize. I threw that woman out of the ring.”

“And yet you didn’t win, how quaint.”

“It’s not my fault Jace was allowed to hover around the outside of the ring to play Bodyguard for Sam Tolson.”

“It’s not my fault,” he says, mocking me. “Yelena, let me offer a word of advice. Wrestling is a silly business. You come from the world of martial arts tournaments. You won a gold medal in the olympics! These are institutions with a bedrock of rules and regulations that leave no room for such shenanigans to be tolerated by officials. That cannot be said about professional wrestling. It’s a spectacle. Fans expect a touch of unpredictability. It’s like that game, Monopoly. Cheating is frowned upon but only if you get caught.”

The blood is starting to churn. I can feel the heating building up under the layers of my epidermis and subcutaneous fat. It pushes upward, forcing the veins in my arms to protrude and the usual alabaster tone of my skin to pink up.

“You told me to bring order to the company,” I seethe.

“I did, but I knew of course you would never be able to do so. I only needed you to try. You were a distraction, nothing more.”

My neck tugs at the tightening muscles of my shoulders and back to allow my eyes to swivel over and lock onto his. “You said title shot. I get you what you needed and I am next in line. I did as you asked and now I expect to be compensated.”

“No,” he says with a wave of his finger. “If you recall, I said title opportunity, and that is what I gave you, an opportunity.” He then stands and buttons his suit jacket while looking down at me with a look that reminds me of a chess player who thinks he has cornered my king into checkmate. “I’m sure you will work your way back into contention eventually. However, I think for now it’s important that we strictly sever our business relationship, with me being part owner of the company. Ethically, it would not be acceptable for me to offer you any sort of advantages under the table. I’m sure you understand.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. My father, Spiral, warned me about people in this business. They’re all liars and cutthroats who are more than willing to drive a knife into your back while whispering words of affirmation in your ear. I’m angry at him, at myself, at the situation—at everything, but unlike most people, my rage does not take over my emotions. It doesn’t turn me blind or rob me of my decision-making ability. My anger is cold. It’s patient. It’s never-ending. When I stand from the pew to stare eye-to-eye with him, he doesn’t see someone willing to slice his throat in the middle of the night, but he should.

“Mr. Ravenswood,” I start to say insidiously, “you never met my father, did you? No, if you had, he would have remembered. He always made a special note in his journal about people like you.”

“Like me?” He actually takes that as a compliment. I correct him.

“Hypocrites.”

“Oh,” he says dismissively as he tries to move past me. “And on that note—”

I seize his left arm and force him to stand there and listen to my every last word. He tries to wrestle away from me, yanking on his arm like a rabbit to a snare, but just like the hare, he isn’t getting free.

“If there was one thing my father could not stand,” I tell him matter-of-factly, “it was a hypocrite. To him, the greatest sin one could commit was to go through life as a pandering con man, telling people what they wanted to hear with that stupid little smile you’re making right now to cover your growing fear. I can see it in your eyes, Ricky Rick. Don’t try to hide it away under your facade. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

His arm ceases to struggle against my grip and I continue, “Over his life Spiral met all types of malingerers and pretenders. He rather enjoyed dealing with your type, and I’m not just talking about in the ring. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors of his extracurricular activities. Who hasn’t?”

His face is frozen. There’s enmity in there with the fear. Of course there is. He’s used to being on my side of this conversation. They always are. How dare I make him feel this weak and small. My grip loosens enough to allow his arm to pull free. He quickly adjusts the sleeve, tugging it down to the cuff before smoothing the front of his suit.

He says with a stern insistence, “I think, Yelena, we will be making a change.”

Here comes the threat. I love this part.

He continues, “After Equinox II, I do not believe we will no longer be needing your services. Actually, given the way you’ve disrespected Azurine on social media, maybe we should remove you from the card and find a suitable replacement.”

“Oh, darling,” I say with a tut-tut click of my teeth. “You were doing so well and then you had to go and do that.” I move closer to him, until our bodies are brushed against one another and my lips can move closer to the outer rim of his ear. My voice, low and quiet, delivers my counter offer.

“If you attempt to sever my contract from UPRISING, I will use every last dollar of my father’s fortune to ruin everything you touch. I will hire an army of lawyers to tie you up in litigation for years and it will barely be a drop in the bucket. Who knows, in the end, maybe I’ll even convince Ol’ Jax it’s time to move out to pasture and sell me his stake. And Lyv—”

A long, delightful little moan laced with sinful implications slips from my lips. “—I don’t think it would be too difficult to gain her favor. Do you?”

He flinches, again giving away a connection to the lovely Mrs. Jackson.

“Fine,” he says. The word rushes from between his teeth, frantic to end the conversation. “But our business is concluded. From now on you’re just another wrestler on the roster.” He walks away from me now, not wishing me or my brother a fond farewell. How rude.

I speak up before he races too far down the aisle. “Rick, one last thing.”

He stops. His head ticks backward on his neck and so he can look up at the ceiling, like a child realizing the lecture isn’t over. He then turns his head enough to see me out the corner of his left eye.

I say as I step around Jack’s wheelchair, “My father used to bring me books every time he came to see me. Everything from Proust to Marx, I consumed them all. I was a voracious reader and my taste even as an eight year old was quite refined. However, I must say, my all time favorite was this thin little novel by William Golding. There is a quote that often comes to me in times like this. Would you like to hear it?”

He sighs before giving a shrug of his shoulders.

“Sure.”

I take a step down the aisle, now not more than three paces behind the smarmy devil in the black suit, and say slowly and rhythmically, “Kill the pig. Cut its throat. Bash it in.”

It affects him, perhaps sending an unnerving shudder down his back or causing a cold feeling to well up in his chest. Whatever the feeling that comes to him, he turns in reaction, just enough so that both eyes can see me over the angles of his face and nose.

I repeat, “Kill the pig.” My Moldovan accent accentuates each consonant. “Cut its throat.” Like daggers into flesh. “Bash it in.”

He coughs slightly, as the air seems to want to run away from him. Before risking hearing it again, he hopes to interrupt me by speaking up, his voice almost too loud now for the walls of the cathedral to ignore.

“It occurs to me,” he says, flinging the hook out into the water, “that I may be privy to something about our illustrious CEO Brad Jackson that you are not. Given the history between him and your father, and your recent activity on social media, perhaps you will find better use of this information than myself.”

And here comes the bait.

“I’m all ears, Mr. Ravenswood.”

“As you are aware, every prospective signee to UPRISING must undergo a comprehensive medical exam and physical. Tests, scans, bloodwork—the works. It seems one hiree who joined the company September of last year was given a little extra attention by our very capable Ash Devereaux at the behest of Bradley.”

He pauses, waiting for me to lean in for the response.

“A DNA test.”

And there it is, his grand reveal. Oh, Jax. You never could keep it wrapped up, could you? How many bastards are running around out there? You’re like the pot-bellied king on a premium cable channel show, wildly spraying your seed around without care about how many rotten little flowers spring up in its wake.

Rick doesn’t offer up a name. He simply starts walking, knowing that I’ve been sufficiently hooked by this wonderful revelation, believing that my focus will be distracted from him and his machinations around UPRISING and one Lyv Jackson. As if I cannot multitask.

He didn’t give a name because he didn’t need to. It’s so obvious now, in hindsight, the way he coddles her. The way he devotes most of the show to promoting her brand and her team. I should have seen it sooner but I was preoccupied by Ricky’s project.

When I return to the pew next to my brother, he’s grunting and shaking, like something is caught in his throat. If only. This is him laughing. It’s feeble and miserable, like a mauled hyena that nature allowed to live to suffer.

As I sit down, I stare straight at him and say, “You think he beat me, do you? That was always your problem brother. You inherited our father’s physical gifts but up here?” I tap the side of my head then lean in closer. “You’re nothing like him or me. You have the brain of a Moreau, and it’s better served splattered on a wall than trying to process what just happened.”

Jack growls, causing more spittle to run down his lip. I leave it to dry on his chin because fuck him.

“Yeah,” I say while removing a black cigarette from the silver case in my purse and then light it. “That’s what I thought.” Smoke streams in his direction before I take another drag. “Rick thinks he bought himself some breathing room, as if I’m going to forget that he double crossed me on our deal. However, he is absolutely correct that this bombshell is going to get my full attention for the moment. Want to know why? Sure you do.”

After another pull of the cigarette, I blow the smoke out the corner of my mouth and then say, “When father died, he instructed his assistant, Søren—do you remember him? Blond, tall as a tree. One of the few people Spiral trusted in this world to know him, to truly know him. He sent Søren to deliver me a list of instructions. Funeral and burial directions. A small number of properties he had hidden away from his estate that were mine. A detailed explanation of why he was leaving his fortune to my idiot half brother, that’s you, who could never appreciate what he was being given. The interesting bit came at the end, where he had written down several names, and next to every one was a simple directive. The first two names were Tibor Petrov and Alexandra Dupin. The edict for each was the same. He wanted me to kill them, and I did shortly after coming to America.”

Jack musters all the strength he has to move his neck and jaw just enough to be able to look directly at me. I cross a leg over the other and lean toward him. “Jackson was on the list as well,” I say with a very Spiral-like smile. “Do you want to know what our father wanted for him? I’ll take your silence as an affirmation.” I scoot even closer, and with the giddiness of a teenage girl being picked by a limo for prom, I tell him.

“Allow him to enjoy just enough happiness to hurt for the rest of his life when you take it away.”

I lean back with a bit of a kick to my heartrate and my lungs desiring nothing but to take a long, burning draw off the cigarette. I feel like I just fucked a forty year old mother of three with a diamond ring on her finger the size of a pea in the bar’s bathroom after the tequila got the better of her rigid inhibition. There are few things as sweet as the fruit of ruining a marriage. This is going to top that.

“I dare say, brother, UPRISING is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”