My Letter: Part Two (Behind Blue Eyes) [MWA #2]

Detective Ray Chandler was bent over a pile of paperwork. Dotting the i's and crossing the t's. Procedural. He kicked off his shoes, bringing his foot up on top of his knee and rubbing the aching arch. He was dead on his feet and it was only Thursday afternoon. It wasn't the only way he spent his life now, behind this desk pushing paper, but it was a large part of it.

Occasionally he missed the adrenaline, but it was safe, and every single day he knew he'd made a difference. Something tangible. Besides, being a wrestler wasn't a career, for him it had merely been a diversion. Once a cop, always a cop. There was a knock on the glass panel of his door, he grunted by way of reply and it opened.

"What the hell has your big brain spotted at the Millbanks house?" Detective Burrows stood in the door, wearing a perplexed expression.

He looked up, heavy brows knotted. "What? You got me."

Burrows shrugged, still leaning against the doorjamb. "Well, that's the only reason I can think for this, unless you spotted a baby grand in that goddamn bathroom double murder last week, and if you did it must've been hiding under the damn bathmat."

Chandler shook his head, irritation creeping into his tone. Just a hint of that famous temper. "You're giving me a headache, Burrows. Explain. Now."

"I just been talking to a guy who says you want to see him, or rather, that he wants to see you. He says he's a piano man, now, unless I'm crazy the only case you're working on right now that even might have a pia..."

It wasn't that he didn't laugh often, though he didn't, it was more the simple and honest nature of his laugh now that was so shocking. Chandler leaned back in his chair and laughed long and hard, easily. It was strange, absurd even, sunk now in the worst parts of humanity that he was able to laugh more easily than ever before. In the end, this was where he belonged. "Please," he managed between guffaws, "send him in."

Chandler got up out of his chair, not even bothering with his shoes as he went to the door, just in time to grab the hand of Larry Gowan as he walked into the room. Chandler pumped his arm up and down, a warm smile on his lips. "Gowan."

"Chandler," he replied.

"It's good to see you again, Larry, you know that?"

Gowan chuckled, "I had the sneaking suspicion it might be. I'm just that kinda guy."

Chandler chuckled. "Yeah, right. So what brings you here?"

Gowan held up the envelope that contained Jackson's letter. "Read this?"

Chandler took the envelope and glanced at the writing, nodding slowly as he pulled the creased paper out. Jackson's handwriting, unmistakable even after all these years. They used to make fun of him for it, back in the old days. He moved past his cluttered desk, scooping up his tattered suit jacket as he went and draping it over his shoulder as his keen eyes scanned the words. "I'd heard he was still floating around the business."

Gowan nodded, his expression grim. He reached inside his battered, fleece-lined jean jacket, pulling out a creased envelope of his own. "Will you send this to him? I can't... bring myself to do it."

Chandler nodded, slipping his feet back into his loafers, "yeah, I'll throw it in with the department outgoing. That's not what you came here for is it?"

Gowan shook his head. "Ray, I'm almost insulted. I'm here because you owe me a drink."

Chandler slipped his hand into his pocket, along with the letter as he turned towards the door. Chandler slapped Gowan on the back, a show of ancient camaraderie. "Then a drink you shall have."

---

Brad.

I don't know why you think this is some sort of test. My wishes are to never have to deal with what you showed yourself to be ever again in my whole life, Brad, not to not see you, or not have you in my office, or not touch you, or any of the other crap that there's a way around. My wish is for you to have never been.

This is not one of your mind games. I didn't go there to psych you out, Brad, I don't give a damn about you, your mind, or whatever it is you do. Fact is, I'd rather you just never were. I'm content to sit here, just dealing with the mess I've made than to even consider helping your sorry ass. You think I want to walk back into your life like some gangbuster fanboy? Why? So I can watch another epic fail? You'll destroy this new place without even knowing you're doing it. That's what you are, Brad, you're an ugly self-centered cancer. I can't trust you, Brad, and I never will again.

I really don't give a damn to be honest. Doesn't matter. You fucked that up, too. Don't try to kid yourself into thinking this new federation will be better off if you're the one to lead the pack, because that's crap. The worst thing that could happen to that place right now would be you on top. You don't deserve shit, Brad, you never did. Face the facts. You're not worth the waste of time it takes to even look at you, let alone consider this joke of a request.

I don't have to give you a chance back then, Brad, I don't have to give you anything. I never did. I never had to trust you; I never had to help you, to support your position in WCWF, I never had to do anything for you, but I did, and when you had a chance to give me that reason for having done it all, you failed. How does that make you feel? Think about it, you shallow piece of shit. Everything you did, you gave me a reason to not have done it after the fact, and that's a lot to make up for and I don't even care a damn if you do. I don't want your misplaced guilt. Not now. Not ever. I don't know how you feel, because I don't care. I can't forgive you, because I'll never want to.

I didn't want you to win that title, way back when, for myself. You might have missed it too, but winning it, for you, would have been the worst thing that could have happened. If you can't work out why that is, there's no point in my telling you. In short:

Fuck you, Brad.

~Larry

Gowan sat at the desk, looking down at his words on the hotel stationary. He gritted his teeth and crumpled it up into a ball, tossing it across the room towards the wastebasket. He hesitated for a second, chewing on the end of the pen, staring at the wall before he picked up an envelope and signed Jackson's name over it, along with the address of the hotel he'd included with his letter. He walked slowly over to the basket and stooped to pick something out of it.

---

His head hung low, grey-shot hair lending a few extra years to his almost thirty-seven. Brad Jackson sat on the hard wooden bench in the Tacoma Dome locker room, looking exhausted. Sleep was a hard earned commodity these days. A knock came on the door, one sharp rap, and when he looked up, Raymond Chandler stood there, in his blues- a complete blast from the past.

Jackson blinked, taken aback. "Holy shit... Ray, what are-"

Chandler shook his head, pulled out the envelope and dropped it on the table next to Jackson's cigarettes. He turned to leave without speaking a word.

"Look, let me..." Jackson began, falling silent before the thought finished.

Chandler turned back, glaring at Jackson with those shrewd cop eyes. "Listen, Brad, or whatever in the hell you're calling yourself these days. Larry showed me your letter, he also told me what happened the last time you saw each other. Frankly, I don't want to get in the middle of this shit. I don't know what's in that note, Brad, but I know Larry. Nate Duke never lied about who he was, Brad. He might have let us all believe at one time or another that our usefulness to him extended beyond what it really did, but that's nothing that each of us didn't contain in our own egos. Fact is, he always let everyone know that he'd crush any one of us at any time if we didn't fit with what he wanted. Maybe that's why you felt drawn to this Spiral idiot back in PCW. Maybe that's why you feel the need to tear apart every place you've been in since WCWF. Really, I'm not looking to profile your sadistic ass. But Duke... he never lied about who or what he was, maybe if he could have he would, but only a fool would trust him as a person, so that was impossible... even for him. You, Brad, you lied about who you were, deep down, in the soul, and you made us all believe it. You played us all for fools. That's what tore Larry up. That's what you don't understand, even now. You probably never will because you're the most selfish sack of sorry shit I've ever met. Maybe Larry can't bring himself to say that to your face, but I can. So do yourself a favor. Stay away from him. Leave the poor guy alone."

"Wait. I'm not-"

"Don't even waste my time."

"Ray, this has nothing to do with the fallout over that scrap of tin, and everything to do with-"

Chandler hesitated, looking away as his hands fisted at his sides. "Fuck that. I don't want to hear your explanations, Brad, the day will probably come where I'll be forced to acknowledge your existence for one reason or another. If and when that day comes I'll have to forgive you, until then I want to take the luxury that Larry has of choosing not to."

He turned and walked out, slamming the door. With trepidation, Jackson walked over to the table and picked up the envelope. He pulled out the paper within and held the note up, staring at the words as though they had a hidden meaning. His expression was troubled. It was a single line, written on a crumpled piece of paper torn from the bottom of a sheet. He read it over again. Three times before it sunk in. It was unbelievably blunt, the message crystal clear:

Fuck you, Brad.

~Larry