Night Work

CHAPTER 7

The hotel room was on the first floor and offered a view of a vast parking lot and a truck-stop diner beyond. Unaware or just careless, Vincent opened the heavy drapes halfway, catching himself in the warming, early morning light. The abundance of black hair that stretched from his chest down to his thighs all but obscured his very white, flaccid penis. Vincent scratched himself, momentarily startled to remember that he was not alone.

"Morning," the woman said through a yawn.

Vincent nodded at her but said nothing. He vaguely recalled picking her up at a bar after the show the night before. She'd been one of the locals hoping to meet the wrestlers and get a brief glimpse at their world from the inside. It never seemed to matter what town they were in, how long they planned to stay, or even how good the show was – groupies were a constant.

"What time is it?" the woman asked, pushing a thick strand of teased blonde hair from her face. "Feels early. Is there any aspirin in the room? My head's gonna friggin' explode if I don't do something about this headache. I get 'em something awful when I drink like I did last night."

"You must get them a lot."

The woman's false eyelashes batted at him like sticky black wings. "Huh?"

"Nothing."

A sudden knocking on the door broke the silence. The woman gathered the sheets around her and quickly smoothed her hair. Vincent opened the door to reveal Frank holding his briefcase in one hand and a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee in the other.

"Jesus, put some fucking clothes on, will ya?"

Vincent puckered his lips and kissed the air between them. "Don't act like you don't like it."

Frank put the coffee on a table near the foot of the bed and smiled at the woman. "Hiya doing?"

"Hi."

"We're going to need a little privacy, okay, honey?"

Vincent nodded at the woman. "She was just leaving."

"I was hoping to take a shower first."

"What's the matter, no running water at home?" Vincent jerked his thumb toward the door. "Take off."

The woman crawled out of bed, let the sheet fall to the floor, and began staggering about the room in search of her clothes. "I should've known you were an asshole."

"You're right, you should've." Vincent told her. She soon located her things, gathered them into her arms, and stomped angrily into the bathroom.

Frank looked at Vincent and rolled his eyes. "I can't imagine what you saw in her," he said, sipping his coffee. "Could it be the fact that her tits are roughly the size of my head?"

Vincent pulled the lid off the other cup of coffee and emptied a bag of sugar into it. "They're fake."

"They look it."

"They feel it." He chuckled. "Like sucking on a broad in a raincoat."

"I'll pass."

"How about you? You snag that little redhead that was following you around last night?"

Frank lit a cigarette. "Remember Sandy?"

"It's so free and easy. I don't know how you can pass the shit up, Frank."

"Simple. I'm a better man than you."

Vincent took a swallow of coffee and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Nah, that can't be it."

The bathroom door burst open and the woman moved quickly to the bed, pulled her purse from the headboard and slung it over her shoulder. "Thanks for an average night, fuck-head."

Vincent waved at her. "My pleasure."

"Fucking jerk." The woman smirked. "And you weren't that good, either."

"Yeah, okay, and your pussy drips diamonds. Hit the road, mattress-back."

She spun around and left, slamming the door behind her with surprising force. Vincent sighed and casually scratched himself. "I guess she thought I was gonna ask her to marry me."

Frank set his briefcase down on the table and flipped it open. "Okay, we've got business to take care of."

Vincent eyed him suspiciously. "You sleep in that fucking suit, don't you?"

"Stop fooling around. We've got to be in upstate New York by noon."

"Why so early?"

"Ticket sales aren't going well and the sponsor's having a fucking cow. I'm going to ride up with Charlie. We're taking off in about five minutes so catch a ride with Benny, all right? Also, make sure Delvecchio gets his ass there on time. I want the ring delivered and set up by two o'clock."

"The shot doesn't start until eight."

"I don't care. I want that drugged-out motherfucker set and ready to go, understand? Did you see him last night? He's so fucked up on heroin he doesn't know where the hell he is half the time, Vin. Come on, we can't have that kind of shit going on in a high school."

"I'll talk to him."

"The guy's got the best ring in the business, and to this point he's been reliable. I don't give a shit what he does on his own time – you know that – but he's got to straighten his act out while he's working."

Vincent nodded. "What else?"

"Gus is going to meet us on the way back at the shot in Connecticut. He's having a little trouble with that deal in Youngstown, Ohio. Get on the horn and close it for him."

Vincent wandered across the room, found his underwear and pulled them on. "That's his job, no?"

"I'm afraid he's gonna blow it, Vin. Just call the guy and close the sonofabitch, all right? I don't even care what kind of money we pull on it. We're deep into Pennsylvania that week and it looks like the deal in Indiana's going to come through. Youngstown's a perfect stopover."

"What kinda points we got on the Indiana shot?"

Frank rifled through some paperwork. "Four grand."

"So I've got some room?"

"Plenty. I don't care if we make a thousand bucks, just close that date and tell Gus to find somebody who can comp some rooms, all right?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"And tell him to bring the leads and the routing date for next week with him to Connecticut." Frank tossed an envelope onto the table between them. "There's your cut from last night. I didn't want you to get rolled so I hung onto it."

Vincent smiled. "What a guy."

"There's one more thing," Frank said hesitantly. He took two one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to Vincent. "Before you leave, make sure you stop in and talk to the motel manager. He's waiting for you in his office."

"Now what?"

"The midgets trashed their room again. Smooth it over."

He snatched the money from his hand. "Little fuckers."

"Just our luck to have dwarves with drinking problems, huh?"

"This shit's gotta stop, Frank. It's like throwing money out the window. Next time, I'm taking it outta payroll."

"Tell them that. I'm outta here."

Vincent gave him a quick nod and headed for the bathroom. "See ya upstate."

Frank and Charlie had been at the venue, a regional high school, for about an hour when the others began to arrive. Charlie had spent the time preparing the payroll for the evening while Frank had done his best to convince the show sponsor, the school's athletic director, that the purchases made at the gate would most likely make up for what had been modest ticket sales.

As Frank left the director's office, he ran directly into Benny Dunn, who had arrived only moments before and already had a list of problems that needed to be resolved. "Walk with me," Frank told him as he continued down the hallway toward the gymnasium. "Is it me or do all these places look exactly alike?"

"I just checked out the locker room," Benny told him with a frown. "We've got visitors."

A sharp pain shot through Frank's temple. "Jesus Christ, it never ends with these guys. What've we got this time?"

"One uniform, one suit."

"Did Vincent come up with you?"

"Yeah, he's around here somewhere."

"Find him."

The two men entered the gymnasium through two large doors. Charlie Rain was sitting in the bleachers pounding on a small calculator, his briefcase open and balanced across his knees. From the rear entrance Luther Jefferson wandered in with two other wrestlers, all carrying large gym bags.

"Charlie!" Frank called across the empty room, his voice echoing along the walls. "I need you to handle something."

Charlie nodded, held up a finger, and continued to work his numbers, furiously jotting down figures on a legal pad.

"What's up?" Luther smiled, strolling closer. "Nice room."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "Listen, I need you guys to stay out of the locker room for a few minutes, all right? I got some local business to take care of."

Luther nodded knowingly. "No problem, brother."

Frank turned back to Benny. "Tell our two friends I'll be with them in a minute. As soon as I clear them out you and your crew secure the locker room and gymnasium entrances and exits. But get Vincent first and tell him I need him here pronto. Also, what's the word on the state athletic commission boys?"

"They should be here about five."

"I don't want any surprises, Benny. Make sure I know the bastards are here the minute they hit the parking lot."

"Always."

"Also, has anyone seen Delvecchio?"

"He was right behind us on the highway," Luther said. "He should be landing any minute."

Charlie approached Frank and Benny slowly, his expression cautious. "What's going on?"

Frank looked at Benny. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Nothing that can't wait."

"Okay, go." Frank turned his attention to Charlie. "Payroll all set?"

"Of course."

"Here's what I need you to do. Luther, come in on this." Frank sat on the edge of the first row of bleachers and opened his briefcase. "This guy needs to move seven hundred tickets to break even tonight. As of this moment he's only sold a little over five hundred."

Charlie ran a hand through his hair. "Shit, he's gonna eat a couple grand. So much for a return date."

"I told him he'd probably get a few hundred people at the gate, but we know that's bullshit. In a town this size he'll be doing something if he pulls an extra fifty or sixty."

Luther shook his head. "It's a strong card, Frank. Didn't he promote it?"

"Evidently not." After a quick search of his briefcase Frank found a business card and handed it to Charlie. "That guy's our local radio connection. We did a commercial trade with him and they've been giving tickets away all week."

"I'll see if we can set up a phone link with Luther and…" Charlie turned to Luther. "Who are you working with tonight?"

"The Lariat."

"The Lariat, good. I'll get us on the air, you give them some heat, talk up the shot – you know what to do. Maybe it'll generate something. Hell, even if it doesn't, it'll look good."

Frank managed a slight smile. "The athletic director's waiting for you in his office. Down the hall and hang a left. Make the call from there."

"Let's do it."

"One more thing, Luther," Frank said, pulling him close and lowering his voice. "You and I know this guy's going to lose money. I don't want him to be able to blame the show."

Luther nodded. "I don't do bad shots, Frank."

"I know, brother, I know, but I want a little something extra on this one."

"We can juice it up."

Charlie winced. "Frank, you sure? Blood doesn't always go over well in these little towns."

"I want the people who are here whipped into a frenzy from start to finish," Frank told Luther, dismissing Charlie's comment. "You got me?"

"Loud and clear, brother."

As Charlie and Luther moved away, Vincent materialized to Frank's right. He was still knotting his tie. "Benny said we got some local fishermen visiting."

Frank nodded wearily. "What else is new?"

"Got the money on you?"

"Yup."

"Hard or soft act on these guys?"

"Never met them before."

"We gonna be back next year?"

"Doubtful."

"What's the cap?"

"Four."

"Let's go."

The locker room had an antiseptic odor that barely masked the more caustic smells normally associated with such areas. In the rear of the room, just beyond an enormous gang shower, two men stood alongside several narrow alleys of metal lockers.

"Gentlemen," Frank said with an enthusiastic smile. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Frank Ponte, and this is my partner, Vincent Santangelo."

A bald, bloated man well over six feet tall, dressed in a police uniform, stepped forward and offered an enormous paw of a hand. "I'm Chief Montgomery," he said in a booming, official tone. "And this is Phillip Lawson, senior selectman in town."

Lawson was a small, mousy man with glasses, bad skin, and a dated wardrobe. His tepid smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth. "Nice to meet you boys."

"The pleasure's ours," Vincent said. "What can we do for you?"

"I assume you boys have the appropriate licenses required by law?" Montgomery asked.

"We carry a state license," Frank explained. "I've got it right here in my briefcase."

"Of course, there's also the matter of the town license," Lawson said, beady eyes darting between all three men.

"Of course." Frank found both documents in his briefcase and handed them to Montgomery. He passed the paperwork to Lawson without looking at it. "We got the town license two weeks ago. We mailed in the fee and it was sent directly to our Massachusetts office."

Lawson returned the state license to Frank but continued studying the other. "Yes… it's just like I figured."

"I certainly hope there isn't a problem." Frank smiled.

"Afraid so," the small man said. "See, this license is only valid during the week. Monday through Friday – that's it."

"Today's Saturday," Montgomery reminded them.

Vincent looked at Frank, waited for his signal before he took control of the conversation. "That's funny, it doesn't say anything on the license itself about that."

Lawson removed his glasses and began to clean them with the tail of his shirt. "I've been a selectman here for more than ten years, Mr. Ponte. Rest assured, I'm well aware of our licensing and permit practices."

"I have no doubt that you are," Vincent countered. "The question, is what can we do to resolve the situation?"

Montgomery released a dramatic sigh. "I'm not sure there's anything we can do. As much as I'd like to help you boys out, I'm sworn to uphold the laws of this town, and according to Mr. Lawson, this license is invalid."

"Meaning?"

"We'll have to shut you down."

Vincent did his best to appear surprised. "Shut us down? Hell, you can't do that. We've got an entire show ready to go here, and remember, the proceeds are going to the school's athletic department. Besides, I'm sure the state athletic commission guys are already on their way."

"I know most of those boys." Montgomery smiled. "They'll understand."

"Can't we just buy a weekend license?"

"It's Saturday," Lawson said. "Everything is closed."

"Couldn't a man in your position issue a temporary license just to get us through this?" Vincent asked. "We'd be happy to pay the necessary fees, of course."

Lawson exchanged glances with Montgomery then returned his gaze to Vincent. "I don't know. That'd be highly unusual."

"I'd just hate to see the school lose an opportunity to make some money," Frank said softly. "It doesn't seem right."

Montgomery turned to Lawson right on cue. "How about it, Phil? Is there anything we can do?"

"Phil," Frank smiled warmly. "You don't mind if I call you Phil, do you? There must be some way to make this right."

"I might be able to sign off on the existing document," he said, handing the license back to Frank. "Thereby making it valid for a weekend event. But weekend licenses cost more."

"How much more?"

"Considerably more."

Frank wrapped two hundred dollars around the license and nonchalantly handed it to Lawson. "Why don't you take another look at it and make sure there's room for your signature?"

Lawson angled the license toward Montgomery so he could clearly see the amount of money that had been offered. The policeman seemed unimpressed.

"We all set?" Vincent asked after a moment.

"I'm afraid not."

"That's the best we can do."

"I'll shut you down."

Vincent's expression turned cold. "Then shut us down."

"Let's all try to be reasonable here," Frank suggested. "We're not millionaires, gentlemen."

Lawson produced a laugh that sounded like a wheeze. "Let me be blunt. We don't like your kind around here," he said softly. "You scurvy types come to our town with your flashy suits and diamond rings and big phony smiles and act like you own the place. Well, you don't own this place. We do."

Anger smoldered behind Vincent's eyes. "That's why we're negotiating."

"There's a carnival comes through here every year," the police chief said. "It's been stopping here since the seventies. Phil and I have an arrangement with those boys, and we're willing to work with them because it's a long-term relationship. But you may never do another show here again."

Vincent's expression seemed set in stone. "I know I speak for Frank when I say that I feel two hundred dollars is more than reasonable for a temporary license, fellas. But in the interest of getting this done, what would you say if we were willing to donate, say, another two hundred to a charity of your choice?"

Before either man answered, Frank slid the money into Montgomery's shirt pocket. "We'll trust you guys to get it to the right folks."

"And here," Vincent said, a smile slowly surfacing on his face as he handed a small stack of tickets to Lawson. "I'm sure you must know some people who'd like to see the show."

Frank nodded. "Bring some family and friends on us."

"The matches start at eight," Vincent told them. "We'll have it wrapped up by eleven and we'll be packed and out of town by midnight."

Lawson and Montgomery exchanged glances, and the smaller man quickly inspected the license again. "I must have been mistaken. Everything appears to be in perfect order here."

Once he and Frank were alone in the locker room, Vincent began to laugh. "Christ," he sighed, "it's like the same two guys in every town."

Frank lit a cigarette. "It never ends, man."

"Fuck 'em."

As they left the locker room they were confronted by Elliot Rosby, a freelance concessionaire they rented space to at each show. He and his young nephew had toured with Charlie Rain since the early days of the ECPWL, and sold T-shirts, photographs of the wrestlers, videos, hats, and programs. At the conclusion of each night, Elliot kicked back twenty percent of his profit to the ECPWL, but never without a complaint, and seldom without a lengthy discussion.

"Frank, Vincent!" he said in his typically loud voice. "Just the people I wanted to see. Have you got a minute?"

"Oh, Elliot," Frank moaned, "anybody but you right now."

Vincent increased his rate of speed and escaped down the hallway with a wide smile. "Gotta go but Frank's got a few minutes to chat, don't you, Frank?"

"What do you need?" Frank asked.

Elliot was in his late forties, of average height, and had a chunky build. His eyes appeared larger than they actually were due to the thick lenses of his glasses, and even his enormous handlebar mustache, sprinkled with flecks of gray, did little to deflect attention from his bad complexion. In his younger days Elliot had been a magician on the nightclub circuit in New York City, and though he never achieved stardom he had earned a decent living. Reportedly, Elliot had lost it all due to a penchant for gold-digging women. He constantly claimed to still be a working magician and often approached Frank and Vincent with various magic act ideas, none of which were ever taken seriously.

"Well, what I need – what I need is – is to have a conversation," Elliot said, the words tumbling from his lips with their usual nervous cadence.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't have time for a conversation right now. Can we do this later?"

"But – you see, this is just it – this is just the problem, Frank. I ah, I used to go right to Charlie and talk to him when I had a problem, right? Now he tells me to speak with you or Vincent. It's certainly nothing personal – I want to make that clear, Frank – please don't misunderstand – it's absolutely nothing personal – but, well, I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that Vincent isn't the easiest guy in the world to have a conversation with. He's a great guy – don't, ah, don't get me wrong – it's just that he can be – you know how I mean – awfully disagreeable at times and honestly -

"Elliot – "

" – I get the feeling he just never listens to me."

"Elliot, what do you want?"

He frowned and scratched his beard. "I was talking to some of the guys and, ah – they were saying it's going to be a weak crowd tonight. Can you shed any light on that, Frank?"

"Probably five to six."

"Oh, boy," Elliot rolled his eyes. "Oh, I mean – five or six hundred makes it – well, it makes it very difficult for me to do any business that's, ah – well, even remotely substantial. Just stop for a second and think about it from my end."

Frank started off down the hall. "I don't have time for this shit."

"All I'm saying," Elliot went on, following close behind him, "is that it – you know – makes things difficult for me."

"I'm tired of this, Elliot. You make me have this exact conversation with you whenever we don't sell out."

"But, Frank, you – you're certainly reasonable – a reasonable man and all, and – "

Frank stopped, faced him. "No breaks."

"I'm simply asking – "

"Did you hear me?"

"Maybe tomorrow in Connecticut I can make it up, but Jesus H., Frank – five or six hundred marks just isn't – "

Frank put a hand on Elliot's shoulder and leaned in close to him so as not to draw attention. "Then pack up and go home."

"You see, now that – that's the thing I'm – that's exactly the thing I'm talking about. Why do you have to hurt me like that? Why do you have to treat me like a mark when all I'm trying to tell you is -

"

"You open that table," Frank told him, "and you owe me."

Elliot looked as if he had been mortally wounded. "The thing I'm wondering – nand for God's sake, I'm simply wondering – is that maybe just for tonight – and only for tonight, Frank – maybe you could find it in your heart to let me kick you boys ten percent instead of -

"

"I don't have a heart, Elliot."

"No, that's – come on now that's – that isn't true at all. I understand you have to, you know, have to carry yourself a certain way, Frank, but I know, believe me – I, ah – I know when someone is -

"

"Twenty points."

"I'm only asking for tonight."

"Twenty fucking points."

Elliot sighed heavily. "Who loves you more than me? Who loves this show more than me? I – I can't figure out why – why you have to treat me this way."

"I'm tired of this, Elliot. I've got enough to worry about without having you stuck up my ass with this bullshit, okay? Here's how it is, and I'm only saying this once more so pay close attention. You work my show you pay me my fucking money. Period. Can you understand that, or should I have Vincent take you into the locker room and explain it again?"

Elliot's face dropped. "I'm asking, Frank – that's all. It was only a request, I mean – you say no – it's no."

"Fine." Frank forced a smile. "Then we're all set."

Elliot gripped Frank's shoulders and nearly hugged him. "Of course we are!" he said through a burst of laughter. "Don't get so upset, babe – it was only a question. Now, go on – go – you're busy – I can tell you're busy. The last thing you need is me bothering you, right? Am I right, boobalah? Right, chief?"

"It is not humanly possible for you to be more accurate than you are at this exact moment," Frank mumbled.

"Point taken, brother – absolutely taken and understood, all right? Can't fault a man for trying."

Even as Frank abandoned him in the hallway and returned to the gymnasium, he could still hear Elliot babbling.

The team from the State Athletic Commission arrived a few hours before the scheduled starting time. Dressed in identical blue blazers with state patches over the breast pockets, they appeared on the scene and took over the locker room immediately. Charlie, Frank and Vincent knew most of them as it was always one of a few regular crews that worked all of the wrestling and boxing shows in the state. For the most part, everyone got along well. They allowed Frank, who had registered with the state, to work as timekeeper, and generally assigned the referees Charlie requested when he registered the shows with the state office. Mainly, they were in attendance to collect a five-percent tax on the gross ticket sales, but they also assigned judges for the bouts, made sure all licenses, insurance, and workmen's compensation forms were up to date, and even oversaw the doctor, who was responsible for conducting physicals on the wrestlers before they were allowed to complete.

As was always the case, an hour or so before the show, the locker room was crowded and chaotic. Charlie and Vincent were busy filling out forms and paperwork with the state officials. Luther was working out angles and finishes for the matches involving under-card wrestlers. The two main event headliners were off in a corner, playing cards with one of the referees, and the doctor was slowly making his way through the long list of physicals. Meanwhile, Frank spoke with the midgets, Little Cowboy Pete, and Kid Ka-bang. "Vincent spoke to you guys, right?"

Pete smiled, struggling into a pair of small leather chaps. "Yeah. Sorry about the room, boss. We got a little loaded last night."

"Next time it comes out of your pay," Frank said firmly.

Kid Ka-bang, a black midget who wrestled in a tiger-skin loincloth, nodded woefully. "It ain't gonna happen again."

"Nobody else uses you guys as much as I do, right?"

"That's right," Cowboy Pete agreed. "And we appreciate it, boss."

Frank lit a cigarette. "You want to go back to doing house shows for the big federations?"

"Fuck that," Kid Ka-bang laughed. "You get big money but you gotta smoke too much pole for it."

Pete nodded, slapped his partner on the back. "I heard that, brother."

Frank smiled. "You know, you'd be just about the right height."

Little Cowboy Pete shook his head. "Gee, never heard that one before."

Frank laughed and moved through the room. One of the state commissioners stepped in front of him with a clipboard and a pen. "You doing time tonight?"

"Yeah."

He thrust the clipboard at him. "Sign line six and initial lines ten and twelve. Is Charlie doing the ticket count?"

"No," Frank said, handing the clipboard back to him. "Vin's handling it tonight. Charlie's announcing."

"Okay," the man nodded. "The doc wants to see you."

"What's wrong?"

"No idea. Ask him." The man began conversing with one of the other officials, and Frank quickly made his way across the room to the corner where Dr. Richard Pendleton was hovering over Dean Tate, a wrestler who worked as The Mongolian Crusher.

"Doc," Frank said with the biggest smile he could muster, "how've you been?"

Pendelton glanced at Frank without offering any discernable reaction. He was a thin man in his late sixties who seemed perpetually slumped over. His face was creased with wrinkles, his hands covered with liver spots, and his demeanor always cautious and guarded. "Hello, Frank."

"What's up?"

"This man can't go tonight."

Frank looked at Tate, who offered a timid shrug. "Why not? Are you sick?"

"I feel fine," Tate answered softly.

"What's the problem, Doc?"

Pendelton continued filling out a form without bothering to look up from it. "His blood pressure is through the roof. It's no wonder, look at him. He's not an inch over five foot ten and he weighs nearly four hundred pounds."

"I've been trying to watch my weight," Tate sighed.

"Hold on," Frank said, mind racing. "Dean, didn't you tell me you just went to your doctor a couple of weeks ago?"

"Uh-huh."

"And I thought you said everything was fine."

"It was."

Frank turned back to the doctor. "Then there must be some mistake, Doc."

"There's no mistake. I can't pass this man."

"I think it might've been the snack food," Tate suddenly said.

Pendelton looked up from his clipboard. "Snack food?"

"I slept late this morning," he explained, "and I didn't stop for lunch, so I ate a box of cupcakes I had with me."

"You ate an entire box of cupcakes?" the doctor asked.

Tate blushed. "Yes, sir."

"Just the same, in all good conscience, I can't let you wrestle, son."

"This'll screw up the whole card," Frank told him.

Pendelton buried his nose in his paperwork again. "I'm sorry. My decision is final."

"Doc, I don't have an extra man." Frank looked at his watch. "And it's too late to get somebody down here to replace him."

"I feel fine," Tate said again.

Frank waved at him to be quiet. "The guy's zooming on a sugar high, Doc, that's all. He's fine."

The doctor flashed an angry look. "If this man goes out there and drops dead of a heart attack, do you know who'll be to blame? Do you know who everyone will crucify?"

Frank knew he was up against the wall; he'd been there before. "Did I mention the ladies are working this card?"

"I saw the roster earlier."

"Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk."

Pendelton's eyes brightened. "Yes, that's… that's good."

"Tell you what I'm gonna do," Frank said quietly. "Right now they're down in the other locker room getting ready. I'll go let them know you're working as state doctor tonight; make sure they're expecting you. All I ask is one small favor, Doc. Can you do me one small favor?"

Pendelton shrugged. "Depends."

"Wrap that thing around Dean's arm again and give it just one more shot for me. In about two minutes, meet me out in front of the girls' locker room and let me know the results. Whatever you decide we'll live with. Fair enough?"

"Five minutes," Pendelton grunted without altering his expression. "See that the girls are ready for me."

Frank left the locker room and headed down the hallway toward the women's dressing area. He'd not yet reached the door when David Delvecchio intercepted him. "Hey, boss, I wanted to apologize about last night, I – "

"Not now," Frank snapped, continuing past him.

Delvecchio leaned his emaciated frame against the wall and shook his head dejectedly. He had long stringy hair that he kept pulled back into a ponytail, several colorful tattoos on his forearms and shoulders, a nose ring, and a constant look of confusion and fatigue. He and a crew of two other men were responsible for transporting and constructing the ring at all ECPWL shows. Delvecchio was only in his late thirties but had been in the wrestling business for more than two decades, and was well known as both a reliable ring rat, and a helpless heroin addict.

One of Benny Dunn's security guards stood poised in front of the women's locker room dressed in a company-issue, bright yellow "security" T-shirt. "They in there?" Frank asked; knocking and entering before the guard even had time to respond. "Incoming, ladies!"

Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk were sitting on one of the benches talking above the strains of an enormous boom box. "Frankie," Tammy said, eyes bright. "What's up?"

He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "You know how it is, Tam. It's never easy being me. We got a bit of a problem."

Delta smiled, revealing a beautiful set of teeth, and sauntered over to him. She combed her blonde hair behind her ears with a finger and let her eyes wander seductively down Frank's body. "Tell Mommy all about it."

Frank lit a cigarette. Dressed in a tank top and skimpy satin shorts, Delta's curvaceous figure was impossible to ignore. "You know Doc Pendelton, right?"

Tammy, an equally tantalizing dark-complexioned brunette, shook her head. "Christ, not him again."

"Afraid so."

"Got an extra butt?" Delta asked. Frank lit one and handed it to her. She inhaled deeply, her eyes never leaving his. "What's that prick pulling this time?"

"He's threatening not to pass Dean."

"I wouldn't pass the fat bastard either," Tammy laughed, still straddling the bench. "Imagine trying to find his dick?"

Frank looked at her. "You're such a prude."

"So what's the deal?" Delta asked.

"We're fucked without him."

Delta glanced over her shoulder at Tammy, who offered a subtle, if not bored nod, then turned back to Frank. "Let me guess. You promised the good doctor a chance to conduct a couple of thorough examinations, right?"

"What can I tell you?" Frank said, a nervous laugh escaping him. "He's got me by the balls."

Delta arched an eyebrow. "Lucky guy."

"Maybe so, but it hurts from where I'm standing."

"It's supposed to hurt, sugar."

"Can you help me out or not?"

"Anything for you, Frankie." She playfully squeezed his thigh. "Just make sure we're on the Christmas list, okay?"

Frank slipped his arm around her waist and she immediately shifted her full weight against him. "Not a problem."

Crushing her breasts against his chest, Delta looked up at him like an innocent waif. "You're just the sweetest little thang."

"I love dementia in a woman. Especially when it's coupled with nymphomania."

Delta winked. "It's worse than you think."

"I'll bet it is." He kissed her on the forehead and headed for the door. "Thanks, ladies."

Pendelton was waiting for him in the hallway. Frank forced a smile and approached him like an old friend. "We're all set here, Doc. You should've seen their faces when I told them you were working – "

"Cut the horseshit, son," Pendelton cracked. "When do you need them?"

Frank cleared his throat. "They don't wrestle until after the intermission. That's at least an hour from now."

"Then I can take my time?"

"As long as you need."

Pendelton pulled a form from his bag and handed it to Frank. "Tate's all set."

"God bless ya, Doc."

He looked at Frank, his eyes dark. "God's got nothing to do with it, son." Pendelton pushed open the door and stepped into the locker room.

Frank found Charlie and Vincent standing in the entrance to the gymnasium watching the fans as they slowly began to arrive. "The early birds landing already?"

"You look like you're about to have a stroke," Vincent said, only just noticing him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm working, what the hell's it look like I'm doing?"

Charlie elbowed Vincent in the side playfully and motioned to two teenage girls who had stopped to ask one of the security people where their seats were. "Get a loada these two."

"I swear to God," Vincent chuckled, "girls did not look like that when I was in high school."

"Maybe you should go see if you can help them find their seats," Charlie said. "Tell the one with the cute little ass I'd be more than happy to let her use my face. It's the best seat in the house."

Vincent moved across the gym and immediately struck up a conversation with the two young women. Charlie and Frank watched for several seconds without speaking. "That sonofabitch is unbelievable," Charlie laughed. "Has he always been like this?"

"I can't remember him any other way."

Charlie started back to the locker room. "Come on, let's throw the state boys outta there and make sure everybody's all set. You took care of that thing with the doctor, right?"

"Yeah. Throw an extra hundred in Delta's envelope."

"Gotta love that broad."

Frank stopped him at the door. In the year that they had been working together there had been dozens of parties on the road, but the women always remained segregated from the rest of the troupe. Several stories circulated about Delta and the various partners she worked with, but no one seemed to know for sure what really went on behind closed doors with most of the female wrestlers. "Have you ever partied with Delta or any of the other girls?"

Something in Charlie's expression revealed he'd been asked that same question countless times. He smiled with his eyes before answering. "Nope, never have."

"She swings both ways, right?"

"Most of them do."

Frank looked around to make sure they were alone. "How come you never hooked up with her?"

"I don't shit where I eat." Charlie laughed lightly, as if to himself. "You know even though most guys play around on the road, I don't. I couldn't give a shit what other people do, but I decided a long time ago I wouldn't fuck with Delta and those broads. I can't afford to let them hold anything over me, know what I mean? And neither can you."

Frank shrugged. "I was just curious."

"Delta likes to play games. You think she don't know how hot she is? You think for a minute she doesn't know she can get you hard just by looking at you a certain way? Sex is her whole fucking act, Frank. She started out as a stripper – same thing with Tammy. Delta even did a few porno flicks in the early eighties, a copy of one of them circulated around the business a year or so ago. I got one at home if you ever wanna check it out." Charlie lit a cigarette and draped his arm around Frank's shoulder. "If you're really looking for a good time, you should check out the party me and the wife are throwing. The weekend after we get back from Indiana we're having some people over. Luther and his wife will be there, and a few other couples. If you want, bring Sandy. You can stay over. Or come by yourself. Either way, we'll have fun."

"Sounds good." Frank smiled. "Thanks."

They entered the locker room and ran directly into two of the state officials. "Everything's all set," one of them said. "We're ready whenever you are."

Charlie glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes."

While they continued talking, Frank made his way around the room, stopping to chat with most of the wrestlers. Luther was lying across one of the benches relaxing. Frank sat next to him. "Are we cool?"

"We're cool."

"Who's the man?"

"Larry."

"He and Dean are working the prelim."

"Yeah, opening bout," Luther said through a lengthy yawn. "You said you wanted the marks whipped from start to finish. We're giving them a bloodbath."

"Is this the kid's first time?"

"Second. First time live."

"He gonna be all right?"

"Better be."

Frank looked around. "Where's he at?" Luther pointed to the rear of the room where the toilet stalls and sinks were located.

He found Larry O'Leary, a twenty-year-old who worked as Private Sean Powers, American Hero, slouched over a sink with a small razor blade in one hand and a roll of white athletic tape in the other. Frank lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. "How's it going, brother?"

Larry stood up straight, rising to his full six-foot two inches. "No problems here, boss."

In the business, fan favorites were known as babies; those who were booed for a living were labeled heels. Part of O'Leary's gimmick was to run to the ring wearing camouflage fatigues and waving the American flag to the strains of Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. The crowds went wild and rooted for him with a nearly fanatical zeal. With his boyish good looks, sandy blond hair and big blue eyes, Larry was a baby many believed had the potential to become a major star. But he had only worked live shows for six months, and although Luther Jefferson had personally trained him, Larry was still relegated to the opening slot.

"You all right?" Frank asked softly. "You're looking a little tense."

Larry tore two strips of tape from the roll and began covering the dull edge of the blade. "I'll be ready."

"You sure you're okay with this?" Frank asked, motioning to the blade. "Because I can switch it to one of the other boys if you want."

His clear blue eyes met Frank's. "You're the man. If the man says, juice, I juice. I'm a professional."

Frank nodded. "You gonna pop-and-drop, or carry?"

"Carry."

"You can pop-and-drop if you want. Give yourself one good one and then very casually drop the blade in the corner where the ref can kick it onto the time table and one of us can grab it."

"I'm carrying." Larry held out his right wrist. It had been taped, but he'd left a small fold just below the base of his palm that acted as a compartment where the razor blade could be tucked safely away once he had made the necessary slashes along his hairline and forehead. "The way we've got the angle worked out, Dean's gonna juice too. We're gonna seesaw running each other into the ring posts so we'll both have to pop at least three or four times. It's gonna be a fucking mess."

Frank took a deep drag on his cigarette, recalled a conversation he and Charlie had had months before, when he'd first learned that no respectable wrestler ever used fake blood or capsules in the mouth. The blood had to be real. Juicing had become a right of passage for young wrestlers; the scar tissue it left behind, badges of honor for the veterans.

"Dean's putting you over."

Larry nodded proudly. "The ref's gonna stop it due to loss of blood. I ain't never gone over on anyone with a name big as The Mongolian Crusher. Luther says it'll make all the magazines." Despite his shaking hands he managed to hide the blade amidst the tape on his wrist. "What do you think?"

"Relax," Frank told him. "If you go out a bundle of nerves you'll blow up out there."

"No chance. I'm in great shape. I ain't never blown up – always got my wind." He grabbed the sink with both hands and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. "I'm cool."

Frank left him alone, walked back out into the locker area. Music could be heard from the gymnasium, followed by cheers from the crowd.

Charlie summoned everyone's attention with a loud clap of his hands. "All right, boys, let's go to work."

The door opened, and Frank followed him out and down the hallway toward the ring.