Night Work (5 page)

    "Do you guys have a room here?" Charlie asked. "Or are you heading back to Massachusetts tonight?"

    "We've got a room."

    Charlie nodded. "I've got some promotional stuff for you - flyers, posters, examples of cards and tickets. The sell itself is a simple process. I can explain it all in an hour or two and have you prepared to sell the product by the time I leave. How long before you're ready to rumble?"

    "I can have people in place by next week."

    "Let's go up to your room where we can spread out."

    "Then I take it we have a deal?" Frank asked.

    Charlie's wide smile returned. "Why not? The way you set it up I got nothing to lose, right?"

    "That's right."

    "Besides," Charlie said, standing, "it's just talk. Until you deliver, you're just another rim job."

    They'd nearly reached the elevator before Frank realized that he was the one who had been maneuvered.

    

    

    It was eleven thirty when Charlie closed his briefcase. He had explained the sell and the breakdown of expenses and profits concisely, in a manner that made it both easy to understand and even easier to present to prospective clients.

    "I've got a shot a few towns over at the public high school next Friday night," he stated flatly. "Ask for me at the door and I'll get you in. It'll be a good opportunity for you guys to see the ECPWL in person."

    Gus gathered up all the materials Charlie had given them and slid them into Frank's briefcase. "We'll be there."

    Charlie tossed a copy of a popular wrestling magazine onto one of the beds. "National magazine rated us best new independent federation in the business. Make copies and add it to the promotional sales package. The editor's from Jersey; hangs around the business a lot. He'll be at the show so you'll meet him then. We'll convince him to do an article on our new Massachusetts office."

    "Sounds good," Frank said, escorting him to the door.

    "OK, I'm out of here, got a long ride back to New York." They shook hands and Charlie smiled warmly. "Hopefully this is the start of something special, gentlemen."

    Once the door had closed behind him and they were certain Charlie Rain had gone, Frank and Gus both burst into nervous laughter as a wave of relief washed over them. "Holy shit," Gus said, "we did it! We fucking did it!"

    Frank ran his hands through his hair. "Not bad for a couple of refrigerator salesman, huh? Think he bought it?"

    "Are you kidding? You were un-fucking-believable tonight."

    "You forget, I bullshit for a living, sir."

    Gus couldn't stop laughing. "This is even better than I thought it'd be. Rain's an idiot, Frank. If we play him right he'll be working for us in no time."

    Frank lit a cigarette and flopped down onto his bed. "No, he's dumb like a fox, that one. He's not as stupid as he pretends to be." He released a lengthy sigh. "And we still better be able to deliver."

    "Do you really think we can pull it off?"

    "Two things will make it happen, Gus. Money and muscle."

    Gus scratched the back of his neck. "The money end I can understand, but we've already got the muscle. Both of us can handle ourselves in a scrap."

    "That's not what I'm talking about. We need real muscle. The kind people sit up and take notice of. And we need enough money so that we can make a genuine go of this. We can't start out worrying about how we're going to pay bills we haven't even created yet."

    Gus sat down on the other bed. "What do you have in mind?"

    Frank forced himself into a sitting position. "I've been giving this some thought from the beginning. You remember my buddy, Vincent?"

    "Sure, I met him a few times."

    "I'm going to talk to him."

    "What can he do for us?"

    "He's connected, that's what he can do for us."

    Gus didn't respond for a moment. "For real?"

    "Yeah."

    "Can we trust him?"

    Frank took a hard pull on his cigarette. "Absolutely. I've known him for years. He's originally from Federal Hill, here in Providence. His family moved into a place a few doors down from ours when I was in junior high school. He's got an older brother up to his ears in the mob. Vincent works a little freelance for them from time to time but he's managed to stay away from the major stuff. Still, he knows just the sort of people we need to make this happen."

    "I don't know, Frank," Gus said. "You're talking about crawling into bed with some serious motherfuckers here."

    "I've been around people like that my whole life, Gus. The neighborhood was full of the bastards. Hell, I've got a cousin in upstate New York who's a made man, for Christ's sake. I'd go to him but I know Vincent a hell of a lot better, and I'd trust him much sooner."

    "Friendship is one thing," Gus warned. "Business is something else, Frank."

    Frank nodded. "I've done some freelance work with Vincent myself over the years. Nothing big. Plus, remember last summer when I had a trunk full of VCRs?"

    "I bought one myself."

    "That was a scam I ran with Vincent. I can trust him."

    Gus lit a cigarette, exhaled with a sigh. "You know better than I do, Frank. I just don't want to get in over our heads."

    "You heard what Charlie Rain said. We're going to need muscle; there's no way around it. Vincent's the best move we can make. He's in with these people, but mostly on the fringe. That'll allow us to tap into their resources without actually going into business with them."

    Gus stood up and began to pace. "If you bring Vincent in, what happens to me?"

    "Nothing."

    "Will we have to make him a partner?"

    "Yeah, I already spoke to him about it briefly."

    "Oh."

    "Gus," Frank said softly, "what was it you told Charlie tonight? A little bit of something is better than all of nothing, right?"

    "Do whatever you think is best. I'll back you either way."

    "Good man."

    Gus dismissed the tension and smiled. "Were we beautiful tonight, or what?"

    "Positively gorgeous."

    "I'm gonna go celebrate, hit some of those strip clubs a few blocks down, see if I can find me a long-legged whore. You wanna come?"

    "I'm going to bed."

    "You sure?"

    "Yeah," Frank said, "and don't bring anybody back."

    Gus hesitated at the door and smiled mischievously. "Would I do something like that?"

    Alone with his thoughts, Frank tried to contain his excitement. He'd rehearsed the meeting with Charlie Rain in his mind for weeks, and now that it was over, he still found it hard to believe that he'd pulled off his end so smoothly. Even Gus had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, which in itself was a minor miracle. Things had almost gone too well, and Frank found his excitement slowly turning to concern.

    He butted his cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand, grabbed the phone and dialed his home number. After five rings the answering machine clicked on.

    "We can't come to the phone right now," Sandy's voice said. "Please leave a message after the tone and we'll get back to you."

    Frank hung up and checked his watch: Almost midnight. She was probably already asleep and hadn't heard the ringer.

    He continued to tell himself that until sleep, although tardy, finally arrived.

    

    

    Vincent Santangelo rocketed through the streets of Providence in a Ford Escort like a man who had just held up a liquor store. The fact that the car was in no way designed for the demands he placed upon it did little to discourage him as he somehow managed to consistently get from one point to the next both alive and uninterrupted by police.

    "I admit you know a lot more about cars than I do," Frank said, gripping the armrest on the door in an attempt to avoid attaining permanent union with the windshield, "but I'd be willing to bet this doesn't have the same handling package your Corvette's equipped with."

    "Fuck it, that's the car's problem." Vincent laughed, changed radio stations, enthusiastically increased the volume once he found a heavy metal tune then bolted down a side street. "Besides, it's a company ride. It'll end up scrap soon anyway."

    They screeched to a stop in front of a small saloon. Two tiny windows faced the street, both dressed in blinking neon beer signs. The front door was open. Vincent double-parked, shut off the car and after a quick inspection of himself in the rearview mirror said, "Come with me on this one, will ya?"

    Frank had done so before but always knew about it in advance. Sudden requests made him uneasy. "Why?"

    "Stand by the door but don't actually go inside. Just make sure the guys at the bar know you're there."

    "Expecting trouble?"

    Vincent smiled that crooked grin of his. "Let's find out."

    They crossed the street and Frank stayed near the door as instructed. Had he known this was going to happen he'd have dressed differently. In a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, he looked more like a pizza delivery boy than someone supposedly on Michael Santangelo's payroll did.

    

    

    Vincent slipped off his sunglasses and continued on into the dark room with an arrogant strut. Five men sat at various points along the bar, and a chubby bartender stood behind the counter with a cloth draped over his shoulder. He recognized Vincent immediately. "Vincent, hi - how - how are you?"

    "How you been, Mick?"

    "Can't complain," the bartender smiled. "Can I get you something?"

    "Privacy."

    "You got it."

    A man in his early fifties sat huddled over a bottle of cheap beer. Vincent took the stool next to him. "Aren't you gonna say, hello?"

    "Hello, Vincent."

    "Where the hell are your manners, Jerry?"

    The man fidgeted in his seat. "I didn't recognize you."

    "Here's the thing. Michael says he wants you to give him a call. You remember my brother, Michael, right?"

    "Of course."

    "He expects a call before the end of the day."

    The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope. "I've got five hundred here. Tell Mike I can have the other fifteen hundred by tomorrow noon."

    Vincent took a wooden toothpick from a bowl on the counter and rolled it into the corner of his mouth. He looked at the envelope Jerry was offering and shrugged. "What's that?"

    "I told you. It's five hundred of what I owe him."

    "What'd I just say?"

    "Huh?"

    "You fucking retarded?"

    "I don't get what you mean."

    "Did I ask you for money?" Vincent asked in a quiet voice. "What the fuck is that, a loan? Did I ask you for a loan?"

    "I was just trying to - "

    Vincent leaned against the bar. "If you and Michael have some sort of business going, that's between the two of you. I'm just here to tell you to give him a call before the end of the day. Any of this getting through?"

    "Yeah," he said, stuffing the envelope back into his jacket. "Tell him I'll call before - "

    "I look like an errand boy, is that it?"

    Jerry nervously twisted a napkin between his fingers. "I'll call him today. Is that good enough for you?"

    Vincent slid off his stool, the heels of his boots hitting the floor with a distinctive thud. Although he was an inch or two under six feet, Vincent was a muscular two hundred and five pounds. His outfit of black jeans and a lightweight black leather jacket combined with his swarthy looks to form an extremely intimidating presence. "Don't give me attitude, you cocksucker."

    "Please don't bust the place up," the bartender pleaded. "Please, Vincent, with all respect, take it outside if you have to talk to Jerry harshly."

    Frank lit a cigarette, stepped a bit further into the bar. Several faces turned and noticed him but no one said a word. He and Vincent couldn't get the hell out of there soon enough as far as he was concerned, but he held his ground in silence nonetheless.

    "I apologize," Jerry said. "I been under a lot of stress lately. I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink. No hard feelings, right?"

    "Yeah," the bartender said cheerfully. "What can I get you?"

    Vincent's eyes never left Jerry's. "I dunno, Mick. You got any fucking brains back there? Gimme a large order of brains for this mindless fuck."

    Everyone in the bar laughed too loud and too hard, and that was exactly how Vincent wanted it. Even Jerry cracked a smile and extended his hand. "You're right, I'm dumb as a brick sometimes. I apologize."

    Vincent kicked the stool out from under him so quickly that by the time his actions had registered Jerry had already crashed to the floor.

    From the doorway, Frank flicked his cigarette away and checked over his shoulder to make certain the street was still clear. One man started toward the door but saw Frank and hesitated. He shook his head, and the man returned to his seat without protest.

    "Have another drink, ya clumsy prick."

    Again, the bar exploded into nervous laughter. Jerry, more embarrassed than hurt, could have gotten up but knew better. Standing would be interpreted as a challenge, and that was the last thing he needed. Vincent turned to Mick. "You see that?"

    "He fell," Mick answered staunchly.

    "You're cut off," Vincent cracked. "That'll give you plenty of time to call my brother."