Night Work

CHAPTER 8

On the outskirts of town a group of the boys found a small diner along a heavily wooded rural route just prior to the state highway junction. Finding places to eat or drink for the troupe was never easy, particularly after working small towns. Most establishments had already closed by the time the shots ended, and those eateries that did remain open were often home to local night owl types who, after a few too many beers, usually came to the conclusion that they were tougher than any wrestler. Conversations initiated out of respect and understandable curiosity, under an alcohol and testosterone haze, quickly escalated into challenges.

When they entered, Frank noticed a small group of men in the far corner talking and laughing like high school boys. He counted six of them, then made a visual sweep of the area. One middle-aged couple, one college-age couple, two stools at the long chrome-faced bar occupied by men with skin bronzed from hours spent working outdoors. A thirty-something waitress tallying checks behind and ancient cash register curled her thin lips into something similar to a smile.

"Anywhere?" Charlie asked her, motioning to the other end of the diner, his voice gravelly after a long night of ring announcing, a job he often assumed on tours as a way of cutting the additional cost of hiring an announcer.

"No," the waitress snapped. "That section's closed. Take your pick as long as it's on this side."

Charlie led the way down the narrow aisle between the booths on either side of the dining area. As always, heads turned and eyes stared at the wrestlers in tow. Charlie tried to make the best of it, smiling and acknowledging each person, but the reception was lukewarm at best.

They all slid into a large booth in the corner. Frank and Vincent and Charlie on one side, Luther and Jose Puerta (who worked as Diablo Gonzalez), Larry O'Leary, and Al Sawyer, a referee who traveled with them, on the other side.

"Let's see what's good," Charlie said, flipping open a laminated menu. "Some of the best places to eat are dumps like this."

Luther nodded, stretched his massive arms. "I remember a place just outside of Memphis we used to go to when I worked for the big leagues. That was back in '78. I was working with – "

Knowing that Luther had a habit of rambling on about past experiences, Frank interjected, "I say we eat and get the hell out of here, all right, fellas?"

"Looked a lot like this place," Luther continued. "They had the best chili I ever ate. We'd order pitchers of beer and sit there until they threw us out."

The waitress appeared with a tattered pad in her hand and the same smirk on her face. "What can I get you?"

"Give us a minute, will ya, honey?" Charlie said, flashing a wide smile.

The waitress propped a hand on her hip and glared at him. "What's your name, mister?"

"Charlie," he said, still smiling.

"Mind if I ask you a question, Charlie?"

"Not at all, honey."

"Are my shoes under your bed?"

Charlie's face dropped. "What?"

"It's a simple question, Charlie. Are my shoes under your bed?"

"Well… no."

She leaned in close to him, puckered her lips as if to kiss his cheek, and whispered, "Then don't call me honey, motherfucker."

The others burst into laughter as the waitress turned on her heels and sauntered off, leaving Charlie stunned but laughing too. "You okay, brother?" Jose laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "You gonna be all right?"

Charlie buried his nose in the menu. "Jesus what a bitch."

While the others laughed and teased Charlie relentlessly, Vincent kept a watchful eye on the group of men a few booths away. They had huddled together more than once since their arrival and it was clear that they were planning some sort of approach. He sized them up one at a time, deciding which ones were more likely to give him trouble in the event of a physical confrontation.

"Frank's right," Vincent said, once the laughter had subsided. "Let's eat and take off. I don't like the look of that crowd over there."

Luther nodded to the others. "You heard the man."

Despite the fact that both Jose Puerta and Larry O'Leary were young and unknown to anyone other than hardcore fans, it was apparent that they were, in fact, in the business. They both wore flashy weight-lifting pants and sleeveless sweatshirts. Jose wore a bandana, two large gold hoop earrings, and had shaved the tips of his eyebrows to give them the upward slant of a comic book villain, and a large gauze bandage covered a significant portion of Larry's forehead, concealing his self-inflicted wounds. The event had been highly advertised, and in a small community where everyone knew each other, these odd-looking creatures could only be part of the freak show that had come to town. Add to the mix that Luther Jefferson, although on the downside of what had been a fabulous career, was still often recognized on the street, sometimes by only casual fans of wrestling, and you had a situation that spelled trouble in most small towns after dark.

Before the waitress returned, one of the men from the table Vincent had been watching stood up and approached them. In his late thirties, he was compact, broad-shouldered and dressed in jeans and a soiled T-shirt. He needed a shave, and brown strands of greasy hair hung loosely beneath a baseball cap bearing the name of a heavy equipment manufacturer.

"Here we go," Frank said quietly.

Charlie dropped the menu. "Oh, Christ."

"Everybody be cool," Vincent told them. They had all been through this before, and, like children at a fire drill, knew exactly what to do. "Nobody get hot."

The other men giggled and suppressed nervous laughter as their friend inched closer. He stopped a few feet from the edge of the table and smiled. "Hiya doing?"

"How are you?" Vincent said.

"Hey." The man looked at Luther. "You the Dark Train, ain't ya?"

Luther offered a guarded smile. "That's right."

"Me and my buddies saw the show over at the high school tonight," he said, alcohol slurring his speech.

"Glad to hear it," Luther said. "You have a good time?"

"Hell, yeah. I been watching you on TV since I was a kid." The man chuckled, then looked over his shoulder at his friends. "What are you, sixty-freakin-years-old by now?"

"Not quite, brother, not quite."

The man wiped his hands on his shirt. "That show tonight was mostly young guys I never heard of and old farts that used to be big names. How come you ain't on TV no more? Haven't seen you on any of them big shows in years."

"I wrestle for the ECPWL now."

"But who the fuck's ever heard of that? I watch wrestling whenever it's on TV and I ain't never heard of no ECPWL."

Vincent leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We're not on television yet, but we will be soon. Keep an eye out for us."

The man glanced at Vincent then turned his attention back to Luther. "That guy you wrestled tonight, The Lariat, you kicked his ass good, huh?"

"I got the better of him tonight," Luther told him. "But he's a tough man."

"Looked like a pussy to me."

The middle-aged couple got up, quickly paid for their meal and left. The waitress remained perched behind the register, watching to see what might happen next.

"Take my word for it," Luther smiled. "He's pretty tough."

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his friends. "Those guys say I'm pretty tough."

"Look," Vincent said, "we just want to get something to eat and get the hell out of here, all right?"

He looked at Jose. "And who are you supposed to be? Super Spic?"

"We're not looking for trouble," Vincent told him.

"I ain't talking to you, dago-boy."

Vincent's face showed no reaction. "But I'm talking to you."

The man turned to Larry O'Leary. "Then we got this one. The American Hero, huh? Looks to me like you couldn't be more than a year out of high school. What war did you fight in, boy?"

Larry lowered his eyes. "Why don't you go sit down?"

He leaned closer. "Matter of fact, you sorta look like a queer to me. They oughta call you The American Fag."

The other men began to laugh, and Frank shot Vincent a quick look. Hands held beneath the table, he slowly slid his pinkie ring from his finger and dropped it into his pocket. Charlie sighed and shook his head. "We're only a minute or two from the highway," he said softly.

"Tell the truth, pretty boy," the man said. "You a faggot, ain't you?"

"Actually," Larry said, slowly lifting his eyes. "I am."

The speed with which Larry stood up, grabbed the man by the throat, and pinned him to the table, startled everyone. He held him there easily, his face so close that their noses actually touched. "Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't break your neck."

"Get him off of me!" the man screamed.

Vincent had rounded the table before any of the man's cohorts could reach them. The first to make an approach was a tall man with an enormous gut. Vincent launched a thrust-kick that easily snapped the man's knee. He collapsed to the floor, howling like a wounded animal, and the others stopped dead in their tracks, realizing that this would be no simple brawl, but a conflict where people were seriously injured.

"Come on, you fucking rednecks," Luther growled. "Bring it."

"Call the police," one of the men shouted to the waitress. "And get an ambulance. Randy's knee is busted up real bad."

Vincent motioned to the door and everyone but Larry slowly filed out to the parking lot. "Okay, kid, let him go."

Larry grabbed the man by the back of his neck and pushed him toward his friends. He staggered across the floor but was caught by one of the others before he fell.

"Anybody else?" Vincent asked, watching the other men, an arrogant smile spreading across his face. "How about you? You wanna hang out with your buddy down there on the floor?"

"Just get the hell out of here!" one of the men shouted.

Very slowly, Vincent backed out of the diner. In minutes, he and the others were all piled into their rented Nissan Pathfinder, barreling down the state highway, headed for the relative safety of a motel in Connecticut.

Jose high-fived Vincent. "Jesus, that dude's knee was wrecked. You don't play, brother."

"He was a big guy," Vincent laughed. "I wasn't taking any chances."

"I hope they didn't get our plate," Charlie sighed from behind the driver's wheel.

Al Sawyer, a referee in his middle forties, sat quietly in the back seat staring out the window. He was a tall, lanky man with a comb-over that began just above his right ear and ended somewhere on the other side of his balding head. He still lived at home with his mother in New Hampshire, and in addition to his career as a referee, worked full-time as an assistant supermarket manager.

"You all right, Al?" Frank asked.

"Yeah," he said, face pale. "I guess so."

"Maybe we can grab something to eat once we get into Connecticut?" Larry said.

Charlie shook his head. "Are you kidding? They roll up the sidewalks at seven."

"Another night, another vending machine," Luther sighed.

Still under the control of an adrenaline rush, Vincent took several deep breaths and did his best to calm down. "I knew those guys were pussies," he said, looking around for further vindication. "You wanna bet that fat fuck walks with a limp even after the doctors patch him up?"

Vincent's eyes found Frank in the relative darkness. He met his gaze with a quick wink but said nothing.

Charlie pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. "I'm way too old for this shit."

"You're never too old to run for the car," Luther laughed. "You guys see him haul ass back there? Not bad for an old white man."

"Eat shit."

Exhausted, Frank closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the seat. He heard someone say, "It's a glamorous life, ain't it?" amidst laughter and moans as Luther began reciting one of his epic stories from tours past.

The following morning, Gus joined the troupe in New London. He and Frank had breakfast in a cheap restaurant across the street from the motel and then returned to Frank's room for a scheduled meeting with Vincent and Charlie. Instead of going directly to bed, as he should have the night before, Frank had stayed up swapping stories and drinking vodka with Benny Dunn until dawn, and was already feeling the effects of three hours of fitful sleep.

Charlie staggered in first, sipping a cup of fizzing water he swore cured even the most debilitating symptoms caused by excessive drinking, and collapsed into a chair in the corner. Through eyes that more closely resembled slits, he managed to find Gus sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette.

"You look like shit," Gus told him. "Only worse."

Charlie nonchalantly raised a buttock and squeezed out a thunderous fart. "That's for you."

"Lovely." Frank frowned and fanned the air with his hand.

"My classic breeding is only exceeded by my boyish good looks," Charlie cracked. What began as a hearty laugh soon became an uncontrollable cough emanating from deep within his chest.

Gus held out his pack of cigarettes. "Have a smoke, you wheezing bastard."

He hawked a ball of phlegm into a small plastic wastebasket next to the desk and to everyone's surprise, actually took one of the cigarettes and lit it. "Nothing a little nicotine can't fix."

Vincent knocked and entered the room looking rather drawn but none the worse for wear. "Good morning."

"That's debatable," Frank said.

"What's up?"

"We've got a problem."

"So what else is new?"

"A serious problem," Gus announced.

Vincent made it a point to look directly at Frank. "I'm listening."

"I just found out over breakfast," Frank said. "Go ahead and fill them in, Gus."

Gus crossed his legs and attempted a relaxed posture. "This week I started contacting former clients from last year in the hopes of organizing the first leg of our New England tour for September," he began uncomfortably, "and I found a disturbing pattern. The GCWA has already signed three of them away from us for shots this fall."

"Global Championship Wrestling Alliance," Charlie groaned. "That's John Turano's group. I knew this was coming."

"They're following the exact route of our tour from last season," Gus told them. "They've already contacted six of our clients in the last month or so, and from what I can tell they don't plan on stopping any time soon."

"Which ones did we lose?"

"Fall River, Dedham, and Lowell."

Vincent drew a slow, deep breath. "Sonofabitch."

"The GCWA is basically a three-man operation," Charlie said. "Turano, his brother Marvin, and his cousin Joey Loomis."

"But everybody knows Turano's a piece of shit," Vincent said. "Most marks outside the business who talk to him or his people directly are turned off in the first five minutes."

Charlie nodded. "All three of them are buffoons. They've got a few independent bookers scattered around from here to Florida, but nobody major. They write all of their business on cost. They're established – been in the business for almost twenty years. The only reason they never became major players is because they're hit-and-run artists. They used to work a lot of dates in New York and Jersey, but they ripped off so many people it got to the point that their reputation made it impossible for them to conduct business. That's why they relocated to Philadelphia and tried to monopolize that state. They still do shots up and down the East Coast when they can get them, but they're mainly a TV federation now. Granted, the only thing worse than their live shots is that TV show – and it only runs on the smaller cable outlets – but it generates a shit-load of house shows for the pricks. It's Turano's bread and butter. He packages thirteen-week runs, sells advertising, produces the show, and gives it to the goddamn stations. He makes his coin on the shots generated by the TV show and from the advertisers and sponsors directly. He's been running TV shots for more than ten years from here to Pennsylvania, and it pays off. He just sits there in Philly and takes the shots as they come to him. It's the only way they could survive once the business cleaned itself up and started involving real sales pros. Turano knew he and his boys couldn't compete with competent, articulate salespeople, so he went the TV route instead."

Vincent turned to Gus. "Specifically, how is he stealing our dates?"

"He's offering them TV tapings," Gus explained. "He comes to their school with a TV crew, his regular under-card workers, and as many stars on the independent circuit he can get his hands on. They start the shot about noon, and it runs until nine or ten o'clock at night. Fans come and go throughout the course of the day, but they manage to keep it packed because they sell the tickets real cheap – two, three dollars for a ringside seat and a buck for everything else. The fans not only get to see a ton of matches they get to see a lot of the boys wrestle over and over again. The stars come out and do two or three squash matches – where they beat the shit out of some no-name – to top-of-the-card main event bouts. By the time they wrap up a shot, Turano's got thirteen weeks in the can."

Frank was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He moved to the window and opened the blinds enough to let in a bit of light. "And because he's already got all of his advertising sold he can deliver the show to the client for free."

Gus looked to Vincent for support. "And just how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? I asked our client in Fall River if they were happy with us last season – they made money, we delivered everything we promised – and the client says if they sign with Turano there's no risk. Zero. If he lets the Turano's use his gym for a day, he lets him sell as many tickets as he wants and he gets to keep the whole nut. Bottom line, fellas, I'm stuck trying to sell a product this motherfucker's giving away."

"Why risk five or six thousand to make ten or twelve," Charlie sighed, "when Turano can offer you three-to-five with no chance of losing dime one?"

Vincent began to pace. "Why fuck with us?"

"I've never seen him make a move like this," Charlie said. "He's always kept pretty much to himself."

"With all due respect, Charlie," Frank said, stepping forward, "until we entered the picture the ECPWL wasn't much of a threat to somebody like Turano. With the number of shows we're doing now, particularly those in and around his home base state, we must be hurting him worse than we thought."

Everyone in the room was familiar with the six independent promoters conducting business from Maine to Florida, but it was also common knowledge that only three could be considered federations capable of wielding any significant power. The ECPWL was one; a promotion based in Miami (and considered at that point to be friendly), was another. The third and arguably strongest of the lot belonged to John Turano. In a little more than a year the ECPWL had become recognized throughout the wrestling business as the fastest-rising independent organization in the country. Their rapid success had now made them a target.

"Maybe we should've tried to meet with Turano before we started booking shots in Pennsylvania and the neighboring states," Gus said quietly.

Charlie shook his head. "You don't understand. You don't talk to John Turano. He's such an asshole it's impossible to have a reasonable conversation with the guy. Believe me, I've tried. That's why he's an outcast in the business."

"None of us are exactly close," Frank said.

"True, but at least if we need to talk to say, Ralphie Logan down in Miami, or Murray Weiss in New York, or even Pete Bracco in Trenton, we can get them on the phone and work things out. Turano considers everybody the enemy."

"Maybe he's right," Vincent said.

"Yeah," Charlie answered, "but we all know there's certain things you just don't do, and following somebody else's dates is one of them. It shows a complete lack of respect. It's like a slap in the face, Vin."

Gus said, "The New England states were his territory first. He could make the argument that we did the same shit to him. Turano had free reign there for so long he probably thought he could just – "

"I don't give a shit what he thought," Frank snapped. "Give me the actual damages."

"Using sales figures from last year, the loss of those three shots will end up costing us more than ten grand in profits."

Frank slammed a fist on the bureau. "But Jesus Christ, can we get a break from this bullshit?"

"We can't afford another hit like that," Gus said after a hard swallow. "It'd set us back a year, maybe more."

Frank exchanged glances with Vincent before he spoke. "At some point Turano will have enough TV tapings ahead of him. How much longer do you think he'll keep this stunt going? Can we just ride it out?"

"Remember," Vincent warned, "he's got more money than we do at this point. The question is how much longer can he afford to keep it going?"

With a horrible grimace, Charlie gulped down the remainder of his drink. "Long enough to run us into the ground."

Frank lit a cigarette, pulled the smoke deep into his lungs and held it there. "What do we do about it?"

"Okay," Vincent said, "let's cut to the chase. We've got three options."

"That's two more than I can think of," Charlie said wearily.

Vincent removed his suit jacket and slung it over the back of the desk chair. "One, we wait it out, step up our own sales efforts – particularly in this sack of shit's backyard – and wait to see what he does next. Two, we set up a meeting with him and his people and try to negotiate some sort of deal where nobody has to take the pipe. Three, we make a move on Turano that shows the entire wrestling world that we are the last guys on the planet anybody wants to be fucking with."

"Charlie," Frank said, pacing slowly near the door, "you're the only one who knows this guy – "

"I've met him," Charlie corrected him. "I don't know him any better than you do, brother."

"But you don't think he can be negotiated with."

"Not at all. The guy's a dick. Ask your friend, Paulie Caruso, he knows Turano. Ask Luther. He worked for him for a few months a couple years back. Any of the boys that work for the guy will tell you the same thing, Frank. The only way he gets talent to work for him in the first place is because he promises TV exposure and guarantees a certain number of shots a year."

Frank thought a moment. "Has he ever been pushed?"

"Luther told me a story once about a feud Turano had back in the seventies with a guy by the name of Dave Remy. He was a real small-timer, worked mostly Massachusetts and Rhode Island doing little popcorn shows – you know, a few hundred bucks in his pocket a night with a card of unknown talent, a small room and cheap ticket prices. One of the guys who worked for Turano at that time was Jimmy Shaw. He had a hell of a gimmick – they'd carry him out in a cage and drag him into the ring in chains like a nut. He worked as The Neanderthal Man. They billed him as a guy a bunch of scientists had found out in some jungle someplace – you know the routine – I'm sure you guys remember seeing him on TV and in all the magazines back then. He was a major headliner for a while. Anyway, in those days, the big promotions only offered a handful of exclusive contracts, so there was a lot more movement between the major federations and the independent circuit, even by the big stars. Shaw ended up going to work for Turano, but they had a falling out over money and Shaw split. Somewhere along the line, he met up with this Remy guy and they decided to do a shot together. Shaw wanted to get back at Turano for stiffing him so he gave Remy the name of one of the Turano's biggest clients and told him to put it together. Well, with The Neanderthal Man as the main event draw even a stiff like Remy could sell the deal. Word got back to Turano and I guess he went fucking ballistic, but it was too late. The contract had already been signed."

Vincent rubbed his eyes. "This sounds like one of Luther's stories. Does it have an ending?"

"Yeah," Charlie said in a gruff voice, "see what you think of this, slick. Two weeks after the shot Dave Remy gets killed out in front of his apartment by a hit-and-run driver. They never caught the guy. Six months go by. Jimmy Shaw's working a tour in South America, and one night after a shot, somebody walks into the locker room, kicks in one of the stalls and beats him to death with a baseball bat while the poor bastard's pinching a loaf."

"Jesus," Gus said, fumbling for a cigarette.

"Luther knew a few of the guys on that tour. They told him Shaw was beaten to a fucking pulp, and you wanna know the best part? Nobody saw a goddamn thing."

Apparently entertained by the story, Vincent smiled. "Grease enough palms, everybody goes blind, huh?"

"They never caught that guy either." Charlie rolled his eyes. "Supposedly Turano arranged the hit through friends he had in the mob in Philly."

Frank turned to Vincent. "Turano's connected?"

"Easy enough to find out."

"Then do it."

The sky rumbled, followed by a deafening clanging sound as a heavy rain began to fall against the tin awning that ran the length of the motel.

"Then negotiating with this guy is definitely out," Gus said above the sudden din.

"Not necessarily," Vincent said.

"Vin," Charlie said through a heavy sigh, "Turano's got a temper on him that makes you look like fucking Gandhi."

Vincent leaned against the desk. "I just find it hard to believe that he'd refuse to meet with us."

"Maybe he would," Frank said, "but how would our asking for a meeting make us look at this point?"

"How do you mean?"

Frank crushed his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk and moved to the window. "Turano's already made a move on us. If we respond by asking for a sit-down we'll look weak."

"That's a good point," Vincent conceded. "We'd be coming to the table at a disadvantage. But maybe if we showed him we were willing to bend a little, so would he."

"I got to tell you, it's real fucking surreal seeing you in the role of peacemaker," Charlie said, smiling with his eyes.

"Fuck that," Vincent quipped. "I'm just saying we better look at this from every possible angle, Charlie. If we decide to use muscle on this guy we better be prepared. Anything could happen."

Charlie stood up, his expression dark. "I didn't say anything about using muscle."

Frank watched the parking lot through the rain-blurred window. The urge to crawl back into bed and go to sleep was an appealing fantasy he allowed himself to briefly entertain before he faced the others. "What do you think, Gus?"

The expression on his face amply revealed the degree of his surprise in having been asked. He pushed his eyeglasses in tighter against the bridge of his nose and glanced self-consciously around the room. "I don't see that we have any choice but to make a move on him."

Frank nodded. "Charlie?"

"I abstain."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"There's this thing called a dictionary, kid. Find out about it."

"There's a time and place for fucking around," Frank said, staring at him decidedly. "This isn't one of them."

Charlie scratched the back of his head. "We all knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. I trust you guys to handle it in a way that's in our best interest."

Thunder rolled, and Frank's eyes shifted to Vincent. "Vin?"

"If nobody else thinks – "

"I'm only concerned with what you think at the moment."

Vincent loosened his tie. "We should probably move on him," he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "Otherwise we not only run the risk of looking weak, but we might make Turano feel more confident about coming after us later. Either way, things could and probably will get real ugly. Going this route will change everything for a long time."

"I say we hit back," Frank told the others. "Hard."

Charlie headed for the door. "This is where I step out."

"Maybe you should stay," Vincent suggested.

"I don't want nothing to do with the muscle end of things," he said firmly. "I made that clear from the beginning. I'm with you guys a hundred percent in whatever you decide only I don't want a hand in it. The less I know the better."

"How can you expect to be safe if you're ignorant of what's happening?" Vincent pressed.

"Tell me only what I need to know," Charlie said, then he looked at Frank for his approval. "Okay, chief?"

The rain seemed to increase in intensity, and in that split-second power shifted even further in Frank's favor. "Head on over to the venue. We'll meet you there in a while."

Charlie left without hesitation.

Gus moved to the window and watched him cross the parking lot in an awkward, almost comical sprint, his feet splashing puddles as he went. "What a pussy."

Probably smarter than the rest of us, Frank thought.

Vincent sighed. "Let's get to it."

"Close the blinds," Frank told him.

The things they were about to discuss were better suited to the dark.

The foul weather only helped to bring more people to the event. The auditorium was packed to the rafters, and Benny Dunn's security crew was on their toes from the opening bell. The show itself was one of the best Frank had ever seen the boys do. Of course, the bouts were identical to those staged throughout the course of the tour, but there was an additional element of excitement on this particular afternoon – generated mostly by an aggressive, boisterous crowd that seemed to inspire the wrestlers to bring the level of their performance up a notch.

Luther defended his world title successfully, coming back from the brink of defeat at the hands of The Lariat at least half a dozen times. With the flair of a seasoned professional, the Dark Train would stare into the crowd with pleading eyes; hands reaching out as if to touch the fans while his opponent increased the pressure on a submission hold that appeared to drive him to the very edge of consciousness. And the crowd responded, chanting Luther's name again and again, each chorus louder and more desperate until their hero struggled to his feet, absorbing the power of his fans' support and transforming it into a tangible energy capable of allowing him to finally turn the tables. After pinning The Lariat in dramatic fashion, Luther staggered from the ring, his championship belt held high above his head as he embraced the crowd at ringside, making sure to stop for a quick photograph with a local retarded youth who was to receive a percentage of the profits generated by the fund-raiser. Sensing the power of the moment, Luther slung his arm around the boy and encouraged him to wear the belt. Again, the crowd began to chant Luther's name.

Benny Dunn moved up the main aisle to ringside and lifted the boy over the metal barricade that separated the front row from the ring area and stood him next to the champion. The young man, star-struck and unable to believe that one of his idols had actually involved him in the show, looked up at Luther in awe. With the fans cheering him on, Luther secured the strap around the boy's waist and began parading him through the crowd.

"The official time!" Charlie's voice boomed over Luther's exit music as he watched from the center of the ring. "Twenty minutes, fourteen seconds. The winner by pin-fall and still ECPWL Heavyweight Champion of the World… Luther Dark Train Jefferson!"

Luther and the boy were still at ringside exchanging high-fives and dancing to the music as the frenzied crowd cheered uproariously.

"And let's hear it for the real champ!" Charlie said. "Corey Walters, folks! Let's hear it for Corey!"

The crowd now began to chant Corey's name, and the boy started to laugh, finally grabbing Luther around the waist with a hug that looked as if it might never end.

Frank, Vincent, and Gus watched from the rear of the auditorium. As the music continued to blare and Luther did his best to prolong his time in the spotlight, a woman moved through the crowd and approached them. She was attractive, dressed in plain, inexpensive clothes, and her hair was pulled back and fastened with an elastic. Her eyes were moist and she dabbed at them with a tattered tissue.

"I'm Jean Walters," she said, offering a shaking hand. "Corey's mother. I can't thank you gentlemen enough for this."

Frank took her hand and smiled warmly. "It's our pleasure. Corey's a great kid, ma'am, and we're happy to help."

"He's done nothing but talk about this show for weeks," she told them, still teary-eyed. "Now, after all this, it should just about make his year. Please thank Mr. Jefferson for me."

"I'll do that," Frank said. "We've also got a package for Corey in the locker room. Some autographed pictures and things we thought he might like."

Without hesitation, she leaned over and hugged all three men in turn. "Thanks again."

"Take care," Vincent said, watching her return to her seat.

"I guess every once and a while even we do something good," Frank grinned, elbowing Vincent. "Even you, Satan."

"Speak for yourself."

Gus shook his head. "Don't you have any feelings at all?"

"Sure," Vincent yawned. "I've got deep feelings for that blonde over there. Mostly in my nuts."

Benny emerged from the crowd and joined them at the rear of the room. "Can I talk to you guys for a second?"

"Shoot," Vincent told him.

He glanced over his shoulder at Elliot's concession table. "I had one of my guys watch him like you told me, Vin. He's been pocketing the cash on every third sale. Fucking guy's good, though. Magician's hands."

Vincent turned to Frank. "What'd I tell you?"

"Thanks, Ben," Frank said. "Make sure your guy gets a few extra bucks in his envelope. Tell Charlie I said it was all right."

With a quick nod, Benny returned to his duties at ringside.

Gus made a fist and shook it in the air. "That sonofabitch. We should kick his ass."

"Go ahead," Vincent said.

Gus cleared his throat and immediately assumed a less threatening posture. "Well, I would but… with my training I have to be careful."

"Yeah," Vincent cracked, rolling his eyes, "you might annoy him to death."

"Hey, I don't need the cops down on my head, man." Gus hoisted his pants up high on his hips. "You guys probably weren't aware of this but my hands are registered as deadly weapons with quite a few police departments."

"Oh, Jesus H. Christ." Vincent moaned and headed for the locker room. "Not the registered hands story."

"What the hell is his problem?" Gus asked.

Frank gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Go tell Elliot I want to see him in the locker room right after the intermission."

"What if he asks why?"

"Tell him you don't know."

Elliot entered the locker room with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. The wrestlers were congregated on one side of the room, Frank, Vincent, Gus and Charlie on the other.

"Luther Jefferson!" Elliot barked. "You, sir, are without a doubt, the man. Does this guy know how to work a room or does he – does he know how to work a goddamn room? Beautiful – absolutely beautiful is what that was. With the – with the kid and all – no one does it any better!" Luther, a towel draped over his sweat-drenched body, smiled and waved to him. Elliot approached Frank and the others, seemingly unaware of what was about to happen. "Hey, Frank, you wanted to see me, babe?"

Vincent turned and hit him full in the face. Elliot fell forward and to the side, his knee catching one of the benches and sending him sprawling onto the cement floor. The buzz of conversation in the room came to a halt as everyone looked to see what had happened.

"Get up," Vincent said evenly.

Elliot rolled over onto his back. Blood had already begun to ooze from his split lip. "Oh my – oh my God," he gasped. "Help… somebody – I think I'm having a heart attack."

Vincent reached down, grabbed a handful of shirt, pulled Elliot to his feet and slammed him against a row of lockers. "You're not lucky enough to have a heart attack."

"What the hell is this all about?"

"My money."

Elliot's eyes darted back and forth across the room, two blurred orbs behind the thick lenses of glass. "I don't – what does that – what are you talking about?"

"Just give him the money, Elliot," Charlie said.

He reached into his pockets with a shaking hand and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. "Fifty. I only skimmed fifty bucks. For God's sake, fellas, I – "

"Quiet." Vincent ripped the money from his hand and stuffed it into Elliot's mouth. "You think you got balls big enough to steal from me? Is that it?"

Elliot shook his head violently but didn't attempt to speak until Vincent removed the money and handed it to Charlie. "I'm sorry – so sorry, guys, it's – it's just that it's been such a bad run for me this tour. I – Frank – I tried to talk to you about – "

"And what did I say, Elliot?" Frank asked.

When there was no immediate answer, Vincent slammed him against the lockers a second time. "What did he say, Elliot?"

"No. He said no."

Vincent took him by the scruff of the neck and sat him down on the bench. He ran his hands through his hair and looked across the room at the wrestlers who all stood mesmerized. "When somebody steals from us," he said evenly. "They're stealing from all of you."

"I'm sorry," Elliot blurted out. "Please, I – "

"You're out," Vincent told him.

"Yes, I – I understand. I'll be packed up and gone in – "

"Leave the table and all the product. It belongs to us now. You're gonna take your snot-nosed little nephew with you and you're gonna walk out that door and never come anywhere near me again. Cabeesh, asshole?"

Elliot nodded wearily. "All right, Vin. All right."

Vincent swung open the door to one of the metal lockers. "But first, you're gonna put your hand in this locker."

Tears welled in his eyes as his lower lip began to tremble. "But… Vincent, you don't have to do this."

"Vin," Charlie said, as if to stop him, but one glaring look from Vincent changed his mind. He spoke in Elliot's direction but found it impossible to establish eye contact. "There's nothing I can do, Elliot."

"But Charlie, we go back – "

"I'm sorry."

Vincent smiled triumphantly. "Put your hand in the locker, douche bag."

"You… you can't…"

"Make me repeat myself again," Vincent told him, just above a whisper, "and I'll beat you to death right here, right now."

Elliot made a whimpering sound and slowly slid his hand into the open locker. He took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, and then began to cry uncontrollably, like a child.

"Jesus Christ, Vin," Luther said, standing.

"Am I talking to you?" Vincent asked without looking at him.

"Come on, man, that's enough."

Slowly, Vincent turned his head to meet Luther's gaze. "Go take a shower, champ. I'll let you know if I need you."

Luther stepped forward. "In the old days, if a promoter ever talked to me like that I'd just lock the door on him."

"So lock the door," Vincent told him.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that."

"It just did."

"You're gonna let him do this?" he asked Frank.

Frank lit a cigarette, left it between his lips, then moved behind Elliot and covered his mouth with both hands. "I'm the one who told him to do it, Train."

After a moment, Luther nodded and turned away. "Fuck it. Ain't none of my business anyway."

Even with his mouth covered the muffled screams could be heard as Vincent slammed the door across the back of Elliot's hand three times. Frank released him and he slumped to the floor, holding his shattered hand with the other as he curled into a fetal position. "Gus," Vincent said, "get this piece of shit out of my sight before I kill him."

"Is he conscious?" Gus bent over to get a better look at him. "Well, sort of."

Charlie, white as chalk, stared at Vincent with a blank expression. "Here," he said, holding out the fifty dollars Elliot had stolen.

"You keep it."

As Frank and Vincent moved across the locker room all the wrestlers quickly occupied themselves. Luther was sitting on one of the benches, and looked up at them with a wry smile.

"Are we cool?" Frank asked him.

"We're cool." He winked at Vincent. "I didn't mean no disrespect, Vin. I was just afraid you were gonna kill him."

Vincent smiled. "What if I had?"

Luther looked at him and laughed lightly, but Frank could tell he found no humor in the question. In Luther's dark eyes he saw something new – something beyond the acceptance and respect it had taken them so many months to earn.

He saw fear.