Night Work

CHAPTER 2

Gus stared at the ceiling; the unattended whistle grating on his already frayed nerves. The water had been boiling for several minutes, how in the name of Christ could his old man sit right there in the kitchen and not hear the kettle?

"One day off a week," he mumbled, swinging his legs over onto the floor as he forced himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, "and I gotta put up with this crap." He grabbed a cigarette from the crumpled pack on his nightstand, stepped into the same pair of gray slacks he'd worn all week and staggered out of his room, following a narrow hallway to the kitchen.

Gus was getting too old too fast to spend twelve hours a day on his feet. Everything from his neck to the tips of his toes ached. Things had to change soon; his body couldn't take much more.

The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, was filthy. Dishes were piled so high in the sink that the window above it was no longer visible. The floors needed to be swept and a greasy film covered nearly everything else.

Gus leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. His father, dressed in a lightweight robe and worn slippers sat huddled at the table. He looked so fragile sitting there alone. "Dad?" Gus said. "Dad!"

The old man had his nose buried in a crossword puzzle book. Gus had never once seen the bastard write so much as a single letter in one of those boxes. "What's a four letter word for outcome?"

"Fate. Are you deaf?"

"Huh?"

Gus walked to the stove and removed the kettle from the burner. "Christ, Dad, are your ears that far gone?"

His father struggled to his feet, shuffled over to the counter. "Thought I'd have a mug of hot chocolate."

"We better get your ears checked."

"I like hot chocolate."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"You want some, Gus?"

"Deaf bastard."

His father began rummaging through one of the cupboards. "Did you get hot chocolate the last time you went to the store? I told you to get the ones with the little marshmallows. Did you get the ones with the little marshmallows, Gus?"

The phone rang, and Gus couldn't answer it fast enough.

"Gus?"

"Hey, what's up, Frank?"

"Not much. How's it going?"

Gus took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. "Same shit, different day. The old man's driving me nuts. If he don't die soon, I swear to God I'm gonna kill him myself."

Frank laughed. "We're all set for tonight, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Pick me up at five."

"I'll be there with balls on."

Fifteen minutes west of New Bedford, in the quiet town of Angel Bay, Frank Ponte hung up the kitchen phone and hesitantly returned to the bedroom where his wife was getting dressed. Their three-room apartment was relatively new and tastefully decorated, but it was so small their friends often joked that you couldn't get from one end to the other without first turning sideways.

Sandy stood frowning at her reflection in the mirror over the bureau, a wide-toothed brush in one hand and a bottle of hairspray in the other. "I don't know about this new girl," she said through a sigh. "I think I like the way Darren does my hair better."

"Then go back to him." Frank shrugged. As far as he was concerned she had too much hair for such a petite woman regardless of how she styled it, but he'd learned long ago that when it came to certain matters his wife was not someone with whom he could reason.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Gus."

She rolled her eyes, turned back to the mirror and began brushing her auburn mane. "God, loser-boy."

"Here we go." Frank sighed. "He's not so bad."

Sandy laughed and spun around to face him again, her red satin robe opening below the waist to reveal a shapely calf, cream-colored thighs and a brief glimpse of light brown pubic hair. "Oh yeah, he's a regular charmer. That toupee he wears wouldn't fool Ray Charles, okay?"

"It's not his fault he went bald."

"A lot of people go bald, Frank. That thing Gus wears looks like a knit cap. People literally point and laugh at him on the street. They point and laugh, Frank."

"If he feels like wearing it, what do you care?"

"Because when you're with him, people laugh at you, too."

"Like I give a shit."

"He's a compulsive liar, wears the same clothes for weeks at a time and has breath that usually makes my eyes tear. He's in his forties and still can't hold a job, borrows money from us constantly – usually amounts we can't afford to lend him in the first place – and never pays a cent of it back. And if that's not enough, whenever he's around, I catch him staring at my tits and scratching himself like a pervert."

Frank smiled. "Well, I can't fault him there."

"I'm glad you think it's so funny."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sandy, he's harmless."

"He makes me uncomfortable."

"Name a friend of mine you do like."

Sandy dismissed him with a wave of her hand the way one might swat away a bothersome mosquito. "Find some likeable friends."

Frank sat on the edge of the bed. "If there's anybody who shouldn't be talking about friends, it's you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How about Diane?"

"I'm listening." She crossed her arms, crushing her breasts together into a swell of cleavage Frank found impossible to ignore. He seemed attracted to her at the oddest times.

"A summer breeze could blow her legs open."

Sandy winced and continued to fuss with her hair. "Just because she's been with a few guys doesn't – "

"A few?"

" – make her a whore."

Frank knew he should let it slide but just couldn't. "Okay," he said with a smile, "let's talk about Tina Two-Tons."

"Stop calling her that."

"She's got an ass on her the size of a Buick, and struts around in tight little skirts you probably couldn't even fit into, and you're talking about people pointing and laughing? Gimme a break, freakin' hippo in high heels."

Sandy suppressed a giggle. "You convince Gus to lose the wig and I'll drag Tina to the plus-size store. How's that?"

Frank glanced at the digital clock on the bureau. "You're going to be late for work."

She threw off her robe and reached onto the bed for her bra and panties. Frank watched her slip them on, certain that the only thing sexier than watching her undress was watching her maneuver into underwear.

"We don't have time."

"Not even a quickie?"

"What do you want for dinner?" she asked, moving to the closet.

"I won't be home. I told you, I'm going to Providence."

She plucked a short black skirt from a hanger and held it up in front of her, inspecting it carefully for creases or lint. "Oh."

Frank found cigarettes in his shirt pocket and lit one. "I'll be home tomorrow, probably early afternoon."

Sandy stepped into the skirt, zipped up the back and smoothed it down along the front of her thighs. "Please don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"But I had a whole bunch of stupid shit planned."

She turned, pulled the cigarette from his lips and took a drag. "Just promise me, Frank."

"It's only a meeting."

"I don't understand why you have to do this in the first place." She returned the cigarette to his mouth. "You've already got a good job."

"Then I must be going to the wrong place every morning."

"It's not so horrible."

"Yeah, it is."

Sandy pulled on an attractive silk blouse, buttoned it. "It's a secure, decent paying career. That's a lot more than most people have these days."

"Selling refrigerators and stoves all day isn't a career. It's a job. There's a difference."

Her eyes found his. "Like the difference between being broke and having money?"

"We both work forty-five, fifty hours a week, for what? So we can drive used cars, go to the movies once a week and live in this shoebox?"

Sandy took the cigarette from him again. "I happen to like my job. I happen to like my car. I happen to like the movies. I even like this apartment."

"I hope so, because at this rate we'll be living here the rest of our lives."

"You're so dramatic. What do you think you're going to be, Frank? You think you can just wake up one morning and decide to be a big shot? Life doesn't work like that. You have to learn to settle for the blessings God gave you."

Frank shook his head, wondered how he and the woman he had chosen to spend his life with could be so diametrically opposed on such basic points. They'd been married for three years now, had it always been like this?

"I want to be happy."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're unhappy?"

"I love you," Frank said. "I just want to try to do something that'll make getting out of bed in the morning worth it."

"Then stay where you are and work as hard as you can. In another three or four years I'm sure Pearson will retire and they'll make you store manager."

"I'll try to contain my excitement."

"You've got a lousy attitude, Frank. That's always been your problem. You're bright, nice-looking, and you have a lot of talent. But you've got this huge chip on your shoulder, and it holds you back."

"I want us to have a better life. Now's the time to take a chance, while we're still young."

Sandy stepped into a pair of black pumps. "You're twenty-eight years old. The only thing it's time to do is grow up."

"Just because you go through life with blinders on, don't expect me to."

"Whatever," she snapped. "I've got to get going."

Frank nodded wearily. Sandy's heels clicked against the kitchen floor as she crossed the apartment, and he knew she'd leave without so much as a kiss or another word. When Sandy was fed up, she disappeared. Just like that.

The door slammed, and Frank's thoughts turned immediately to Providence.

Paulie Caruso had once been one of the most influential and powerful professional wrestling promoters in the country. From the late fifties to the late seventies he'd controlled all the action from the northern-most point in Maine, to the tip of Cape Cod. Known for being nearly as flamboyant as many of his wrestlers, Caruso was a squat, bulbous man who never left the house without his oversized fedora, steel-toed cowboy boots and remarkably cheap linen suits. Were it not for his wide, constant smiles and jovial manner, his fleshly face and deep-seated eyes would have been intimidating.

With control slipping to younger, better-financed rivals and his health waning, Paulie retired from the business in 1978 and turned things over to his son, Raymond, who managed to lose in two years everything his father had spent a lifetime building. Even once his heyday had come and gone, Paulie was still spoken of fondly and extended respect by those in the business. Raymond, on the other hand, considered useless, was shunned.

Frank was seven years old the first time he met Paulie, and had been even more impressed with him than he was with the show. Frank's father and Paulie were childhood friends who had grown up in the same neighborhood in New Bedford, and although they had taken vastly different career paths, they remained casual friends over the years.

Although Paulie's federation toured all over New England, his headquarters was a small building in Brockton he owned called the Caruso Sports Arena. Built like a tower, fans were hoarded in and seated almost directly on top of each other on cheap, portable bleacher-like contraptions unique to Paulie's place. To see the arena in person was to see the fruit of shady business dealings at its worst. Since the building had been hastily constructed and built with only jamming as many people into a confined space as possible in mind, it was clear the moment one stepped inside that even the most basic building and fire codes had been ignored. But Paulie had enough money and influence to make the local police and politicians look the other way. Any permits or licenses he needed, he bought. Riots were a usual occurrence, as were lawsuits from patrons who were routinely injured, but Paulie just kept rolling along, throwing money at those he could silence, using muscle on those he couldn't, and packing three to four thousand fans into a space designed to accommodate approximately half that number every Friday and Saturday night.

Every month or so Frank's father would take him to the arena to see the matches. There were always vacant seats at ringside set aside for VIPs, and Paulie would seat Frank and his father as close to the action as possible. Frank was delighted by the visits, and often got to meet and get the autographs of some of his favorites star, courtesy of Paulie. But even as a child Frank understood that such outings were labors of love for his father. He was an educated and learned man who was decidedly uncomfortable in both the arena setting and in the company of men like Paulie.

But for a young boy like Frank, Paulie Caruso was a god. One of the local television stations broadcast the bouts from the arena every other Saturday night, and Paulie was always right there in front of the camera along with his wrestlers. To be just a showman or just a businessman was commonplace. But to be both, it seemed to Frank, was the ultimate.

Years later, Paulie spent his time puttering around his modest home in Brockton. He was twice divorced, and his son had moved to Florida to pursue some new business scheme, so most of his time was spent alone. He was thrilled when Frank called.

The screen door opened to reveal a much heavier version of Paulie than Frank had remembered. The linen suit was gone, replaced by cheap, nondescript slacks, a T-shirt, dress socks and sandals. The fedora was all that remained. "Frankie," he smiled, waving him in. "How are you?"

"Hello, Mr. Caruso."

The old man slapped him on the back with more force than he appeared to have and laughed loudly. "Mr. Caruso? I known you since you was a kid. I known your father since we were dumping green. Leave that formal crap outside. You call me, Paulie, okay?"

Frank followed him through the kitchen into a small den. The shades on both windows were drawn. A console television filled one corner, a vinyl recliner and crane-necked lamp another. In front of the couch was a TV tray with a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal, a mug of coffee, and a copy of Hustler.

"You want a cup of coffee or something?"

"No, thanks." Frank smiled. "I'm all set."

Paulie motioned to the recliner. "Sit, sit."

He sat on the edge of the chair, waited until Paulie had positioned himself on the couch before he spoke. "I really appreciate you seeing me, Paulie."

"How's the old man doing?"

"Good."

"He still working?"

"Oh yeah."

"He's a good man, your father."

"Yeah, thanks."

"You tell him I said hello, all right?"

Frank had no intention of telling his father he'd had any contact with Paulie at all, but nodded anyway. "I'll do that."

Paulie glared at the cereal. "Doctor makes me eat a bowl of this slop every day. If I don't eat it, I get constipated something fucking awful, Frank. I end up squatting on the toilet trying to push a turd the size of a fucking grapefruit out of my ass, and trust me, that ain't exactly a fun time, you know?"

Frank nodded, unsure of how to respond.

"If the oatmeal don't get me," he chuckled, holding up the magazine, "the snatch does. I don't know why, but looking at pussy always gives me the runs. Ain't that the strangest goddamn thing, Frank?"

"Yeah, I'd have to say it is."

"But who the hell wants to hear about that, right?" He tossed the magazine onto the couch, leaned back, and pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. "I got things all set up for you tonight in Providence."

Frank felt a rush of relief. "Great. Who am I meeting with?"

"Fella by the name of Rain. Charlie Rain."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"He's a min."

"Min?"

"Short for minnow," Paulie explained, lighting his cigar with an unsettling sucking sound. "It means he's small change in the business. Still, it's the best way in. All the other independents are gonna waste your time. They'll bleed you and cut you loose. Rain's been working New England and parts of New York for about two years now, so he's new to the game himself. Does mostly high school and small college stuff, an occasional state fair, but that's it. From what I hear, the boys respect him. They tell me he's an honest, harmless sort of guy. Pays on time, pays fair, and he's easy to work with. He earned his chops with Big Louie Bazooka."

"The wrestler?"

"No, the hair stylist, of course the wrestler. Louie wrestled when you were a kid. After he retired he went to work for a few of the big boys, learned the promoting game and then branched out on his own. He ran ad-book shows for a few years. You know those sleazy police union deals where they set up a telephone boiler room and pressure people to make donations in exchange for a couple tickets to the show? I guess he took Charlie Rain under his wing and taught him the business. But about a year ago Louie had a stroke and wound up in some nursing home in upstate New York. He could be dead by now, I got no idea."

Frank lit a cigarette. "Anything else you can tell me about Rain?"

"I spoke to him myself. He seems like a nice enough guy, very respectful. He's in his early forties and comes from a sales background, but the story going around is that when he was in his early twenties he played on some TV show for a couple seasons. Some bullshit about this doctor and his wife who adopt all these fucked up kids. Anyway, the show only lasted two seasons and Rain went into a tailspin and blew all his cash. I hear he was a dope-head, and he's supposedly still got a bit of a drinking problem, so keep that in mind."

"How do you mean?"

Paulie offered a wry smile. "Drinking's a weakness, right? See, Rain wants to expand. He's looking around for a deal but Louie taught him right, so he don't trust nobody in the game. That means he's either gotta find some mark businessman with a few bucks to burn, or a young hustler like you who can make things happen."

"You think he'll trust me then?"

"Of course not." Paulie shrugged. "Still your best shot, though. Out of respect for me, he's willing to talk to you. Remember, this is a closed business. You don't get in unless you know somebody, and sometimes even that's not enough."

Frank nodded. "I understand."

"No, you don't. It's a whole different world, and don't nobody know what really goes on in it unless you're there. Of course, it's changed a lot since I worked it. In my day it was easier. There weren't more than four or five guys in the whole country you had to deal with back then. That all changed a couple years ago when the big boys started running wrestling like a fucking cartoon instead of a sport. All this marketing and sales bullshit – fuck that. I packed fans in from here to the Canadian border, Frank, and you know what sold the tickets? Heat, rivalries between the guys. I sold the sport on what went on inside the ring, not all this comic book shit they're doing nowadays. It's all hype, Frank. They spend more time screaming and yelling, doing interviews and selling toys than they do working. Most of these stiffs in the game couldn't hold a fucking candle to the boys I worked with. I'm talking real headliners, guys who knew how to work. Guys who knew how to keep their mouths shut."

"How should I approach Rain?" Frank asked.

Paulie scratched his crotch. "Tell me what you know."

"I graduated from school in Boston in 1981. I learned the broadcasting and promotions business, worked in radio for a couple of years – "

"Doing what?"

"Promotional sales. The money sucked and job security was even worse. I wanted to try and get in on the ground floor with one of the big event promotions or talent-booking firms in New York or Los Angeles, but I was newly married and my wife didn't want to move. Needless to say, that didn't leave me a hell of a lot of options."

"Broads – always the fucking problem – and wives are the worst. Pain the nuts."

Frank forced a bit of laughter. "I had to find something steady that paid decent, so I took a retail sales job. I'm still there, only I'm assistant manager now."

"What do you sell?"

"White goods."

Paulie frowned. "Sheets and pillows, shit like that?"

"No, no. Refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers. I work at Appliance Mart over in Fairhaven."

Paulie seemed unimpressed, and Frank didn't blame him. He sat quietly smoking his cigar for a few minutes then asked, "You do anything else?"

"I get in on a scam now and then for extra cash," Frank admitted, "but nothing serious."

"Ever been pinched?"

"Not as an adult."

"What'd they get you for as a minor?"

"Assault and battery. Twice."

Paulie laughed. "Got a temper, huh?"

"I'm mellowing."

"Why you wanna get involved in wrestling, Frank? Why not music or boxing or something else?"

"I always loved wrestling, used to watch it all the time up until a few years ago."

"Christ, don't ever say that to nobody else. Makes you sound like a mark."

"Sorry, I – "

"Don't be sorry, just watch what you say is what I'm trying to tell you."

"Between you and me, Paulie, I don't want to spend the rest of my life selling stoves to housewives, you know what I'm saying? Maybe if I can make a few moves and get in with the right people I can turn things around."

Paulie considered what Frank had said before responding. "Does your old man know about this?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not." He sighed. "It's just that I always liked your father, Frank, and I wouldn't wanna do anything to make him think less of me."

Frank wasn't sure that was possible.

"With all due respect, Paulie, I'm a grown man."

"Which makes me one dried up old fuck," he said with a laugh. "Okay, kid, we'll leave him out of it."

"Good. Now, when I meet with Rain, should I be honest with him?"

"Hell no." Paulie sipped his coffee. "You got to understand something. Except for a handful of guys, everybody in the business acts like they're more than they really are. The problem is, nobody ever knows for sure who's telling the truth and who isn't, so you don't trust nobody and you go about your business assuming everybody you deal with is full of shit. It's just the way things are. You never shoot the works, understand? Keep Rain guessing. He'll do the same to you."

"What did you tell him about me?"

"Only that you're a friend of a friend and a man that's to be treated with respect," Paulie answered. "All he knows is that you're a businessman of some sort, looking to get into the game. If you go telling him you sell refrigerators or some shit like that, he'll laugh right in your face and you'll never get another shot. He'll spread your name around like manure, and nobody in the business'll ever take you seriously."

Frank shrugged. "Then what the hell do I tell him?"

"Make something up. Tell him you book acts for local nightclubs. That way it sounds like you're in a similar line of work and you're not some accountant or something. Remember, no matter what you say or do, until you prove different, everyone you run into in this business is gonna think you're a mark anyway. It ain't no different than a con game at the carnival, Frank. Same principle, cabeesh?"

"Yeah," Frank nodded. "Cabeesh."

Paulie struggled up off the couch, waddled to the TV and turned it off. "Rain's inside, you're not. All he wants to hear is what you can do for him. If he's gonna last he's got to expand, and he can't do it alone or he would've by now. Sell him on your business skills, it's your best chance."

"What else do I need to know?"

"More than I can tell you," Paulie said. "You'll pick it up as you go. All I ask is one favor, all right?"

Frank stood up. "Of course."

"You know my son, Raymond?"

"Sure."

"He's fucking stunadz," Paulie snapped. "I love him, don't get me wrong, but he's fucking stunadz. I got him into the business, showed him the ropes, and what's he do? He goes in and rips people off – and not just marks – the boys, other promoters, everybody. He almost ruined my name." Paulie moved closer, his once cheerful face turned dark. "Jesus Christ couldn't tell you how ashamed I was – my own flesh and blood acting like such an asshole. Still, I forgave him. Raymond's my only child, what else could I do?"

Frank swallowed with some difficulty. "Don't worry about – "

"I want you to understand something. I would never let anyone get away with making me look foolish again. Do what you got to do, just don't ever make me regret opening this door for you, Frank." Paulie offered his hand. "Just don't do it."

Frank shook his hand. It was clammy to the touch and damp with perspiration. "I'll never do anything to embarrass you, Paulie. You have my word."

"C'mon," he said, all smiles again. "I want to show you something."

They left the den and Frank followed his host through the kitchen into a small windowless room with wall-to-wall carpeting.

"This is where I come when I really want to relax," Paulie said, switching on an overhead light. A small leather bar with matching stools filled the back wall, and a trophy case of silver and glass stood prominently to the left of the doorway, loaded with awards and four ornate championship belts. An official-size pool table filled the center of the room, and nearly every inch of wall space was covered with identically framed photographs of Paulie with several wrestling stars and television people during various stages of his career.

"This is incredible," Frank mumbled, looking around.

Paulie went directly to the bar and removed two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "Have a drink with me."

"A drink? It's fucking ten o'clock in the morning."

"C'mon, c'mon, it's good for ya."

Frank hesitated in front of the trophy case and studied the belts. "I remember seeing that belt on TV years ago."

"Danny Crawton wore that strap." Paulie moved out from behind the bar with a drink in each hand. "He was my first champion. Used to call him Golden Boy, remember?"

"When I was a kid."

Paulie handed Frank his drink. "Sonofabitch could work a room like nobody I ever saw. Him and Vampire Zoltan used to whip the marks into such a frenzy, it'd sound like the whole goddamn building was gonna come tumbling down." Paulie grinned. "Take a hard look around, Frank. Even though most of the cash I made over the years is gone, I got memories nobody can ever take from me. It ain't exactly your ordinary kinda life, but if you're good at it it's one hell of a ride."

"I'll bet."

"You just remember to use your head. The people in this business aren't brain surgeons, but they're not stupid either. They know the angles, and they got big culones, you know what I mean? Hell, if you got half the brains your old man does you'll do fine."

Frank put a hand on Paulie's fleshy shoulder. "I won't forget this."

"Salud, Frank."

As he raised the glass to his lips, Frank felt himself smile. "Salud."

Gus pulled up in front of the apartment building in his GMC Jimmy and laid on the horn. He was a few minutes late, which was expected. Dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, Frank hopped into the Jimmy with briefcase in hand. "Sorry I'm late," Gus said. "It took me twenty minutes to convince my father he had to spend the night at my cousin Martin's house and another ten to cart his ass over there."

"No problem. Thanks for driving, man."

Frank glanced at his friend without trying to be too obvious. He'd hoped Gus might surprise him and actually look presentable, but it was not to be. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, black rubber-soled Oxfords, a severely wrinkled shirt and a thick-knot blue tie. His wristwatch was inexpensive, the rings on his fingers fake, and his glasses scratched and old. Frank spent a few seconds trying to decide if the coffee stains on the front of Gus's shirt were worse than the assortment decorating his clip-on tie, then remembered what Sandy had said and shifted his eyes to the wig. It looked as if it had never been washed. Frank wondered how the man had succeeded in sales, but despite his glaring flaws, he had. In fact, Gus was the best salesman Frank had ever known, and he'd known plenty. Why he never had money was something of a mystery.

"Hey," Gus smiled, "I've got the newer vehicle, why shouldn't I drive?"

"I appreciate it."

"You're picking up the room, right?"

"Yeah, I'll cover the hotel."

"That a new suit?"

"Relatively."

Gus nodded. "Mine too. I just picked it up. Ran me like six hundred, but what the fuck, a guy's got to look good, right?"

Of course the suit was several years old and could not have cost more than fifty dollars, but most of what Gus said was untrue. The depth, or number of lies he told on any given day was often beyond his control, and even though he seemed to understand that no one believed the majority of things he said, it didn't discourage him in the least.

Lying was only one of many peculiarities Frank tolerated, though he wasn't sure why. He'd never been an abundantly patient person, but when it came to Gus, his patience was virtually limitless.

After a lengthy and awkward silence, Gus said, "I appreciate you bringing me in on this."

Frank was reminded of the nights they'd worked together at the store. All those hours on break, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, talking and dreaming, trying to figure a way out. If nothing else, Gus had been a loyal friend for six years, and in Frank's mind, that not only had to count for something, it cancelled out some of his more flagrant imperfections. "Just be sure you keep quiet if things don't pan out," Frank told him. "The last thing we need is to catch shit at work."

"Fuck them," Gus moaned. "I've spent most of my life standing around one sales floor or another. I get home from work now and my feet and ankles hurt so bad I end up soaking them in hot water and salt. That's why I got the back problems I have, all that time on my feet, Frank, it's just not good. And there's the old football injuries," he added quickly. "Between the two it's a miracle I can walk at all. If it weren't for my martial arts training I'd be screwed. I don't care how banged up I get, I'll be kicking ass until they drop me in the ground."

Having witnessed Gus struggle through a job better suited to someone in their twenties was one of the largest factors motivating Frank's desire to escape the retail field. In truth, when Frank looked at Gus Lemieux, he saw everything he didn't want to be in another ten or fifteen years.

Gus lit a cigarette. "I ever tell you about the time those five punks hassled me at the mall?"

"I dunno." Frank settled into his seat and prepared for the first of many stories he'd be forced to endure over the next hour.

"The bastards jumped me in the parking lot over by Sears, tried to roll me. I took my wallet out, tossed it on the hood of my car and told them if they could get to it they could keep the motherfucker. They figure it's five against one, right? The easiest fucking money they've scored all month, they're thinking. Jesus, did I hand out an ass kicking that night."

Frank watched the mile markers on the highway pass and fought off pangs of guilt. He hated arguing with Sandy, and whenever they left each other without resolving one of their spats, it bothered him until they did. He smiled at Gus as if listening, and wondered about all the possibilities the meeting with Charlie Rain might yield.

Some time later, he awoke to the same sound he'd fallen asleep to: Gus. "Never liked Providence," he was saying, glancing about as he drove through downtown. "Some nice titty bars, though, got to give them that."

Frank rubbed his eyes, checked his watch: Nearly eight o'clock. "I must have fallen asleep."

"You been out cold since we left."

He saw the hotel where their meeting was scheduled perched ominously at the end of the block, and the civic center not far from it. "Sorry."

"No problem. I like talking to myself. Cuts down on the arguments."

They parked in the underground garage, checked into their room and went directly to the lobby to wait for Charlie Rain.

It was not a long wait.

A man of average height, a few pounds overweight, with a shock of hair so red it was practically orange strutted into the lobby with an arrogant grin, a pasty complexion and a leather briefcase. He was dressed in cream-colored slacks, a rather loud shirt, and wore a gaudy diamond stud in the lobe of his right ear.

"Jesus," Gus mumbled, "I hope that ain't him."

The man saw them and offered a wide smile, extending his hand while still several feet away. "Frank? Frank Ponte?"

Frank shook his hand. "Mr. Rain?"

"Charlie," he insisted, glancing awkwardly at Gus.

"This is my associate, Gus Lemieux."

Charlie looked Gus up and down. "Gus, huh? Is that a nickname or short for something?"

"Augustus," he said, nervously clearing his throat. "It's short for Augustus."

"No shit?" Charlie laughed openly. "Poor bastard, what the hell were your parents thinking about? C'mon, let's get a drink so we can all relax and get to know each other better."

Before anyone could get another word in, Charlie was off across the lobby with a bounce in his step, mouth going a mile a minute as if they were still by his side.

The bar was small and dark, and Charlie requested a booth in the back. As they made their way through a sea of tables every head turned to notice him, and he thoroughly enjoyed the attention his natural presence seemed to generate. It was like watching a tornado touch down in a library.

A black waiter in a white jacket appeared at the booth to take their order. Once he'd gone, Charlie sat back a bit and lit a non-filtered cigarette. "You guys mind if I smoke?" Frank and Gus both lit up. "Beautiful. Okay, we've all got busy lives so let's get down to it. Here's the dirt on Charlie Rain: You're sitting there thinking I look sort of familiar, right? Well, am I right?"

"A bit," Frank lied.

"I played Chad on Apple Lane."

"No shit? That was you?"

Charlie smiled proudly. "The one and only, brother. It was probably a bit before your time, Frank, but they still show it in reruns on cable now and then. How about you, Augustus? You look older than I am. You must remember that show."

"Sure," Gus said evenly. "I remember it sucked."

Before Frank could think of something to say, Charlie slammed the palm of his hand onto the table and burst out laughing. "I like that, Gus! Don't take shit from anybody, right?"

Gus allowed a hesitant smile. "That's right."

Still laughing, Charlie noticed an elderly couple glaring at him from a nearby table. "Hey, Methuselah, can I help you with something?"

The waiter returned with their drinks. "Anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?"

Charlie shook the man's hand as an excuse to slip him a twenty-dollar bill. "All set, brother. Just do me a favor and check in with us now and then, okay?"

"Of course, sir."

"An old trick I learned," Charlie explained as the waiter moved away. "If you want good service tip ahead of time. Works like a charm."

Frank sipped his drink. "I'll try to remember that."

"As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted by the living dead at the next table, I've been in entertainment on one level or another my whole life. I've been on top and I've been at the bottom. One time at the Emmys, I sat right between Caroll O'Connor and Jack Lord. No shit. A few years later I came out of my third visit to rehab and wound up working at Burger King. See the way I figure it, it does me no good to bullshit you guys. I'd rather cut to the chase and lay it all out. Truth is, wrestling saved my ass. It was a way for me to stay involved in the entertainment business and still make a decent living. Over the last few years I've pulled my shit together and brought East Coast Professional Wrestling League from an idea into a nice little income. I'm no goof, okay? I got a wife and a house and a car and bills just like everybody else. But I've also got a plan that'll make the ECPWL a national promotion within five years."

Frank looked up from his drink. "Why do you need us?"

"I don't remember saying I did."

"Then why are we here?"

Charlie crushed his cigarette in the ashtray between them and immediately lit another. "Maybe we can help each other out, who knows? I talk to a lot of people, Frank, and almost all of them are lying sacks of shit, especially the ones in the wrestling business. But you ask anybody and they'll tell you Charlie Rain's different. I'm respected, liked – even trusted by some – in a business where all three are rare. I've made a mark – granted a small one – but still a mark. Problem is, I'm all alone out here, practically a one-man operation. It does me no good to jerk you guys around and waste your time or mine. The bottom line is, I need backup from people I can trust. I need someone who can put money in the pot and help me turn ECPWL into a legitimate power. Now, I don't know if you're talking to any other independent promoters, and I don't give a shit if you are, but what I can offer you that nobody else can is very simple. A chance to get in on the ground floor of a company that's small but already respected and growing; a fast track into the wrestling business, and an opportunity to become full-fledged partners should things go according to plan."

"Sounds tempting," Frank said.

Charlie stood up. "I gotta go bang a piss. While I'm gone, you guys figure out what you can offer me."

"What do you think?" Frank asked when Charlie was out of earshot.

Gus watched Charlie cross the bar. "He's like a fucking car accident. You don't wanna look but you can't help it."

"The bastard's doing exactly the opposite of what Paulie said he'd do. It's a finesse job."

"No shit." Gus removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "He knows Paulie told you he'd be full of shit, so he's trying to disarm us by parading out the honesty routine."

Moments later, Charlie returned. "Tell me something. What demented motherfucker thought up the urinal?"

"Just don't eat the mints," Gus cracked.

"I like this guy," Charlie said to Frank. "I need another drink, anybody seen the waiter?"

"He's out spending your tip."

Frank cleared his throat, pushed his chair away from the table a bit, and crossed his legs. "Back to business."

"You're up," Charlie smiled.

"We're in the booking business," Frank began. "We work nightclubs, mostly small to medium acts. It's a decent and steady business, but to tell you the truth, it's reached its limit in terms of growth. We need a big act; something we can tap into that has the potential to grow as big and as quickly as we can. Wrestling is hot right now and seems to be an obvious choice because over the next few years it's only going to get hotter."

"There's a lot of money to be made," Charlie agreed.

"Charlie, listen, I don't claim to be a big-shot with all the answers, but I can tell you a couple things I do know. A good deal of business is image, and there is and always will be strength in numbers. One man, however talented and experienced, does not a company make."

"True enough."

"I can offer you booking services for the ECPWL. I can also offer a cash investment that will better secure both of our positions in the business while also eliminating some of your own expense. We can discuss terms and actual figures once I have a better understanding of your company profit structure. You primarily sell shows to high schools, colleges, and a handful of state fairs. I can put people in place who can handle all your booking and sales needs, but I can also offer… support."

Charlie smiled. "You mean the well-muscled kind?"

"I do."

"If we grow that becomes essential," he admitted. "Right now I'm small enough so I don't step on anybody's toes, but once I expand that'll change. Without sufficient support, as you put it, we'll hit a wall."

Frank finished his drink with a single gulp. "That's what I can do for you, Charlie."

"Sounds good so far."

"Of course, there are conditions."

"I'm all ears."

Frank sat forward, let his forearms rest on the table. "If I'm to restructure my company and make an investment in yours, I have to have some guarantees to protect my interests. One, I need an exclusive booking deal. My people and only my people sell the ECPWL. Two – "

"Hold on." Charlie lit another cigarette. "How can you expect me to give you an exclusive when I have no idea if you can even sell my product?"

"I'm willing to accept a three-month trial."

Charlie saw the waiter, signaled him and ordered another round of drinks. "What happens if during the three months you sell nothing?"

"Who does your booking now?"

"I do."

"And how many shows do you normally sell in a three-month period?" Frank asked.

"Two shots if I'm lucky. It depends on the time of year."

Frank nodded confidently. "If we don't deliver at least two shots in a three month span of time, I will personally pay you what you would've pulled down."

The drinks arrived and Charlie quickly drank nearly half of his. "You're a serious man, Frank."

"At times."

"I'm impressed. Go on."

"You said in your offer to us that we could look forward to becoming partners at some future point."

"That's right."

Frank shook his head. "That's wrong. Again, if I'm to put everything on the line, I expect you to do the same. I have no desire to be your employee, Charlie. If all I wanted to do was straight bookings, I'd have gone to one of the big boys. If we do business together it's all or nothing. We're partners from the word go."

"Are you nuts?" he asked, nearly choking. "You expect me to just turn over a portion of my company – a company I've busted my balls to build – just because you're willing to handle my bookings?"

"What am I, fucking stupid?" Frank snapped, increasing the intensity of his voice without raising the volume. "Are we talking business or jerking off?"

The smile vanished from Rain's face. "I'm listening."

"I'm telling you that we will double your sales and make you more money in the first year of our partnership than you've made to date. As a measure of good faith I'm willing to accept a trial where we can come to know each other better and have the opportunity to prove what's being said and agreed to here tonight. But once we've proven our end, we're in all the way, and we're in for good, or I take my offer to one of the other independents."

Charlie finished his drink and sat quietly for what seemed a long time. When he eventually spoke he asked, "How much?"

"Half."

"Jesus H. Christ! Half?"

"Relax, Charlie," Gus said smoothly. "A little bit of something is better than all of nothing."

"Think about it," Frank said. "Right now you only book between six and eight shots a year. If in the first year with us we do, say, twenty shots, fifty percent of the profits on twenty is still a hell of a lot more than all of the profit on seven or eight."

"Basic math," Gus said.

"Of course we also agree to pay half the expenses," Frank added. "It's a straight split right down the middle."

Charlie smoked another cigarette before he spoke again. "You're willing to agree to a three month trial?"

"Of course," Frank said. "If things don't work out, they don't work out."

"We go our separate ways?"

"If that's the way you want it."

He considered what Frank had said. "There's something else you've got to understand. Pro wrestling isn't like any other business – even the regular entertainment business. At first, incorporating you into the performance side of things might be a slow process. The boys don't trust people they don't know, and it'll hurt me with them if they get the idea that I'm answerable to you as an equal partner."

"Not a problem," Frank told him. "Bring us into that end at a pace the talent is comfortable with."

"Do you guys have a room here?" Charlie asked. "Or are you heading back to Massachusetts tonight?"

"We've got a room."

Charlie nodded. "I've got some promotional stuff for you – flyers, posters, examples of cards and tickets. The sell itself is a simple process. I can explain it all in an hour or two and have you prepared to sell the product by the time I leave. How long before you're ready to rumble?"

"I can have people in place by next week."

"Let's go up to your room where we can spread out."

"Then I take it we have a deal?" Frank asked.

Charlie's wide smile returned. "Why not? The way you set it up I got nothing to lose, right?"

"That's right."

"Besides," Charlie said, standing, "it's just talk. Until you deliver, you're just another rim job."

They'd nearly reached the elevator before Frank realized that he was the one who had been maneuvered.

It was eleven thirty when Charlie closed his briefcase. He had explained the sell and the breakdown of expenses and profits concisely, in a manner that made it both easy to understand and even easier to present to prospective clients.

"I've got a shot a few towns over at the public high school next Friday night," he stated flatly. "Ask for me at the door and I'll get you in. It'll be a good opportunity for you guys to see the ECPWL in person."

Gus gathered up all the materials Charlie had given them and slid them into Frank's briefcase. "We'll be there."

Charlie tossed a copy of a popular wrestling magazine onto one of the beds. "National magazine rated us best new independent federation in the business. Make copies and add it to the promotional sales package. The editor's from Jersey; hangs around the business a lot. He'll be at the show so you'll meet him then. We'll convince him to do an article on our new Massachusetts office."

"Sounds good," Frank said, escorting him to the door.

"OK, I'm out of here, got a long ride back to New York." They shook hands and Charlie smiled warmly. "Hopefully this is the start of something special, gentlemen."

Once the door had closed behind him and they were certain Charlie Rain had gone, Frank and Gus both burst into nervous laughter as a wave of relief washed over them. "Holy shit," Gus said, "we did it! We fucking did it!"

Frank ran his hands through his hair. "Not bad for a couple of refrigerator salesman, huh? Think he bought it?"

"Are you kidding? You were un-fucking-believable tonight."

"You forget, I bullshit for a living, sir."

Gus couldn't stop laughing. "This is even better than I thought it'd be. Rain's an idiot, Frank. If we play him right he'll be working for us in no time."

Frank lit a cigarette and flopped down onto his bed. "No, he's dumb like a fox, that one. He's not as stupid as he pretends to be." He released a lengthy sigh. "And we still better be able to deliver."

"Do you really think we can pull it off?"

"Two things will make it happen, Gus. Money and muscle."

Gus scratched the back of his neck. "The money end I can understand, but we've already got the muscle. Both of us can handle ourselves in a scrap."

"That's not what I'm talking about. We need real muscle. The kind people sit up and take notice of. And we need enough money so that we can make a genuine go of this. We can't start out worrying about how we're going to pay bills we haven't even created yet."

Gus sat down on the other bed. "What do you have in mind?"

Frank forced himself into a sitting position. "I've been giving this some thought from the beginning. You remember my buddy, Vincent?"

"Sure, I met him a few times."

"I'm going to talk to him."

"What can he do for us?"

"He's connected, that's what he can do for us."

Gus didn't respond for a moment. "For real?"

"Yeah."

"Can we trust him?"

Frank took a hard pull on his cigarette. "Absolutely. I've known him for years. He's originally from Federal Hill, here in Providence. His family moved into a place a few doors down from ours when I was in junior high school. He's got an older brother up to his ears in the mob. Vincent works a little freelance for them from time to time but he's managed to stay away from the major stuff. Still, he knows just the sort of people we need to make this happen."

"I don't know, Frank," Gus said. "You're talking about crawling into bed with some serious motherfuckers here."

"I've been around people like that my whole life, Gus. The neighborhood was full of the bastards. Hell, I've got a cousin in upstate New York who's a made man, for Christ's sake. I'd go to him but I know Vincent a hell of a lot better, and I'd trust him much sooner."

"Friendship is one thing," Gus warned. "Business is something else, Frank."

Frank nodded. "I've done some freelance work with Vincent myself over the years. Nothing big. Plus, remember last summer when I had a trunk full of VCRs?"

"I bought one myself."

"That was a scam I ran with Vincent. I can trust him."

Gus lit a cigarette, exhaled with a sigh. "You know better than I do, Frank. I just don't want to get in over our heads."

"You heard what Charlie Rain said. We're going to need muscle; there's no way around it. Vincent's the best move we can make. He's in with these people, but mostly on the fringe. That'll allow us to tap into their resources without actually going into business with them."

Gus stood up and began to pace. "If you bring Vincent in, what happens to me?"

"Nothing."

"Will we have to make him a partner?"

"Yeah, I already spoke to him about it briefly."

"Oh."

"Gus," Frank said softly, "what was it you told Charlie tonight? A little bit of something is better than all of nothing, right?"

"Do whatever you think is best. I'll back you either way."

"Good man."

Gus dismissed the tension and smiled. "Were we beautiful tonight, or what?"

"Positively gorgeous."

"I'm gonna go celebrate, hit some of those strip clubs a few blocks down, see if I can find me a long-legged whore. You wanna come?"

"I'm going to bed."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Frank said, "and don't bring anybody back."

Gus hesitated at the door and smiled mischievously. "Would I do something like that?"

Alone with his thoughts, Frank tried to contain his excitement. He'd rehearsed the meeting with Charlie Rain in his mind for weeks, and now that it was over, he still found it hard to believe that he'd pulled off his end so smoothly. Even Gus had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, which in itself was a minor miracle. Things had almost gone too well, and Frank found his excitement slowly turning to concern.

He butted his cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand, grabbed the phone and dialed his home number. After five rings the answering machine clicked on.

"We can't come to the phone right now," Sandy's voice said. "Please leave a message after the tone and we'll get back to you."

Frank hung up and checked his watch: Almost midnight. She was probably already asleep and hadn't heard the ringer.

He continued to tell himself that until sleep, although tardy, finally arrived.