Night Work (13 page)

    "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.