Night Work (20 page)

    He thought back to the hotel cocktail lounge. A flashy bar and a cluster of tables separated by a small dance floor and a riser on which live bands apparently played on occasion. Quiet, nearly empty, a young bartender worked busily, wiping down an already pristine counter. The only light came from the mirrored bar and candles encased in glass fixtures on each table, yet an overall element of darkness prevailed. Like wandering into a cave of sorts, Frank had thought. And upon seeing the patrons - the early birds, who by their very presence interrupted the sanctity of such a setting - he understood why. Those quiet moments before a bar is invaded with noise and too many people and everything that turns it from a sanctuary to just one more thing to run from was lost. The aging salesman slumped at the bar and staring down at his drink through already bloodshot eyes, suit wrinkled, body worn, doing time. The bored housewife with a new hairdo, pretending to be staying at the hotel, positioned at a table clearly visible to all who enter, her best and lowest-cut dress bathed in flickering candlelight, her smile coy but not too, for fear she might be ignored altogether. And Frank, just another customer at The Stereotype Bar and Grill, he'd thought. Yet sometimes such things were true. Fear, however played out or displayed, was as real as anything else.

    

    

    They arrived at dusk, and drove onto the school grounds, past the football field. The ring had been assembled on the fifty-yard line and was surrounded by a sea of fans in folding chairs and crowded onto portable bleachers. The bright stadium lights cut through the haze of increasing darkness, casting a surreal glow over the entire area.

    Frank drove behind the main school building and parked just outside the rear entrance to the locker room, where they were greeted and escorted inside by Charlie and Vincent.

    "We were beginning to get nervous," Charlie admitted as he shook Strong's hand.

    "All my fault," he said graciously. "I was running late."

    "Welcome to the ECPWL," Vincent smiled.

    "I appreciate you having me, brother."

    "I need a favor, Nick," Charlie told him. "There's a group of kids here from some don't-drink-and-drive organization that wanted to know if you could make some time for them after the show. Just a couple pictures and autographs - nothing heavy."

    Strong beamed. "Be happy to, man." He looked at Frank and winked. "Hell, I love kids."

    "Terrific." Charlie took him by the elbow and led him off to meet Luther and some of the other boys. Vincent noticed something wrong in Frank's demeanor and remained behind.

    "Everything all right?" he asked.

    "Everything's fine," Frank said irritably.

    "Then why do you look like you've got a bug the size of my fist jammed up your ass?"

    "Don't I always look like that?"

    Vincent glanced around, lowered his voice. "Seriously, what's the matter?"

    "How long until we roll?"

    Vincent dismissed Frank's reaction with a shrug and checked his watch. "About five minutes."

    "I'm doing Time tonight. I'll see you at ringside."

    Because there was a distance of more than fifty yards from the locker room to the ring, a fleet of golf carts staffed with drivers from Benny's security crew had been parked outside the school building to shuttle the participants back and forth. Frank declined a ride and took the long walk across the edge of the field and down the main aisle, feeling the eyes of thousands in attendance upon him. Several people waved banners and signs; others shouted to him, asking if Nick Strong had arrived yet and when the show was going to begin.

    Frank moved across the grassy field to the table at ringside and took his seat in front of the bell and hammer he used to signal the beginning and end of each match. He leaned back a bit in his chair and scanned the crowd, unable to resist the lure of the electricity in the air, and wondered if this was the way he'd live his life forever.

    

    

    In the opening bout, The Puma pinned Diablo Gonzalez as usual. A few matches later, the Mongolian Crusher nearly caused a riot when he was disqualified for hitting Private Sean Powers with a chair and splitting his head wide open. Delta Diamond whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a close but successful defense of her title, and Luther Jefferson followed suit, disposing of The Lariat in typical dramatic fashion.

    Nick Strong was scheduled to square off against a veteran heel known as The Hangman. Both were known for their incredible stamina, and had met countless times in the past in bouts memorable for their constant action. Frank estimated the main event to run roughly thirty minutes, and had worked out a series of signals with referee Al Sawyer beforehand.

    Because there were no score boards that displayed running time at wrestling events, the timekeeper used subtle hand signals to alert the referee as to the amount of time that had elapsed once a bout was underway. Throughout the course of every match there were various points where one combatant put the other in a hold and remained there long enough for both wrestlers to catch their breath. While this was happening, the referee glanced down at the timekeeper for instruction, who casually scratched the side of his nose with a single finger if five minutes had elapsed, two fingers if ten minutes had elapsed, and so on. The referee would then turn back to the wrestlers, position himself as closely to them as possible, and while pretending to check the hold, relay the appropriate information. If a match was running long and the timekeeper wanted it to end, he nonchalantly gave his earlobe a tug. The referee would then tell the wrestlers to take it home.

    Many headliners in the independent circuit, particularly veterans, had a habit of working light, which meant their walk to the ring often lasted longer than the actual match. But, since this was Nick Strong's first appearance in the ECPWL, and because he had been paid nearly three times what most independent headliners earned, everyone at the ringside table settled in for a match they expected would be a lengthy but exciting finale to what had already been an action-packed evening.

    The Hangman entered to a chorus of jeers, stepped into the ring and began pointing and hurling insults at various people in the crowd.

    Charlie announced Nick Strong and Strong jumped from the golf cart and sprinted down the aisle dressed in red, white and blue trunks and a T-shirt with the Olympic games logo on the front. The crowd was deafening as he climbed through the ropes, gave his opponent a nasty scowl, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it to a young fan at ringside.

    Just as the crowd began to die down, Strong clapped his hands, stomped his foot and screamed, "U-S-A! U-S-A!" In seconds, thousands of fans were doing the same.

    Frank leaned over as Charlie took his seat at the table. "Is this guy ever gonna wrestle?"

    "He's a pro, Frank. Look at the marks. They're wetting their pants."

    Once Strong had milked his entrance for everything it was worth, Al Sawyer quickly checked his boots and trunks for any foreign objects, then looked down at Frank and asked for the opening bell.

    The first five minutes of the match were spectacular, but to the crowd's dismay, the Hangman had had the upper hand from the start. He scooped Strong up, slammed him to the canvas, and then joined him on the mat so he could apply a headlock and get a quick rest. Al got down next to them on one knee, asked Strong if he wanted to submit, then turned and looked at Frank. "He says, no!" he shouted above the crowd. "Don't ring that bell!"

    Frank nodded, scratched his nose with the tip of his finger, and Al whirled back around to face the wrestlers. "You sure you're okay, Strong?" he shouted, then quietly, "Five minutes, boys."

    Strong suddenly reversed the move and threw the Hangman into the ropes, dropping him with a flying clothesline. His opponent crashed to the mat and Strong quickly covered him. Al slid over next to them and began the count, calling out the numbers and slamming his hand on the mat. "One…! Two…!" and, realizing that the Hangman had no intention of kicking out of the pin, "Three!"

    The crowd, violently upset with the main event they had waited all night to see, began booing and throwing things at the ring.

    Frank looked to Charlie. "What's going on?"

    "I don't know." Charlie stood up, grabbed the microphone. "Maybe one of them are really hurt. What's the time?"

    Frank glared at him. "Five minutes, twenty seconds."

    Before the announcement could be made, Benny and the other security people surrounded the ring and hurried the wrestlers and ringside personnel back down the aisle and into the golf carts.

    

    

    Nick Strong was standing by his locker toweling off what little sweat he'd worked up when Charlie and Vincent finally made it back to the relative safety of the dressing room. The other wrestlers gave them a wide berth.

    "Nick," Charlie said, still out of breath. "What happened, everything all right?"

    Strong shrugged. "What do you mean?"

    "We were expecting a few more minutes out of you," Vincent told him in a guarded tone.

    The door burst open, and Frank charged into the room. "You sonofabitch! What the fuck was that?"

    "Frank," Charlie said, giving him the eye, "take it easy."

    Strong laughed lightly. "Hey, the marks paid to see Nick Strong wrestle and that's exactly what they got."

    "You worked five fucking minutes," Frank snapped. "Do you hear that crowd out there? It'll be a miracle if we don't end up with a riot on our hands."

    "You're the boss," Strong grinned. "Sounds like your problem to me."

    "You motherfucker." Frank rushed him but Vincent quickly stepped in and restrained him.

    "Let him go. Come on, asshole, you want some of me? I'm standing right here, brother, bring it. I'll kick your ass six ways to fucking Sunday, moron. I'm right here."

    Frank struggled to break free but Vincent's grip was far too powerful. "Get him out," Charlie said. "For Christ's sake, Vin, get him out!"

    Vincent dragged Frank back out through the locker room door and pushed him into a small but deep alley between two of the buildings. "Goddamn it, take it easy!" He brushed some sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and took a deep breath. "Christ, what the hell's the matter with you?"

    "That sonofabitch fucked us."

    "No shit." Vincent sighed. "But that's not the way you handle things. Jesus, have you lost your fucking mind?"

    Despite the violence with which his hands were shaking, Frank managed to light a cigarette, then nearly gagged on the initial drag. "He made us all look like assholes."

    Vincent unhooked the button holding his double-breasted suit jacket closed and put his hands on his hips. "This was a one-time shot. We weren't planning on coming back anyway."

    "That's not the point."

    "We put some serious coin in our pocket tonight whether Nick Strong works five minutes or three hours," Vincent said evenly. "That's the fucking point."

    Frank glared at him. "It's not always about the money."

    "Oh, yes it is." Vincent spat on the pavement. "Do you have any idea what you just did back there could cost us?"

    "Fuck him."

    "You're acting like a mark, Frank. Do you realize how many people Nick Strong knows? Almost every major headliner in the business is a personal friend with the guy. If he puts the word out that we're a bunch of assholes to work for we'll be running shots with people nobody's ever heard of. You've seen how these pricks all stick together." Vincent loosened his tie with an angry tug. "As it is, Strong will never work for us again."

    Frank flicked his cigarette away and stepped closer. "You're goddamn right he won't."

    "Did I miss something?" Vincent asked him. "I mean, is it just me or did you go fucking psychotic all of a sudden?"

    Frank stared at the ground. "You don't understand."

    "Maybe you're just drunk."

    "Drunk? What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

    "I wasn't gonna say nothing, but you've been drinking like a fish lately - and not just during off time like most of the guys. You showed up tonight smelling like a package store."

    "I had two drinks at the hotel."

    "That's two too many before a shot."

    "What are you now, my mother?"

    "I'm trying to be your friend, Frank."

    A police siren wailed in the distance, and the angry crowd could still be heard from the field and surrounding parking lots. Frank leaned back against the wall and said nothing.

    "Did something happen at the hotel between you two?"

    "When I got there he had a girl in the room with him."

    "So?"

    "A little girl."

    "And?"

    "He was banging her, Vin."

    Vincent shrugged. "How is that any of our business?"

    "Did you hear what I said?" Frank pushed himself away from the wall. "He was banging a twelve-year-old kid."

    "I don't give a shit if he was blowing a pony. Who cares?"

    Their eyes locked. "I care."

    "Look," Vincent said through a heavy sigh, "I know it's fucked up and I'm not saying it's right and that it don't gross me out, but so what? This is the business, man, and you've been around it long enough to know there's lots of crazy shit that goes on. It's the nature of the beast, Frank. Don't let yourself get caught up in some stupid ass moral dilemma. That's strictly for marks."

    "I can look the other way on a lot of things, Vin," Frank told him, "but there's a limit. There has to be a limit."