Night Work

CHAPTER 5

The Puma, in black spandex, leopard skin boots and a mask resembling the face of the cat for which he'd been named, bolted across the ring, hopped up onto the top rope and ran from one corner of the ring to the next with the skill of a high wire artist. Diablo Gonzalez had a hold of his wrist the entire time, finally yanking his opponent off balance, sending the Puma into a back flip in mid-air. Just before he crashed to the canvas the Puma tucked his knees against his chest and gracefully rolled through the fall, coming up on his feet on the far side of the ring. The fans exploded into cheers as Diablo stood in apparent awe of his opponent's recovery, then turned to sneer and hurl verbal insults at a particularly enthusiastic young fan seated at ringside. While he was distracted, the Puma ran the length of the ring, leapt into the air and locked both legs around Diablo's neck, taking him down to the mat with a spectacular flying head-scissors. As the Puma rolled off of his fallen opponent and climbed to the top rope, the fans began to chant his name. Diablo, obviously groggy, struggled to his feet and staggered about in an attempt to locate the Puma. But it was too late. Arms stretched toward the heavens like an Olympic diver the Puma launched himself off the top rope and onto the chest of Diablo Gonzalez. They fell into a tangled heap in the center of the ring and the Puma hooked Diablo's leg. The referee administered a dramatic three-count and the bout was over. A loud bell sounded above the roar of the crowd and the Puma's arm was raised in victory. As he left the ring, a throng of mostly young people mobbed him. Glistening with sweat, his sculpted chest heaving with each breath, the Puma patiently took time to sign autographs and briefly converse with his elated fans.

At ringside, Gus looked at Frank and smiled. "He's good."

Frank nodded. "I've seen them both on television."

"How many people you figure Rain has jammed in here?" Vincent asked. "Seven, eight hundred?"

"More like five or six," Gus answered quickly.

"Ten bucks a ticket, you're talking about a six thousand dollar gate," Vincent said.

"Rain's putting a couple thousand in his pocket tonight," Frank told them. "Easy."

Vincent folded his arms. "Not bad."

The ring itself looked enormous in the small high school gymnasium. In the center of the basketball court it was an impressive structure with neon ropes, a bright mat, and several canvas banners that read ECPWL draped along its skirt. An adequate sound system powered the announcer's microphone and was used to play music during the wrestler entrances and between matches. It was located at a long table that had been pushed directly against one side of the ring, where the timekeeper, Charlie Rain, and other officials were seated.

Once the Puma had worked his way through the crowd and into the locker room, an announcer in black tuxedo with microphone in hand, climbed through the ropes into the ring and announced the next match.

Charlie Rain sat at the ringside table beaming like a proud parent.

Gus leaned over so he could make eye contact with Vincent. "What do you think of him?"

"Haven't even met him yet."

"What do you think so far?"

Vincent grinned.

Later, after two more matches had concluded, the announcer told the crowd there would be a fifteen-minute intermission. Charlie shot to his feet and approached his new business partners with the same energy he'd displayed in Providence. "Frank, you made it."

"How are you, Charlie?" Frank smiled. "Great show."

"Top shelf," Gus said. "Top shelf, Charlie."

Charlie smiled at Vincent and offered his hand. "I don't think we've met."

"We haven't."

"Charlie," Frank said quickly, "this is my partner, Vincent Santangelo. Vincent, Charlie Rain."

"Jesus, Frank, you got more partners than a law firm."

"No," Vincent corrected him. "Only one."

He glanced at Gus then looked at Frank with uncertainty. "A man likes to know who he's crawling into the sack with, you know what I mean?"

"Vincent's my partner," Frank explained. "Gus is our sales manager. You'll be working closely with all three of us."

"Sorry I couldn't make the Providence meeting," Vincent said. "I had a previous engagement, you know how it goes."

Charlie offered a broad smile. "Hey, we're all here now, right? OK. Terrific. Can you guys stick around for a while?"

"Sure."

"Good, because there's a few people I want you to meet. I'd take you in the locker room but the boys get a little edgy about people they don't know wandering around back there."

"We're going to be paying their salaries," Vincent said. "I suggest they get over it."

Charlie's face turned bright red, and he forced a nervous laugh. "It's nothing personal, it's just the way it is. Like I told Frank, it'll take time to work you guys into the performance end of things."

"Just so long as it doesn't take too long."

"Sure… I'll, ah, I'll be right back."

As he disappeared into the locker room, Vincent looked at Frank and winked. "Relax, I know how to handle this guy."

"Just be cool."

Charlie returned moments later with a black man dressed in stone washed jeans and a sleeveless sweatshirt. "Boys, I want you to meet Luther 'Dark Train' Jefferson, professional wrestling legend and ECPWL Heavyweight World Champion."

As they made their introductions Frank marveled at the shape Jefferson had managed to keep himself in. This was a man he'd seen wrestle when he was a child, which meant the "Dark Train" had to be at least fifty-something. He was a shade over six feet with a physique of pure muscle most men half his age would've killed for. His head was shaved and his face featured both a goatee and the brutal remnants of the countless battles he'd endured over the years. His forehead was littered with scar tissue, his nose flat and crooked, and one of his ears cauliflowered, but despite his rugged appearance, Jefferson carried himself in a relaxed, amicable manner.

"Luther is our chief talent booker," Charlie explained in a quiet voice, glancing around to make certain no one else could hear. "I book the headliners and the specialties – you know, stars, broads, midgets – and Luther handles the rest of the card. He trains most of the under-card talent himself. Luther defends his title as part of every ECPWL shot, and he works exclusively for us."

"You know," Gus said suddenly, "I saw you wrestle in the Boston Garden dozens of times back when I was in high school."

"Shit, you're making me feel old."

Gus laughed. "Oh yeah, I saw you wrestle all the greats."

"Yeah, I tangled with all of them at one point or another."

"Hey, did you ever fight – "

Vincent shot Frank a look that should have maimed if not killed. "We won't keep you," Frank said, interrupting Gus's question. "I'm sure you're busy."

"Yeah, I got to get back to the boys. Nice meeting you, fellas. Look forward to working with you." As Jefferson returned to the locker room, Charlie glared at Gus as if he'd temporarily lost his mind.

Oblivious, Gus shrugged. "What's the matter with you?"

Rather than answering the question, Charlie focused on Frank and Vincent. "Luther also runs our room."

"What does that entail?" Frank asked.

"If all the matches aren't already arranged when the card is sold, Luther does the match-making. He also decides who gets put over."

"Put over?"

"To be put over means to win. Except for the main event, where either I make the call or let the headliners work it out themselves, Luther decides who wins, who loses, and how it plays out."

Vincent looked directly at Gus. "You mean it isn't real?"

Charlie laughed. "I hate to dump all this on you in just one night, but the Easter Bunny's a lying cocksucker from way back, too."

Before the intermission was over, Charlie introduced them to Bobby Kelley, the editor of a national wrestling magazine, and Delta Diamond, the ECPWL Women's Champion. While Kelley interviewed Frank for a story on the expansion of the ECPWL, Vincent did his best to keep Gus away from everyone else.

On the ride back to Massachusetts, from the backseat of the GMC Jimmy, Vincent leaned between the bucket seats and said, "Gus, you think you could do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"The next time you meet one of the wrestlers, keep your fucking mouth shut."

Gus lit a cigarette, glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. "I was trying to be friendly."

"Did you hear what I said?"

Gus looked to Frank for help, but he had apparently fallen asleep in the passenger seat. "Yeah," he said softly. "I heard what you said."

"We're supposed to be professionals. If we come off like star-struck fans nobody'll take us seriously." Vincent was so close to him Gus could feel his breath on the back of his neck. "Don't embarrass me like that again, you understand?"

"Okay, Vin. No problem."

Vincent sat back. "Remember when all the cunt wrestlers were just a bunch of big ugly bull-dykes?"

"Yeah, that's changed, huh?"

"You see the ass on Delta Diamond?"

Hopeful that the confrontational portion of the conversation was over, Gus cracked a smile. "See it? I'd eat a bucket of the bitch's shit just to sniff her asshole."

Behind him, in the darkness, Vincent laughed.

Frank loosened his tie, grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and moved quietly through the dark kitchen. He stopped in the open doorway to their bedroom and rubbed the bottle against his forehead. It was hot and stuffy in the apartment and the cool glass felt good against his flushed skin. He waited a few moments before twisting off the cap then nearly finished the entire contents in a single attempt.

"What are you doing?" Sandy's voice asked through the darkness. Frank switched on a small lamp on the corner of her dresser. His wife was laying on her side in a T-shirt and a pair of light cotton panties. The only window in the room was open, all the sheets had been kicked down to the foot of the bed and a small oscillating fan on the night table circulated the air but did little to cool it.

"Hi." Frank sat next to her on the edge of the bed. She smelled vaguely of talcum powder and coconut. "I just got home a few minutes ago. Thought I'd have a beer and watch you sleep a while. I do that sometimes."

Sandy propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. Her hair fell back away from her face and tumbled across her shoulders. "That's creepy, Frank."

"Creepy? What the hell's creepy about it?"

"It just is."

He put a hand on her shin, slowly slid it up between her thighs. They kissed softly on the lips, and Frank noticed her nipples pressed against the sheer fabric of the T-shirt. "You smell good, baby."

Sandy removed his hand from between her legs, returned it to his own lap. "Don't even think about it."

"What's the problem? You have a shitty day or something?"

"Would you like to hear about my day, Frank?" she asked, face void of expression. "Would you like that?"

He put the beer down on the night table and fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "You obviously don't give a shit about my day, so sure, let's talk about yours."

"Craig Pearson called earlier."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Did he want me to call him back?"

Sandy maneuvered into a sitting position, pulled her knees in against her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs. "He wanted to let you know that your vacation pay will be included with your last check."

Frank stood up and lit a cigarette. "Anything else?"

"He said he was sorry things worked out the way they did."

"I'll bet."

"Did he fire you, Frank?"

"I quit."

"You quit."

Frank sighed, blew a stream of smoke at the floor. "That's what I just said."

"And when did you plan to tell me?"

"I wanted to – "

"Or weren't you going to tell me at all?"

"Sandy, for Christ's sake – "

"Were you planning to leave every morning and only pretend to go off to work? Or is it just that what you do with your life is no longer any of my goddamn business?"

"I've tried to discuss my plans with you."

"Your plans?"

Frank stared at her. "What do you want from me?"

"How about the truth?"

He pulled his tie free from his neck and hung it over the doorknob. "This is an exciting time for me and you're ruining it. I'm on the brink of finally doing something with my life – our life – and all you can do is shoot it down and get all worked up over some stupid ass sales job."

Sandy sat forward, let her feet touch the carpeted floor. "I've got news for you. Stupid ass jobs like yours and mine keep groceries in the cupboards, Frank."

"For me, staying there is like mailing in the rest of my life," he said softly. "Why can't you understand that?"

"Do you think working as a receptionist causes in me a constant state of orgasmic bliss?" she asked through forced, humorless laughter. "Let me solve the mystery for you. It doesn't. I'd much rather be one of those rich women who shop and sip tropical drinks all day, but there's this little bitch of a thing called reality that comes along on a daily basis and screws everything up. There's no great conspiracy to ruin your life, Frank, it's just the way things are."

"And exactly the way they'll always be if I don't move now."

Sandy combed her hair behind her ears with her fingers and studied her husband's face. "Sweetie, listen to me. You're a salesman. Period. Accept it, and take pride in it."

"It's already set," Frank said, squatting next to the bed. "Vincent and I are going into the wrestling business."

Sandy looked at him as if he'd just explained that he and Vincent had decided to become astronauts and were leaving for the moon at dawn. "Lots of people have hobbies, Frank," she said evenly. "Most pursue them part-time."

"We've rented a place right here in town over at that new office park on Vine Street. Everything will be in place and we'll be up and running within a week."

"How the hell can you afford to rent an office? So help me God, if you've touched our savings account – "

"We got a loan." Frank stood up, opened the first two buttons on his shirt. "Don't worry about it."

With a slack jaw, Sandy slid from the bed onto her feet. "You got a bank loan without consulting me?"

"It's not that kind of loan."

She moved closer, her small fists clenched at her sides. "Don't even tell me you borrowed money from those cretins in Vincent's family." Frank turned his back, removed his shirt and began rummaging through his dresser for a T-shirt. "How much, Frank? How much did you borrow?"

"Enough to get things started and enough so that we'll have a few bucks ahead of us before the money starts coming in."

Sandy found her cigarettes on the nightstand and quickly lit one, ignoring the lighter Frank offered. "So let me make sure I understand this. You're going to become a professional wrestling promoter overnight – just like that – and the whole thing has been financed with money borrowed from gangsters."

"They're not gangsters."

Sandy slammed her lighter onto the dresser. "Vincent's brother Michael? No, he's an interior decorator, isn't he? For God's sake, Frank, you know what guys like that do to people who can't pay them back."

"You've seen too many movies. Michael owns some businesses, that's all. We couldn't get the amount of money we needed at a bank so we went to Mike. It's no big deal, trust me."

"This is insane."

Frank removed his pants, hung them up in the closet and stepped into a pair of shorts he'd found in his bureau. "I know it sounds crazy to you right now, but everything has been worked out. This isn't just some foolish bent."

"Yeah, Frank, it is."

He finished what was left of his beer and headed out into the kitchen. "You want a beer?"

"Beer's not going to quite do it," she said, following him. "I'll have a scotch and water. No ice."

Frank took the bottle and a small glass from one of the cabinets over the store, mixed the drink and handed it to her without comment.

"Let's celebrate," Sandy said. "Did I mention I've decided to become a rodeo clown, and that I'll be financing the whole thing by working as a prostitute for the next few months?"

Unable to stop himself, Frank laughed.

Sandy looked up from her drink, eyes moist. "This isn't funny."

Frank touched the side of her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I love you, and you know I would never do anything to hurt you. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. One day, I'd like to have children with you… but this is my shot, and I'm taking it with or without you. I'd much rather it be with you."

"Oh, thanks very much, how sweet."

"Stand by me, and a year from now you will be one of those women who shop all day. I know what I'm doing, just trust me on this."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. Either come along for the ride or get the hell out of my way."

"Frank – "

"Do you love me?"

"I'm still here, right?"

"Then support me. Believe in me."

Sandy wiped a tear from her eye. "Earn it."

"Give me the chance."

She finished her drink and placed the glass in the sink, keeping her back to her husband. A taut pause in their debate sharpened the sounds previously overlooked: the humming fan, the constant chatter of crickets just outside the open windows, the steady tick of a wall clock.

"It's late," Sandy eventually said, "and we've got that cookout at your parents' house tomorrow."

"I'd forgotten," Frank sighed. "What time are we supposed to be there?"

"Noon."

"Good. I've got some business in the morning I have to take care of."

She faced him. "Are you going to tell them about this?"

"Of course."

"What do you think your father's going to say?"

Frank crushed his cigarette in an ashtray. "I don't know."

Sandy moved silently to the bedroom, turned off the lamp, and vanished into darkness.