Night Work (17 page)

    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."