Night Work (15 page)

    "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.

    

    

    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."