Night Work

CHAPTER 9

The digital alarm clock on the dresser read 3:18 p.m. With the shades on both windows drawn and the bedroom door open just a crack it might've been the middle of the night.

Frank rolled over, the soft mattress complying with the contours of his aching lower back. It had been unseasonably cold that night, and he'd used the top sheet when first slipping into bed, but the dense humidity typical of even coastal Massachusetts in July had returned with a vengeance. His underarms were sticky; the black hair across his chest and stomach moist and matted with sweat, and his throat was parched and mucky from too many cigarettes the night before.

It had been a quiet ride back from Connecticut. The drive home at the end of a tour always was. It seemed Frank lived a great deal of his life in cars these days, roaming the countryside like some modern day Gypsy, but any romanticism he'd associated with the lifestyle early on experience had taught him to dismiss as little more than wishful thinking. Going on tour was work – plain and simple – and it usually took a day or two to recover from it. No matter how much money the run yielded or the amount of enjoyment the participants derived from it, exhaustion eventually won out every time. Only a mark would fail to return home as limp and rung out as a used dishrag; a true professional left everything he had on the road.

As he lay there in the darkened room, still not completely awake, Frank tried to remember if a nightmare had been responsible for so abruptly interrupting his slumber. A maelstrom of varied thoughts served only to further cloud his mind, so he reached over to the nightstand for his wristwatch.

Frank heard movement in the kitchen. The bedroom door opened slowly, and Sandy entered the room wearing a top to one of her bikini swimsuits and a pair of cut-off jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place by a plastic clip, and her face bore almost no makeup – her smooth complexion as pristine as a child's. Frank detected the pleasant scent of her cologne as she padded barefoot across the carpeting and sat next to him on the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing home?"

"I took a personal day," she said, her hand touching his bare shoulder. "I thought it might be nice to spend a little time together. I knew you'd be spent but I didn't think you'd sleep all afternoon."

"Sorry."

"I must have been dead to the world when you got home, I never even heard you come to bed. What time did you get in?"

"A little after two."

"Wasn't the last show a matinee?"

"Yeah, but we had an end-of-tour party."

She smiled and shook her head. "You guys throw more parties than the Rolling Stones."

Frank sat up a bit and rubbed his eyes. "I'm wrecked."

"How did the tour go?"

He motioned to a stack of money he'd tossed onto the dresser the night before. "Good."

"I saw that," she nodded. "We didn't have much in the house so I took a couple hundred and went grocery shopping this morning."

"You didn't wear that outfit did you?"

"Comes in handy when I'm low on double coupons," she laughed.

Frank reached around behind her and unhooked her top. She leaned forward and it fell into her lap. His eyes consumed her before his hands did, before his mouth did, before they made love for hours, stopping only long enough to recuperate and begin again.

When it was over they remained in each other's arms despite the heat, their bodies slick and glistening. Frank listened to his chest wheeze with every breath and wondered if he'd ever quit smoking.

"Are you awake?" he eventually asked. She nodded her head without raising it from his chest. "Did you think to call the real estate agent while I was gone?"

"Uh-huh."

"Anything reasonable in house rentals?"

"Two here in town," she said in a dreamy voice. "A nice two-bedroom on Piney Nook – you know, the cul-de-sac over by the Mobile station – and another in the center of town."

Frank wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. "I've got five days before I go on the road again. We better make appointments to look at them this week."

"Are you sure we can afford a house?"

"Of course," he said playfully, stroking her shoulder. "And that's just one of the perks being married to a wildly successful businessman like myself."

Sandy looked up at him and blinked her emerald eyes. "Is that what you are, Frank?"

"Most of the time."

"What about all the other hours in the day?"

His hand slid down into the crack of her ass. "Whatever I need to be."

"I need to know that you're all right."

"I'm fine, honey," he said, after a moment. "It's just that what I do can be difficult at times."

"Want to tell me about it?"

Frank kissed her forehead. "No."

"Why do you shut me out like that?"

"With knowledge comes responsibility, Sandy. I don't want you exposed to the business. Trust me, it's better this way."

She sighed, and Frank felt her hot breath against his skin. "But it's such a big part of your life now. I've spoken to Charlie Rain a few times on the phone, but I've never even met him. I don't know any of the guys you work with."

"They're not your kind of people."

Sandy rolled over onto her stomach, squashing her breasts against him. "I know I haven't been terribly supportive, but I'm not asking you to make me your business partner, Frank. All I'm saying is that I'd like to be more involved in your affairs. The way it works now, you take a call here at home now and then, go off to the office, pack your bags and take off for a week or two, and then you come home and throw a few thousand dollars at me. You've never discussed even the most trivial aspects of what goes on."

"It's not always pleasant."

"That much is clear."

Frank winced. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's written all over your face."

A while later he spoke again. "There's good and bad in it like anything else, but I love the business."

Sandy's eyes had not left him. "Do you?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I'm just not sure that's necessarily a good thing. If a couple of years ago you'd asked me if I were capable of some of the things I've already done, I'd have sworn I wasn't… But it's like we've got our own little world, you know? The only rules are the ones we make, and that can get dangerous in a hurry."

Her hands cupped his face. "I don't want to lose you to that world, Frank. If – God forbid – anything ever happened to you, or if you got into serious trouble with the law and had to go to jail, I… I don't know what I'd do."

"It's nothing that dramatic," he assured her, disturbed by the ease with which he'd lied. "A good deal of the business is turning your head and looking the other way."

"But where does that end?"

Frank found cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. "Once we're more established," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke across the room, "I won't have to spend so much time on the road, which means I won't have to be involved in the things that go along with it. We plan to put a TV show together soon, and that'll not only increase business, it'll make us more powerful. In another year or two the ECPWL will be a national promotion – eventually even international – and when that happens you and I will be set for the rest of our lives."

She smiled. "I could quit my job."

"You can do that now."

"And what if things don't go according to plan?"

"They will."

"But what if – "

"They will."

Sandy nodded, casually tracing the outer edge of his nipple with her index finger. "I miss you when you're gone."

"I don't like being apart any more than you do, honey."

"Sure," she joked. "You've probably got a girlfriend in every town."

He slapped her bottom. "Do be ridiculous. Every other town."

"Asshole."

Frank ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. He and Vincent had decided to wait to make their move on Turano until after the next tour had ended. The tour itself was scheduled to run three weeks, and it would probably take approximately the same amount of time to amply prepare for the move against their rival. The risk of things getting rough was still a couple of months away.

"The Saturday after I get back from Indiana, Charlie and his wife are having a party at their place," he said rather hesitantly. "Do you want to go?"

She eyed him with uncertainty. "Was I invited?"

"I wouldn't be asking otherwise."

"Is Vincent going to be there?"

"No."

"How about Gus?"

"No, just a few couples."

"New York's a long way to go for a party."

"It's just over the Connecticut border." Frank shrugged. "Charlie offered to put us up for the night. It's no big deal, I just though I'd mention it."

"Sure," she said. "Let's go."

Music began thumping through the wall from the apartment next door. Sandy rolled off of him and strode to the closet for her summer robe. "What was that? You want to take me out for dinner? Let me take a quick shower and I'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Deal."

Frank heard the rumble of the shower, the rattling of pipes in the wall, the incessant beat of the funky tune next door, and decided he'd call the real estate agent personally.

Gus picked Kathleen up out in front of her apartment in New Bedford's south end, parked at the corner and hit the horn as he always did. He'd asked her several times to let him go to the door and call on her properly, but she'd explained that she and her daughter shared the place with a roommate, another working girl who didn't take kindly to strangers. Although the awkward arrangements made him angry, it had been several years since he'd had even a legitimate date with a woman, much less an ongoing relationship of any value with one, and Gus didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize things between them.

As he waited, a junkie who had been watching him from across the street since he'd arrived staggered up to his GMC Jimmy. "Hey, buddy, you got a quarter?"

"Yeah," Gus smiled. "Got a couple of them. Fuck off."

The door to the apartment building opened and Kathleen appeared on the front steps looking as if she hadn't gotten much sleep. Gus jumped from the car and bolted around to the passenger-side door so he could open it for her.

"Hi, babe," he said, kissing her on the cheek.

She climbed into the Jimmy and lit a cigarette. "What the hell was so important that you had to see me so fucking early?"

"Come on, hon, watch the language, that's no way for a nice girl to talk."

She stared at him, bleary-eyed. "Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me you're fucking kidding me. What are you, a retard?"

Gus got back behind the wheel and headed for the highway. Frank and Vincent had left for Pennsylvania the night before and he knew that until nine o'clock, when the secretary and two telemarketing salespeople working under him showed up, he'd have the office to himself. "I thought you might like to see where I work."

"I know what an office looks like, Gus."

"After I show you around I thought we'd go get some breakfast. Sound good?"

"Sure," she moaned. "Whatever."

"I decided to skip this tour. I'll probably check in on things from time to time just to make sure nobody's slacking off, but I'm too damn busy running the business to go on the road. Besides, after what happened the last time I've got to be real careful. After the show in Connecticut me and the boys stopped to get a bite to eat and ran into a load of trouble."

"Yeah?" She yawned.

"Five rednecks decided to give us some shit." He shook his head in disgust and tried his best to recall the details of the story Vincent had told him about the incident in the diner. "Naturally, everybody looked to me to handle it, being the muscle and all. Anyway, took one guy's knee out with a thrust kick, broke another guy's jaw with a spinning back-fist. That was enough to convince the other three guys that they'd picked the wrong dude to fuck with."

They arrived at the office a few minutes later and Gus proudly gave her the grand tour, leaving his work area for last. He insisted Kathleen sit in his leather swivel and put her feet up on his desk.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he said.

She forced a smile. "Sure."

"Anyway, this is the place. My place."

"And those guys you talk about all the time – Frank and Vin – they're your partners?"

Gus sat on the corner of his desk. "Yeah, we're partners, but I'm still the boss."

"I admit it." Kathleen glanced around the office. "I'm impressed."

"There's still time before anybody else shows up," Gus said, moving closer. "Ever done it in an office?"

Kathleen leaned back in the chair, away from his advances. "You're gonna have to help me out with a little something." He frowned, stared at her with confusion. "I thought you said you wanted me to be your girl?"

He nodded. "I do."

"You wanted me to try not to work as much, remember?" Gus nodded again. "I got bills. I got to pay half the rent and half the utilities. Tiffany needs new clothes, and I – "

Gus pulled out his wallet. "Here's fifty – "

"Fifty?"

" – and another thirty."

"I can make that sucking cock on the street in less than an hour."

"Jesus, why do you have to say shit like – just don't say things like that."

"Eighty bucks ain't gonna cut it, Gus."

"That's all I've got."

Kathleen dropped the cash on the desk as if it were diseased and folded her arms across her chest. "This isn't gonna work out, Gus. Maybe you should just take me home."

"Take it easy, babe," he said through a nervous laugh. "I can go to the ATM – no problem. Jesus, lighten up."

She pushed out her lower lip and pouted. "I'm sorry. It's just that I thought you were different from all the others."

He crouched next to her. "I am."

"Then why won't you help me? Why won't you take care of me? You know I got bills, Gus. I got a daughter and she needs things, you understand? Kids are expensive. I wanna be with you, you know that."

"I'll make it right," he muttered, his mind racing.

"I really care about you," she said, "and I thought you felt the same way about me."

Gus stood up, lit a cigarette and began to pace in front of his desk. Things had to change soon. Frank was going to have to sit Vincent down and explain to him that it was time for the business to be split three ways. He'd worked hard and done everything asked of him for more than a year. He'd earned the right to be a full partner, and for the first time in his life Gus feared this might be his last shot at real happiness. There could be no more delays. He needed to move up and he needed to do it now. He assured himself he would speak to Frank the moment he returned from Indiana.

"Don't you care about me at all?" Kathleen asked softly.

He hesitated, looked her in the eye. "I love you."

Her mouth fell open. "You do?"

"I've never told a woman that before." He'd never meant it before, at least that much was true. "I'm about to make some moves that'll make me a very powerful man, babe. When that happens, I want us to be together."

Kathleen slid the money into her purse and moved around to the front of the desk. "Let's stop at the ATM," she smiled, snaking her arms around his neck, "then go back to your place and have breakfast in bed."

The first leg of the tour, four shots spread out over six nights in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, went off without a hitch. They played mostly rural, depressed areas, but the stands were packed, the sponsors made money, and in all but one case return dates for the following year were secured.

There were two more stops, followed by a shot in Youngstown, Ohio, before they crossed the border into Indiana. It was an exhausting tour with a lot of downtime between shots spent partying in a string of motels that all looked the same, and several boring hours logged in a caravan of cars. David Delvecchio, as strung out as ever, pulled up the rear in his battered Ford Bronco, the disassembled ring in tow.

With one exception, the talent remained the same throughout the tour. Nick Strong was a headliner who had worked the major federations for decades and had only recently made his services available to the independent circuit. Because one could never be sure how some of the bigger stars were to work with, Charlie seldom booked wrestlers he hadn't used before, but in order to close the deal, Frank had promised Strong in the main event.

The move turned out to be something of a coup. In booking Strong the ECPWL became the first independent promotion to do so, and with the drawing power his name still generated, the shot – a fund-raiser financed by a group of businessmen and scheduled to be held outdoors on a high school football field – had sold over five thousand tickets after only a month of promotion.

Arrangements had been made to fly Strong in from his home in Atlanta to Indianapolis International Airport. Frank would pick him up at his hotel and drive him to the event in Singleton, a town about thirty minutes away.

Frank got to the hotel just before five and asked a woman at the front desk to call Strong's room and notify him that his ride had arrived.

The woman promptly made the call. "Of course, sir," she said, returning the phone to its cradle. "Mr. Strong said to tell you he's not quite ready, and he asked you to join him in his room."

Following the directions she'd given him, Frank rode the elevator to the second floor. Nick Strong had always been one of his favorites, and Frank couldn't wait to meet him.

A former Olympic boxer in the light heavyweight division, Strong (then known by his real name, Nicholas Strazinski) had come within one match of winning a bronze metal in 1968 in Mexico City at the age of twenty. With much fanfare he turned professional in 1969 and had a respectable though less-than-dazzling career as a heavyweight, being dubbed one in a string of many great white hopes for a time. But his biggest claim to fame came in defeat in 1973 when he was viciously knocked out by another contender on national television on an under-card featuring then heavyweight champion and boxing legend "Smokin'" Joe Frazier. Strong retired not long after, and, to the horror of many boxing purists, decided to embark on a career as a professional wrestler.

Ironically, it was as a wrestler that Nick Strong found fame and fortune. Working as a baby headliner in the United States, Europe, Japan, and even the Middle East, he became an international star adored by millions of wrestling fans. But at forty-two, the glory days were drawing to a close for Strong, and his descent to the ranks of the independents was only the beginning.

Frank hesitated at the door then knocked lightly. It swung open almost immediately to reveal a man well over six feet tall with bright blue eyes and a mane of bleached-blond hair nearly to his shoulders. Dressed in a satin robe and slippers, he was a bit older and his body wasn't quite as impressive as the one he'd displayed in his prime, but there was no mistaking who he was.

"Mr. Strong – "

"Nick."

"Nick." Frank smiled and they shook hands. "I'm Charlie Rain's partner, Frank Ponte."

"Great!" he said enthusiastically. "I'm running a little late, come on in for a minute."

The big man moved out of the way and Frank entered the room. Sitting directly in front of him at the foot of the bed was a girl not yet in her teens. Her hair was long and blonde; she wore heavy makeup, and had light, sleepy eyes.

"Hi." Her wide smiled exposed a mouth full of braces.

Frank hadn't expected anyone else in the room and tried to mask his surprise. "Hello."

"Sweetie," Strong said abruptly, "do me a favor and go make a tinkle or something, okay?"

The girl got up without response and strolled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

"Your daughter?" Frank asked.

Strong gave him a playful elbow to the ribs. "Better not be."

Frank looked at him, uncertain. "I don't get it."

"I've known her mother for years." Strong moved to the bureau and pulled a joint out of a large gym bag and lit it. "Shit, I've known the kid since she was five or six. I've been working Indianapolis since Christ was a corporal. I used to fuck the mother but she ain't what she used to be. But see, the beauty part is, to these fucking hicks I'm like a big deal – a god, almost, you know? – big fucking celebrity. Being with me, near me – whatever – is like the closest any of them every get to the big time themselves, understand? So now, whenever I'm in town these days I have her drop the kid off for me. Like mother like daughter. She's a hot little piece, huh?"

Frank couldn't believe what he was hearing. "We're talking about a little girl, for Christ's sake."

"Just turned twelve." He chuckled and took a hard hit on the joint. "Hey, old enough to bleed, old enough to breed, baby."

"Are you serious?"

Strong looked confused. "What's the problem, Frank? What… you want some too?"

"You stay the hell away from her," Frank said, moving toward the bathroom. Before he reached the door, it opened and the girl poked her head out. "Honey, come on with me. I'll take you down to the lobby and we can call somebody."

She looked at Strong. "What the fuck's his problem?"

Stunned, Frank froze in mid-step. Strong flashed her an angry look and she disappeared back behind the bathroom door.

"You're not gonna touch that kid," Frank told him.

"Oh really?" Strong laughed. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to?"

It was a good question. Frank studied him without bothering to hide the disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't have to take this shit." Strong stabbed a finger at the air between them. "I'm gonna talk to Charlie about this."

"Go right ahead. Charlie works for me."

"That's not how I heard it."

"Then you heard it wrong."

"Here's what's gonna happen, slick." Strong butted the joint in an ashtray and put his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out like Frank had seen him do on television dozens of times. "You either shut the fuck up, mind your business and go wait for me in the car, or you can pay me my money and cart my ass back to the airport right now."

Frank saw himself peeling off the cash from the roll in his pocket, throwing it at the bastard and telling him to drive himself.

In reality, all he did was stand and stare.

"I heard the shot's a sell out. What you got – fifty, fifty-five grand in gate receipts? How much of that goes in your pocket?" Strong smiled. "You wanna go tell five thousand screaming fans why the guy they came to see – the guy they paid to see – ain't there? Face it, without me you got a card that couldn't draw flies, asshole."

Their eyes remained locked for what seemed an eternity.

"I'll be in the bar," Frank heard himself say, wishing it was someone else's voice instead of his own. "Hurry up."

Despite the two drinks he'd had at the hotel, Frank still couldn't relax, and the drive to the venue turned out to be the longest thirty minutes of his life. Frank tried to distract himself by concentrating on the seemingly endless expanse of utterly flat land that surrounded them, but the foreign surroundings only served to heighten his discomfort.

He thought back to the hotel cocktail lounge. A flashy bar and a cluster of tables separated by a small dance floor and a riser on which live bands apparently played on occasion. Quiet, nearly empty, a young bartender worked busily, wiping down an already pristine counter. The only light came from the mirrored bar and candles encased in glass fixtures on each table, yet an overall element of darkness prevailed. Like wandering into a cave of sorts, Frank had thought. And upon seeing the patrons – the early birds, who by their very presence interrupted the sanctity of such a setting – he understood why. Those quiet moments before a bar is invaded with noise and too many people and everything that turns it from a sanctuary to just one more thing to run from was lost. The aging salesman slumped at the bar and staring down at his drink through already bloodshot eyes, suit wrinkled, body worn, doing time. The bored housewife with a new hairdo, pretending to be staying at the hotel, positioned at a table clearly visible to all who enter, her best and lowest-cut dress bathed in flickering candlelight, her smile coy but not too, for fear she might be ignored altogether. And Frank, just another customer at The Stereotype Bar and Grill, he'd thought. Yet sometimes such things were true. Fear, however played out or displayed, was as real as anything else.

They arrived at dusk, and drove onto the school grounds, past the football field. The ring had been assembled on the fifty-yard line and was surrounded by a sea of fans in folding chairs and crowded onto portable bleachers. The bright stadium lights cut through the haze of increasing darkness, casting a surreal glow over the entire area.

Frank drove behind the main school building and parked just outside the rear entrance to the locker room, where they were greeted and escorted inside by Charlie and Vincent.

"We were beginning to get nervous," Charlie admitted as he shook Strong's hand.

"All my fault," he said graciously. "I was running late."

"Welcome to the ECPWL," Vincent smiled.

"I appreciate you having me, brother."

"I need a favor, Nick," Charlie told him. "There's a group of kids here from some don't-drink-and-drive organization that wanted to know if you could make some time for them after the show. Just a couple pictures and autographs – nothing heavy."

Strong beamed. "Be happy to, man." He looked at Frank and winked. "Hell, I love kids."

"Terrific." Charlie took him by the elbow and led him off to meet Luther and some of the other boys. Vincent noticed something wrong in Frank's demeanor and remained behind.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine," Frank said irritably.

"Then why do you look like you've got a bug the size of my fist jammed up your ass?"

"Don't I always look like that?"

Vincent glanced around, lowered his voice. "Seriously, what's the matter?"

"How long until we roll?"

Vincent dismissed Frank's reaction with a shrug and checked his watch. "About five minutes."

"I'm doing Time tonight. I'll see you at ringside."

Because there was a distance of more than fifty yards from the locker room to the ring, a fleet of golf carts staffed with drivers from Benny's security crew had been parked outside the school building to shuttle the participants back and forth. Frank declined a ride and took the long walk across the edge of the field and down the main aisle, feeling the eyes of thousands in attendance upon him. Several people waved banners and signs; others shouted to him, asking if Nick Strong had arrived yet and when the show was going to begin.

Frank moved across the grassy field to the table at ringside and took his seat in front of the bell and hammer he used to signal the beginning and end of each match. He leaned back a bit in his chair and scanned the crowd, unable to resist the lure of the electricity in the air, and wondered if this was the way he'd live his life forever.

In the opening bout, The Puma pinned Diablo Gonzalez as usual. A few matches later, the Mongolian Crusher nearly caused a riot when he was disqualified for hitting Private Sean Powers with a chair and splitting his head wide open. Delta Diamond whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a close but successful defense of her title, and Luther Jefferson followed suit, disposing of The Lariat in typical dramatic fashion.

Nick Strong was scheduled to square off against a veteran heel known as The Hangman. Both were known for their incredible stamina, and had met countless times in the past in bouts memorable for their constant action. Frank estimated the main event to run roughly thirty minutes, and had worked out a series of signals with referee Al Sawyer beforehand.

Because there were no score boards that displayed running time at wrestling events, the timekeeper used subtle hand signals to alert the referee as to the amount of time that had elapsed once a bout was underway. Throughout the course of every match there were various points where one combatant put the other in a hold and remained there long enough for both wrestlers to catch their breath. While this was happening, the referee glanced down at the timekeeper for instruction, who casually scratched the side of his nose with a single finger if five minutes had elapsed, two fingers if ten minutes had elapsed, and so on. The referee would then turn back to the wrestlers, position himself as closely to them as possible, and while pretending to check the hold, relay the appropriate information. If a match was running long and the timekeeper wanted it to end, he nonchalantly gave his earlobe a tug. The referee would then tell the wrestlers to take it home.

Many headliners in the independent circuit, particularly veterans, had a habit of working light, which meant their walk to the ring often lasted longer than the actual match. But, since this was Nick Strong's first appearance in the ECPWL, and because he had been paid nearly three times what most independent headliners earned, everyone at the ringside table settled in for a match they expected would be a lengthy but exciting finale to what had already been an action-packed evening.

The Hangman entered to a chorus of jeers, stepped into the ring and began pointing and hurling insults at various people in the crowd.

Charlie announced Nick Strong and Strong jumped from the golf cart and sprinted down the aisle dressed in red, white and blue trunks and a T-shirt with the Olympic games logo on the front. The crowd was deafening as he climbed through the ropes, gave his opponent a nasty scowl, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it to a young fan at ringside.

Just as the crowd began to die down, Strong clapped his hands, stomped his foot and screamed, "U-S-A! U-S-A!" In seconds, thousands of fans were doing the same.

Frank leaned over as Charlie took his seat at the table. "Is this guy ever gonna wrestle?"

"He's a pro, Frank. Look at the marks. They're wetting their pants."

Once Strong had milked his entrance for everything it was worth, Al Sawyer quickly checked his boots and trunks for any foreign objects, then looked down at Frank and asked for the opening bell.

The first five minutes of the match were spectacular, but to the crowd's dismay, the Hangman had had the upper hand from the start. He scooped Strong up, slammed him to the canvas, and then joined him on the mat so he could apply a headlock and get a quick rest. Al got down next to them on one knee, asked Strong if he wanted to submit, then turned and looked at Frank. "He says, no!" he shouted above the crowd. "Don't ring that bell!"

Frank nodded, scratched his nose with the tip of his finger, and Al whirled back around to face the wrestlers. "You sure you're okay, Strong?" he shouted, then quietly, "Five minutes, boys."

Strong suddenly reversed the move and threw the Hangman into the ropes, dropping him with a flying clothesline. His opponent crashed to the mat and Strong quickly covered him. Al slid over next to them and began the count, calling out the numbers and slamming his hand on the mat. "One…! Two…!" and, realizing that the Hangman had no intention of kicking out of the pin, "Three!"

The crowd, violently upset with the main event they had waited all night to see, began booing and throwing things at the ring.

Frank looked to Charlie. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Charlie stood up, grabbed the microphone. "Maybe one of them are really hurt. What's the time?"

Frank glared at him. "Five minutes, twenty seconds."

Before the announcement could be made, Benny and the other security people surrounded the ring and hurried the wrestlers and ringside personnel back down the aisle and into the golf carts.

Nick Strong was standing by his locker toweling off what little sweat he'd worked up when Charlie and Vincent finally made it back to the relative safety of the dressing room. The other wrestlers gave them a wide berth.

"Nick," Charlie said, still out of breath. "What happened, everything all right?"

Strong shrugged. "What do you mean?"

"We were expecting a few more minutes out of you," Vincent told him in a guarded tone.

The door burst open, and Frank charged into the room. "You sonofabitch! What the fuck was that?"

"Frank," Charlie said, giving him the eye, "take it easy."

Strong laughed lightly. "Hey, the marks paid to see Nick Strong wrestle and that's exactly what they got."

"You worked five fucking minutes," Frank snapped. "Do you hear that crowd out there? It'll be a miracle if we don't end up with a riot on our hands."

"You're the boss," Strong grinned. "Sounds like your problem to me."

"You motherfucker." Frank rushed him but Vincent quickly stepped in and restrained him.

"Let him go. Come on, asshole, you want some of me? I'm standing right here, brother, bring it. I'll kick your ass six ways to fucking Sunday, moron. I'm right here."

Frank struggled to break free but Vincent's grip was far too powerful. "Get him out," Charlie said. "For Christ's sake, Vin, get him out!"

Vincent dragged Frank back out through the locker room door and pushed him into a small but deep alley between two of the buildings. "Goddamn it, take it easy!" He brushed some sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and took a deep breath. "Christ, what the hell's the matter with you?"

"That sonofabitch fucked us."

"No shit." Vincent sighed. "But that's not the way you handle things. Jesus, have you lost your fucking mind?"

Despite the violence with which his hands were shaking, Frank managed to light a cigarette, then nearly gagged on the initial drag. "He made us all look like assholes."

Vincent unhooked the button holding his double-breasted suit jacket closed and put his hands on his hips. "This was a one-time shot. We weren't planning on coming back anyway."

"That's not the point."

"We put some serious coin in our pocket tonight whether Nick Strong works five minutes or three hours," Vincent said evenly. "That's the fucking point."

Frank glared at him. "It's not always about the money."

"Oh, yes it is." Vincent spat on the pavement. "Do you have any idea what you just did back there could cost us?"

"Fuck him."

"You're acting like a mark, Frank. Do you realize how many people Nick Strong knows? Almost every major headliner in the business is a personal friend with the guy. If he puts the word out that we're a bunch of assholes to work for we'll be running shots with people nobody's ever heard of. You've seen how these pricks all stick together." Vincent loosened his tie with an angry tug. "As it is, Strong will never work for us again."

Frank flicked his cigarette away and stepped closer. "You're goddamn right he won't."

"Did I miss something?" Vincent asked him. "I mean, is it just me or did you go fucking psychotic all of a sudden?"

Frank stared at the ground. "You don't understand."

"Maybe you're just drunk."

"Drunk? What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"I wasn't gonna say nothing, but you've been drinking like a fish lately – and not just during off time like most of the guys. You showed up tonight smelling like a package store."

"I had two drinks at the hotel."

"That's two too many before a shot."

"What are you now, my mother?"

"I'm trying to be your friend, Frank."

A police siren wailed in the distance, and the angry crowd could still be heard from the field and surrounding parking lots. Frank leaned back against the wall and said nothing.

"Did something happen at the hotel between you two?"

"When I got there he had a girl in the room with him."

"So?"

"A little girl."

"And?"

"He was banging her, Vin."

Vincent shrugged. "How is that any of our business?"

"Did you hear what I said?" Frank pushed himself away from the wall. "He was banging a twelve-year-old kid."

"I don't give a shit if he was blowing a pony. Who cares?"

Their eyes locked. "I care."

"Look," Vincent said through a heavy sigh, "I know it's fucked up and I'm not saying it's right and that it don't gross me out, but so what? This is the business, man, and you've been around it long enough to know there's lots of crazy shit that goes on. It's the nature of the beast, Frank. Don't let yourself get caught up in some stupid ass moral dilemma. That's strictly for marks."

"I can look the other way on a lot of things, Vin," Frank told him, "but there's a limit. There has to be a limit."

"So you're willing to risk everything we've worked for because some kid you don't even know – that you'll probably never see again for the rest of your life – might have been smoking Strong's pole?" Vincent wandered closer to the mouth of the alley. "For Christ's sake, use your fucking head."

Frank lit another cigarette. It suddenly felt as if the walls had closed in tighter around him. "Maybe I don't know what I'm doing anymore," he said softly.

"We've worked so hard," Vincent told him. "We've pulled off something really special here. A year and a half ago we were nobody, and now we're on the verge of becoming a major power. The only reason we've been so successful is because we have each other. You've seen how this business is. Everybody's just waiting around to cut somebody else's throat the first chance they get – you can't trust anybody. But you and I have never had to worry about that because there's no room between us. We look out for each other, we watch each other's backs."

Frank nodded. "I know, I know."

"You're like a brother to me," Vincent said. "But let me make one thing crystal fucking clear to you. If you think for one second that I ever plan to go back to selling cars and running errands for Michael, then you're out of your goddamn mind. Don't you understand that I'd do everything in my power to prevent that from ever happening? Can you even imagine working in some piece of shit store again now that you've seen how to really live?"

"No," Frank admitted.

"With all the moves we've got planned, a year from now we'll be set for the rest of our lives. We'll have so much money we won't know what to do with it. But it'll only happen if we're there for each other. If you're gonna crumble on me – if you can't handle the life anymore – I need to know that, and I need to know it now. I can't do this alone."

Frank looked at him. "Of course I can handle it."

"Why do you think people in this business only hang out with other people in this business?" Vincent asked, his tone softening somewhat. "It's because we're different than the marks. We've figured something out they never will. To an outsider a lot of what goes on seems fucked up beyond belief, but if you only move in a circle where all those things are commonplace, a lot of the bad shit starts to seem normal. Nobody's ever there to point out how crazy things are, you follow me? That's the power of the business. It's what I love about it – it's what we all love about it. You've got to learn not to fight it so hard. Accept it. Use it. Trust me, the deeper we get into this life, the more powerful we'll get, and the easier it'll be to write off things like this crap today as just another night at the office. And you know what? That's all it'll be."

Frank was still absorbing what Vincent had said when he saw Benny appear at the end of the alley. His chest was heaving with each labored breath and his face was flushed. "Things are going nuts. The cops already busted a few people but the crowd's out of control. You better either get back in that locker room or take the money and run, fellas."

"Bring one of the cars around," Vincent told him, then turned back to Frank. "Look, go on back to the hotel and relax. I'll straighten things out here and do my best to smooth this over with Strong. I'll meet you and the rest of the boys at the hotel and we'll have an end-of-tour bash that'll leave us so fucked up it'll be like none of this shit ever happened. In a couple days you'll be home with the wife, and we don't hit the road again until the middle of September. That's six weeks. Plenty of time to get your head together."

"Yeah," Frank said, offering his hand. "I'm sorry."

Vincent took Frank's hand as if to shake it, then pulled him close and hugged him. "Nothing can hurt us as long as we're there for each other," he whispered in Frank's ear. "Are you there for me?"

"Yes," Frank whispered back. "Yes."

By two o'clock the party in Frank and Vincent's room had died down. Charlie, Al Sawyer, and Larry O'Leary were the only ones still there, and since all the liquor on hand had been consumed it was nearly a wrap.

Vincent had been fiddling with a small black box on top of the television that promised a wide selection of movies with the touch of a button. "I can't get this fucking thing to work. I don't ever wanna come to Indiana again. Five thousand fans and not one good-looking whore that wanted to put out in the bunch."

"What're they offering for movies?" Charlie asked.

"I'm trying to punch up Disco Sluts. Looks good."

"Oh yeah, that's a classic," Al laughed.

"Orson Welles directed that, didn't he?" Charlie wandered over to where Frank was sitting. "How you doing, killer?"

Frank swallowed what was left of his vodka and smirked. "Go fuck yourself."

Charlie sat down next to him. "I know this isn't the best time to bring this up," he said in a hushed voice, "but have there been any developments on that other business?"

"You mean the thing we have to take care of in Philly?"

Charlie nodded.

"I thought you didn't want to know anything."

"No specifics."

"There's no word yet," Frank told him. "I'll see what I can find out and let you know at the party next week."

Charlie's eyes brightened. "We can expect you then?"

"Expect us. Sandy's coming, too."

"Great, look forward to meeting her." Charlie stood up and gave Frank a pat on the shoulder and a conspiratorial wink. "Well, gentlemen, I've had enough of all of you for one night. I'm going to bed."

Once he'd gone, Vincent continued struggling with the box while Al and Larry joined Frank at a small table in the corner of the room. "I'm sorry about tonight," Al said meekly.

Frank waved at him. "Wasn't your fault."

"Strong told me he was going to do at least twenty minutes."

"Don't sweat it."

Al shook his head. "When the Hangman didn't kick out I couldn't believe it. I kept waiting but the bastard never moved. Maybe I should've held the count a few more seconds."

No longer wishing to discuss it, Frank turned to Larry, who was sporting a fresh bandage over the latest gash on his forehead. "How you holding up?"

"I'm fine," he said quietly. Soft spoken when he was sober, Larry became nearly inaudible when drunk.

"It's none of my business," Al yawned, "and I probably wouldn't even say anything if I wasn't shit-faced, but you better be careful about how often you juice, kid. If you get tagged as a bleeder the fans will expect it every time, and a pretty-boy like you – no offense – can't afford to have his face covered in scar tissue. It'll ruin your whole gimmick."

"Hey, Al?" Vincent interjected from across the room.

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Al laughed, and Larry smiled, his eyes searching Frank's. "I'm just a min. I only do what I'm told."

There was a sudden knock at the door. Vincent approached it cautiously. "Who is it?"

A slurred and muffled voice answered, "It's me, man."

Vincent opened the door. David Delvecchio stood before him wearing only a pair of filthy jeans. "It's after two, what's wrong?"

"I'm a couple doors down from you guys," he said. Standing had become a challenge for him, and he rubbed at the track marks in the bend of his arm. "You got me rooming with The Mongolian Crusher and he just clogged the shitter, dude. I gotta hang a dump something fierce, boss. Can I use your bathroom?"

Vincent slammed the door in his face and the others burst into laughter.

Al struggled to his feet. "On that note, I'm going to call it a night."

As Al left Frank turned to Larry. "I think I'll grab a quick shower and hit the rack myself."

"I don't blame you." Larry touched Frank's forearm, his hand lingering there. "I'm tired too, but… I could stay if you want."

Frank laughed then nervously lit a cigarette as he realized the offer had not been an attempt at humor. "Hey, I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't flattered, but – "

"I understand." Larry smiled, stood up, and shook Frank's hand. "No hard feelings. Thanks for the work, boss."

Frank nodded. "See ya on the road."

As the door closed behind Larry, Vincent turned from the TV and grinned at Frank. "Did I hear what I think I just heard?"

"What can I tell ya? The kid's got good taste."

Vincent scratched himself. "I wonder why the bastard never hits on me."

"Don't be jealous. He knows you're straight."

"He knows the same thing about you."

"True, but my magnetism knows no sexual preference."

Vincent chuckled. "You are kinda cute."

"You don't want to take a shower with me, too, do you?"

"Who doesn't?" Vincent gave one of the buttons on the box another try then sat at the foot of his bed. "Fuck it."

Frank leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. "If we take off early enough we can be halfway through Pennsylvania by tomorrow night and home by Monday."

"Sounds good."

Frank cleared his throat. "Charlie was asking me about the Turano situation earlier."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That I didn't know anything yet."

Vincent staggered to the bathroom and urinated with the door open. "I figured we could talk about it on the ride home."

"I'd just as soon discuss it now."

"I had Michael check him out," Vincent said with reluctance. He returned from the bathroom and sat at the table, across from Frank. "The rumors are true. Turano's got connections. He's got a reputation for running his mouth and he's been ranting and raving about how he's going to put us in our place. The problem is, if we make a move to scare him and it backfires – which it probably will with our fucking luck – Turano will come after us with everything he's got. Now, that ain't more than we got, in some circles it's less, but just the same, he'll come after us, Frank."

"Then trying to intimidate him is out."

"If you're a betting man it is." Vincent yawned. "From everything I've been able to find out, if Turano had himself a little… accident… his federation would fold like a house of cards in a matter of months."

"But even with Turano out of the way," Frank said, "we'd still have to worry about the other two."

"His brother Marvin has always shied away from the muscle end of things, and his cousin Joey Loomis is stunadz, a real fucking chooch – couldn't find his way out of a bathroom without a blinking light over the door, this guy."

"There's no other way?"

Vincent cracked his knuckles and stared at the table. "Not unless you want to wait around for Turano to come after us."

"Michael can't protect us?"

"He and Fratenzza can't afford to start a major riff here. Turano knows people in Philly," Vincent told him. "As far as they're concerned this is small time crap. But as long as we do everything according to the code we should be all right."

"According to the code?"

"The code of la familia."

"Who are you, Mario Puzo now?"

"You know how all that greaseball crap works, Frank. If we were to go to our connections and arrange for Turano to be hit, it'd have to be cleared with the boys in Philadelphia – the same way any moves Turano makes against us have to be cleared through Fratenzza and Michael. Remember, Philly ain't their turf."

Frank rubbed his tired eyes. "Is there any chance they could side with Turano?"

"Not if we move now," Vincent told him. "Guys like Mike and the boys in Philly usually cut the best deal they can to keep the peace and then deal with whoever's left standing – it's just the way they do business – but I'm Mike's brother, his blood, and that counts for everything with all the ginzos. Besides, in another few years when Fratenzza's out of the way everybody in Philadelphia will be dealing directly with Michael anyway, so at this point, it isn't good business for them to side with Turano."

"So… how would it happen?"

Vincent shrugged. "You and I'd never know the particulars. It's better that way. My guess is Michael will put somebody like Vic DeNicco on it. The boys in Philly will know it's coming and they'll look the other way while the shit goes down. Vic will whack him out somewhere safe, toss him in a trunk and bring him to a chophouse. They'll skin him, cut him up, and scatter the pieces."

"Jesus Christ."

"You wanted to know."

Frank wondered if John Turano had a wife, or children. "What did you tell Michael?"

"I told him I had to talk with you. You're the boss."

"Couldn't we just have somebody lean on him? Maybe convince him to back off?"

Vincent laughed eerily. "That shit only works in the movies. These are serious men, Frank. They don't fucking play games."

Frank lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring across the room. "When would they move on him?"

"Right after the first of the year," Vincent sighed as if bored. "Turano will be expecting us to hit back a lot sooner than that. When we don't, he'll be real comfortable, which makes him vulnerable. Now what do you want me to tell Michael?"

Frank looked into Vincent's glassy eyes, curious if his own looked the same. "Tell Michael I have no objection."

Several minutes past before either man moved or spoke another word. Vincent left the table first, went to his bed and pulled back the covers.

"Vin?"

He looked back over his shoulder at Frank. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about that shit with Nick Strong tonight."

"Forget about it, man." Vincent smiled. "I already have."

Frank nodded, watched him quietly, and hoped at least one of them was telling the truth.