Night Work (4 page)

    Gus lit a cigarette. "I ever tell you about the time those five punks hassled me at the mall?"

    "I dunno." Frank settled into his seat and prepared for the first of many stories he'd be forced to endure over the next hour.

    "The bastards jumped me in the parking lot over by Sears, tried to roll me. I took my wallet out, tossed it on the hood of my car and told them if they could get to it they could keep the motherfucker. They figure it's five against one, right? The easiest fucking money they've scored all month, they're thinking. Jesus, did I hand out an ass kicking that night."

    Frank watched the mile markers on the highway pass and fought off pangs of guilt. He hated arguing with Sandy, and whenever they left each other without resolving one of their spats, it bothered him until they did. He smiled at Gus as if listening, and wondered about all the possibilities the meeting with Charlie Rain might yield.

    Some time later, he awoke to the same sound he'd fallen asleep to: Gus. "Never liked Providence," he was saying, glancing about as he drove through downtown. "Some nice titty bars, though, got to give them that."

    Frank rubbed his eyes, checked his watch: Nearly eight o'clock. "I must have fallen asleep."

    "You been out cold since we left."

    He saw the hotel where their meeting was scheduled perched ominously at the end of the block, and the civic center not far from it. "Sorry."

    "No problem. I like talking to myself. Cuts down on the arguments."

    They parked in the underground garage, checked into their room and went directly to the lobby to wait for Charlie Rain.

    It was not a long wait.

    A man of average height, a few pounds overweight, with a shock of hair so red it was practically orange strutted into the lobby with an arrogant grin, a pasty complexion and a leather briefcase. He was dressed in cream-colored slacks, a rather loud shirt, and wore a gaudy diamond stud in the lobe of his right ear.

    "Jesus," Gus mumbled, "I hope that ain't him."

    The man saw them and offered a wide smile, extending his hand while still several feet away. "Frank? Frank Ponte?"

    Frank shook his hand. "Mr. Rain?"

    "Charlie," he insisted, glancing awkwardly at Gus.

    "This is my associate, Gus Lemieux."

    Charlie looked Gus up and down. "Gus, huh? Is that a nickname or short for something?"

    "Augustus," he said, nervously clearing his throat. "It's short for Augustus."

    "No shit?" Charlie laughed openly. "Poor bastard, what the hell were your parents thinking about? C'mon, let's get a drink so we can all relax and get to know each other better."

    Before anyone could get another word in, Charlie was off across the lobby with a bounce in his step, mouth going a mile a minute as if they were still by his side.

    The bar was small and dark, and Charlie requested a booth in the back. As they made their way through a sea of tables every head turned to notice him, and he thoroughly enjoyed the attention his natural presence seemed to generate. It was like watching a tornado touch down in a library.

    A black waiter in a white jacket appeared at the booth to take their order. Once he'd gone, Charlie sat back a bit and lit a non-filtered cigarette. "You guys mind if I smoke?" Frank and Gus both lit up. "Beautiful. Okay, we've all got busy lives so let's get down to it. Here's the dirt on Charlie Rain: You're sitting there thinking I look sort of familiar, right? Well, am I right?"

    "A bit," Frank lied.

    "I played Chad on Apple Lane."

    "No shit? That was you?"

    Charlie smiled proudly. "The one and only, brother. It was probably a bit before your time, Frank, but they still show it in reruns on cable now and then. How about you, Augustus? You look older than I am. You must remember that show."

    "Sure," Gus said evenly. "I remember it sucked."

    Before Frank could think of something to say, Charlie slammed the palm of his hand onto the table and burst out laughing. "I like that, Gus! Don't take shit from anybody, right?"

    Gus allowed a hesitant smile. "That's right."

    Still laughing, Charlie noticed an elderly couple glaring at him from a nearby table. "Hey, Methuselah, can I help you with something?"

    The waiter returned with their drinks. "Anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?"

    Charlie shook the man's hand as an excuse to slip him a twenty-dollar bill. "All set, brother. Just do me a favor and check in with us now and then, okay?"

    "Of course, sir."

    "An old trick I learned," Charlie explained as the waiter moved away. "If you want good service tip ahead of time. Works like a charm."

    Frank sipped his drink. "I'll try to remember that."

    "As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted by the living dead at the next table, I've been in entertainment on one level or another my whole life. I've been on top and I've been at the bottom. One time at the Emmys, I sat right between Caroll O'Connor and Jack Lord. No shit. A few years later I came out of my third visit to rehab and wound up working at Burger King. See the way I figure it, it does me no good to bullshit you guys. I'd rather cut to the chase and lay it all out. Truth is, wrestling saved my ass. It was a way for me to stay involved in the entertainment business and still make a decent living. Over the last few years I've pulled my shit together and brought East Coast Professional Wrestling League from an idea into a nice little income. I'm no goof, okay? I got a wife and a house and a car and bills just like everybody else. But I've also got a plan that'll make the ECPWL a national promotion within five years."

    Frank looked up from his drink. "Why do you need us?"

    "I don't remember saying I did."

    "Then why are we here?"

    Charlie crushed his cigarette in the ashtray between them and immediately lit another. "Maybe we can help each other out, who knows? I talk to a lot of people, Frank, and almost all of them are lying sacks of shit, especially the ones in the wrestling business. But you ask anybody and they'll tell you Charlie Rain's different. I'm respected, liked - even trusted by some - in a business where all three are rare. I've made a mark - granted a small one - but still a mark. Problem is, I'm all alone out here, practically a one-man operation. It does me no good to jerk you guys around and waste your time or mine. The bottom line is, I need backup from people I can trust. I need someone who can put money in the pot and help me turn ECPWL into a legitimate power. Now, I don't know if you're talking to any other independent promoters, and I don't give a shit if you are, but what I can offer you that nobody else can is very simple. A chance to get in on the ground floor of a company that's small but already respected and growing; a fast track into the wrestling business, and an opportunity to become full-fledged partners should things go according to plan."

    "Sounds tempting," Frank said.

    Charlie stood up. "I gotta go bang a piss. While I'm gone, you guys figure out what you can offer me."

    "What do you think?" Frank asked when Charlie was out of earshot.

    Gus watched Charlie cross the bar. "He's like a fucking car accident. You don't wanna look but you can't help it."

    "The bastard's doing exactly the opposite of what Paulie said he'd do. It's a finesse job."

    "No shit." Gus removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "He knows Paulie told you he'd be full of shit, so he's trying to disarm us by parading out the honesty routine."

    Moments later, Charlie returned. "Tell me something. What demented motherfucker thought up the urinal?"

    "Just don't eat the mints," Gus cracked.

    "I like this guy," Charlie said to Frank. "I need another drink, anybody seen the waiter?"

    "He's out spending your tip."

    Frank cleared his throat, pushed his chair away from the table a bit, and crossed his legs. "Back to business."

    "You're up," Charlie smiled.

    "We're in the booking business," Frank began. "We work nightclubs, mostly small to medium acts. It's a decent and steady business, but to tell you the truth, it's reached its limit in terms of growth. We need a big act; something we can tap into that has the potential to grow as big and as quickly as we can. Wrestling is hot right now and seems to be an obvious choice because over the next few years it's only going to get hotter."

    "There's a lot of money to be made," Charlie agreed.

    "Charlie, listen, I don't claim to be a big-shot with all the answers, but I can tell you a couple things I do know. A good deal of business is image, and there is and always will be strength in numbers. One man, however talented and experienced, does not a company make."

    "True enough."

    "I can offer you booking services for the ECPWL. I can also offer a cash investment that will better secure both of our positions in the business while also eliminating some of your own expense. We can discuss terms and actual figures once I have a better understanding of your company profit structure. You primarily sell shows to high schools, colleges, and a handful of state fairs. I can put people in place who can handle all your booking and sales needs, but I can also offer… support."

    Charlie smiled. "You mean the well-muscled kind?"

    "I do."

    "If we grow that becomes essential," he admitted. "Right now I'm small enough so I don't step on anybody's toes, but once I expand that'll change. Without sufficient support, as you put it, we'll hit a wall."

    Frank finished his drink with a single gulp. "That's what I can do for you, Charlie."

    "Sounds good so far."

    "Of course, there are conditions."

    "I'm all ears."

    Frank sat forward, let his forearms rest on the table. "If I'm to restructure my company and make an investment in yours, I have to have some guarantees to protect my interests. One, I need an exclusive booking deal. My people and only my people sell the ECPWL. Two - "

    "Hold on." Charlie lit another cigarette. "How can you expect me to give you an exclusive when I have no idea if you can even sell my product?"

    "I'm willing to accept a three-month trial."

    Charlie saw the waiter, signaled him and ordered another round of drinks. "What happens if during the three months you sell nothing?"

    "Who does your booking now?"

    "I do."

    "And how many shows do you normally sell in a three-month period?" Frank asked.

    "Two shots if I'm lucky. It depends on the time of year."

    Frank nodded confidently. "If we don't deliver at least two shots in a three month span of time, I will personally pay you what you would've pulled down."

    The drinks arrived and Charlie quickly drank nearly half of his. "You're a serious man, Frank."

    "At times."

    "I'm impressed. Go on."

    "You said in your offer to us that we could look forward to becoming partners at some future point."

    "That's right."

    Frank shook his head. "That's wrong. Again, if I'm to put everything on the line, I expect you to do the same. I have no desire to be your employee, Charlie. If all I wanted to do was straight bookings, I'd have gone to one of the big boys. If we do business together it's all or nothing. We're partners from the word go."

    "Are you nuts?" he asked, nearly choking. "You expect me to just turn over a portion of my company - a company I've busted my balls to build - just because you're willing to handle my bookings?"

    "What am I, fucking stupid?" Frank snapped, increasing the intensity of his voice without raising the volume. "Are we talking business or jerking off?"

    The smile vanished from Rain's face. "I'm listening."

    "I'm telling you that we will double your sales and make you more money in the first year of our partnership than you've made to date. As a measure of good faith I'm willing to accept a trial where we can come to know each other better and have the opportunity to prove what's being said and agreed to here tonight. But once we've proven our end, we're in all the way, and we're in for good, or I take my offer to one of the other independents."

    Charlie finished his drink and sat quietly for what seemed a long time. When he eventually spoke he asked, "How much?"

    "Half."

    "Jesus H. Christ! Half?"

    "Relax, Charlie," Gus said smoothly. "A little bit of something is better than all of nothing."

    "Think about it," Frank said. "Right now you only book between six and eight shots a year. If in the first year with us we do, say, twenty shots, fifty percent of the profits on twenty is still a hell of a lot more than all of the profit on seven or eight."

    "Basic math," Gus said.

    "Of course we also agree to pay half the expenses," Frank added. "It's a straight split right down the middle."

    Charlie smoked another cigarette before he spoke again. "You're willing to agree to a three month trial?"

    "Of course," Frank said. "If things don't work out, they don't work out."

    "We go our separate ways?"

    "If that's the way you want it."

    He considered what Frank had said. "There's something else you've got to understand. Pro wrestling isn't like any other business - even the regular entertainment business. At first, incorporating you into the performance side of things might be a slow process. The boys don't trust people they don't know, and it'll hurt me with them if they get the idea that I'm answerable to you as an equal partner."

    "Not a problem," Frank told him. "Bring us into that end at a pace the talent is comfortable with."