Ace Stevens
The Great Game Begins
-
Brooklyn, New York
Bedford Avenue
-
It’s a beautiful spring day in Brooklyn, New York. The sun is shining, the birds are tweeting, and the hipsters are writing screenplays in coffee shops. Everything is as it should be. And then there is
Ace Stevens. Still rocking the 1950s-inspired “greaser” look, he sticks out like a painfully out-of-date sore thumb amongst the artistes of one of the most hip settlements in the world. Humming Journey’s smash hit Don’t Stop Believin’, he’s enjoying a late-afternoon stroll in the cultural epicentre of the world, and his hometown.
“Get in car.”
The anonymous statement stops Ace from reaching the chorus of the 1980s power ballad. The words, clearly meant for him, were spoken in a thick Eastern European accent. Our protagonist turns around to see a black Chrysler parked in the road just behind him.
“You. Get in car,” demands the person in the passenger seat. A large, evidently muscular
man dressed in a black suit, with sunglasses and stern expression. He is the walking, talking stereotype of a Russian gangster.
“My mom always said to never get in a car with blacked-out windows. So I’m a gonna pass.”
Ace begins to walk away, only to be pulled back by five simple words.
“We have something you want.”
He turns on his heel to face the man once again.
“And what would that be, Russki?”
“Get in car. Now.”
“Look, I got places to be. I ain’t got time for this cryptic bullshit. So if you don’t mind, like you, I better be Russian.”
The Russian man slowly reaches for the glove compartment.
“Whoa, whoa! I don’t want no trouble. I’m getting in... I’m getting in, alright?”
Ace slowly opens the car door and enters as the still unidentified man takes a packet of gum from the glovebox.
“Real leather? Mahogany? Man, this shit is fancy. Guess this mobster stuff pays well, huh?” says Ace, perhaps not understanding the gravity of the situation.
The passenger and the driver (a man pretty much identical to his counterpart) remain silent as the car pulls out of the parking space.
“So hey, are you Chevy Chase’s men? Because if you are, you tell him that I paid him alrea-“
“Shut up.”
“Sure,” replies Stevens, dejectedly.
Minutes pass, although they feel closer to hours. As the car weaves in and out of late-afternoon New York traffic, Stevens looks out of the window and begins to look back upon his life. His friends, his family, significant points in his young life - they all begin to swirl around in his head, creating captivating and thought-provoking images. His tenth birthday party (only managed to blow out nine of the candles, Funzie The Clown was drunk), his first kiss (Stephanie Lamont, 15, round the back of the science labs, too much saliva) and the time he won $100 dollars on the lottery (he was wearing his blue jumper). Some go-
“Get out.”
“Can you not interrupt me, bro?”
“I did not interrupt you.”
“Well, internally, you did. I was busy being nostalg-”
“Out,” says the gangster. This time his words bite much more.
“Sure,” replies Stevens, once again dejectedly.
Stevens leaves the vehicle and finds himself in a vast, derelict warehouse. A dark, empty space where the hustle and bustle of everyday life can only be heard faintly. This must be one of the most secluded areas in New York City.
“Hold up. I’ve figured it out. Are you Dice Clay’s guys? Haha, you are, aren’t you? Well you tell Dice that technically - technically - a joke can’t be owned. Okay? I mean man, Dice, why don’t you just get some new mater-”
“Shut up.”
“You’re gonna have to stop doing that.”
“What?” asks the heavy, in a rhetorical manner that is made all the more menacing by his cold, Russian accent.
“I mean, if you want to, of course.”
“I do not know this ‘Chevy Chase’ or the ‘Dice Clay’. We are here for wrestling.”
“Well, you’re outta luck, ‘cause I don’t do that no more,” replies Stevens, perhaps too defensively.
“See this leg? Broken. It don’t work like it used to. I couldn’t wrestle even if I wanted to.”
“But we have contract for you. WZCW.”
“Oh, you’re here because of wrestling. Gimme.”
The man hands over an envelope to Stevens, who subsequently tears it open to retrieve the document from within.
“Vega?” asks Ace, rhetorically.
“Who in the blue hell is ‘Vega’?”
“He good. Mayhem champion.”
“Oh, you like wrestling, huh? Who do you like? Maybe a, uh, former two-time Mayhem champion who happened to win on the grandest stage of them all last year? A man who fears nothing, a man who takes on all-comers? Do you like anyone like that?”
“I like Celeste Crimson.”
“Well sure, who doesn’t? She’s strong and Russian. And obviously... y’know... boobs and that.”
The Russian man does not respond, and simply walks back to his car. As he gets in the car, Ace asks another, more pertinent question.
“Hey, why couldn’t WZCW just e-mail me? Y’know isn’t this all a bit much, with the car, and the accents and stuff?”
“It secret. Maybe hacker.”
“Well why couldn’t I just have gone to the HQ?”
“TMZ.”
And with that, the two men drive away in their Chrysler, leaving Ace alone with his contract and future match information.
“Vega, huh? Time to make a few calls. Wait, why am I talking to myself... there’s no one here...”
---
-
Manhattan, New York
The Office of Lewis Middleton
-
As former personal assistant to
Ace Stevens,
Lewis Middleton, sits behind his desk in a leather swivel chair, his former client walks around the room, inspecting various trinkets and admiring the view of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
“This place is sweet. How’d ya’ get it?”
“Well you know Lindsay Lohan?”
“Star of seminal teen comedy, Mean Girls? Sure.”
“Yeah, well her father was looking for a new agent and guess who got the call.”
“You?”
“No, actually. Alan O’Malley - former PA of the fat one from the Backstreet Boys - did.”
“Right...”
“BUT HE GOT DIAGNOSED WITH M.E.! So guess who they called.”
“I’m gonna say you again.”
“And you would be correct,” reacts Middleton, reclining in his office chair.
“Great,” says Ace, his sentiment tinged with more than a little sarcasm.
“It really is.”
Silence befalls the situation for a few moments.
“So when are you gonna pack up your things?”
“What? Why?”
“When are you gonna pack up your things?” repeats Ace.
“I mean, Lohan’s pop gave you this place, right? He ain’t gonna let you stay here when you’re back working for me.”
“Working for you? I’m not going to come back to work for you. I’ve got a life here. A job. Michael even gave me a deluxe box of biscuits at Christmas. Deluxe. Do you really think that I would trade all that in to be belittled and humiliated by you in, let’s face it, the least tolerable of the five New York City boroughs?”
“Least tolerable? LEAST TOLERABLE?” the anger starts to build inside Ace. Criticism of his hometown simply does not fly in the world of the American Hero.
“BK has Coney Island. The Nets. It’s the birthplace of East Coast hip hop.”
“Yes, okay, but my point wa-”
“The Brooklyn Bridge is a majestic example of nineteenth century archietecture. We have Woody Allen. Sure he may have made Manhattan but boy oh boy was he made in BK. Neo-expressionist hero, Jean-Michel Basquiat was Brooklyn through and through. Steve Buscemi to this day calls the ‘Borough of Trees’ his home. Spike Lee-”
“Sorry, are you doing a commercial for them or something,” asks Middleton.
“THE COSBY SHOW!”
“Are you done?”
“I’d say I’ve made my point, yes” says Ace, satisfied with his defence of his own hometown.
“Look, I’m not going to work for you. It’s just not going to happen.”
“Then why the hell did you agree to see me?”
“Michael doesn’t get a lot of bookings. I’ve got to fill my day with more than just Solitaire and EastEnders. You're a welcome distraction.”
“See! I knew you were bored. You know you’d have a better time with me, Lulu. You love to be busy! Booking my travel, arranging my press thingies, doing my laundry - you couldn’t get enough of it!”
“Actually, yes I could. Believe it or not, but being your PA-cum-butler an-”
“Haha, ‘cum butler’...”
“...and listening to all of your dirty jokes, and dealing with all of your temper tantrums, and taking all of your putdowns, and getting paid a pittance just because I’m young - I could live without it.”
“So what do you want me to say? Sorry. Is that it? Because there, I said it. I’m sorry about how I used to treat you. I was young - I’d never had an assistant before. I was foolish and I took you for granted. Believe me when I say this: I really am sorry.”
This rare display of sincerity brings a smile to Lewis Middleton’s face.
“And you really mean that?”
“Yes. Hell, I miss you. I miss having you around. And it’s not just me, everyone down at the bar misses you too. Marty. Marty, Sr. Snuffy. Al. Leo. Little Moe, with the gimpy leg. Cheeks. Boney Bob. Cliff.”
“Even Cliff?”
“Especially Cliff.”
“Okay, look. This is a big decision for me. I need your assurance that things will change.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. I no longer want to be your personal assistant. I want to be your agent. That means better pay, more respect, more duties. Got it?”
“Twenty per cent of all earnings.”
“Fifteen.”
“Can you close the door on your way out? I need to find a way of getting Michael on Dr. Phil.”
“Okay, okay. Twenty,” concedes Ace.
“Then we have ourselves a deal” confirms Middleton, as the two men shake hands over the desk.
“I’ll just finish up my obligations here, and I’ll be back down in Brooklyn in a few days.”
“That's awesome, bro. Just one more thing before I go, though. You’ve been watching WZCW, right?”
“On and off.”
“What you know about Vega?”
“Oh, he’s good. Mayhem champion.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Why do you want to know? Thinking about reclaiming your old title?”
“He’s my first match back.”
“You’re going up against him? Are you sure you shouldn’t be fighting with him? You two are like peas in a pod.”
“How so?” enquires Ace.
“He’s a professional conman. A thief. And we both know how you’re partial to a bit of that.”
“Hey, I've gone straight now. But I get your point.”
“But this guy takes it to a different level. You know the kind of criminal you see in heist movies? The guy who goes around the world having these crazy adventures and not getting caught? The guy who is almost always played by Johnny Depp? He’s like that. But he’s walking, talking and willing to do anything to beat you.”
“So what? I’ll out-smart him. I’ll out-cheat him. It’ll be fine.”
Lewis Middleton reacts solemnly and quietly.
“That’s the problem. I don’t think you can.”
Ace nods his gently, accepting his agent’s judgement.
“Okay. I respect your opinion, Lewis. I really do. Vega sounds like tricky customer. I can only hope I’ll find a way. Keep in touch, yeah?”
“Of course.”
The two men shake hands again, and Stevens exits the office in an uncharacteristically downbeat fashion.
“Oh, before I go,” says Ace, peeking his head around the door.
“Have you got the time?”
“Sure,” says Middleton as he lifts up the left sleeve of his suit.
“Wait, where’s my watch?” He begins searching his desk, looking for his missing timepiece.
“Ace, have you seen my-”
Middleton looks up to see Ace Stevens standing in his doorway, with a wide grin and his watch in his right hand.
“Yeah, I’m gonna keep this as punishment for you doubting me, kiddo. Laters.”
Ace walks away, leaving his own agent watchless.
“It’s good to be back...”
