Night Work

by Greg F. Gifune

  He'd run the area for years, and in what were known as "Fratenzza neighborhoods" life was good. In the community where Frank had grown up everyone knew that Fratenzza and his associates were in charge. Everyone knew they took money from local businesses for protection; operated as shylocks and bookmakers, and involved themselves in all sorts of sordid and illegal activities, only no one cared, because while these men terrorized other people in other places, in their own neighborhoods things could not have been safer. No drugs were sold in the neighborhood; no one worried about being mugged or raped; shootings and street gang warfare happened elsewhere. Fratenzza ran neighborhoods where old women could walk the street after dark without fear, and young children could play without being bothered or threatened. On those rare occasions when something negative did occur, those responsible for breaking the rules were dealt with harshly, and Fratenzza's men made sure everyone either heard about the punishments or witnessed them firsthand.

  A deliveryman who had lured a young girl into the back of his truck and then molested her was castrated and dismembered alive, the remains of his body then dumped at the edge of the neighborhood for the police to collect. A man who had stolen money from the local church had had his arm removed below the elbow and was made to volunteer as an evening custodian at the rectory for the remainder of his life. Two teenagers from the south end of the city who had sold drugs in Fratenzza's protected territory were executed, both shot in the back of the head and left on display on the same local playground where they had attempted to conduct business only hours before. By most Fratenzza and his men were viewed as heroes instead of gangsters, something that made the daily operation of their businesses that much easier.

  Michael Santangelo was the second in command beneath Fratenzza in the local area. His father, John, had grown up with Fratenzza and had been a close confidante and business associate for many years. When Michael was eighteen and Vincent just twelve, their father was sent to prison for multiple counts of tax evasion and racketeering. It was common knowledge that he had taken the fall for Fratenzza and several others and because of this his family was well provided for.

  Three months into his ten-year sentence, John Santangelo was stabbed to death in what was termed a "dispute between inmates". Fratenzza helped John's wife and two sons move from Rhode Island to New Bedford, and set her up with enough money to continue to enjoy the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. A few years later she remarried and moved to Florida. Fratenzza gave Michael an apartment where he and Vincent could live and put him on the payroll.

  Michael began his career in the muscle end of the business. Although he was young, he was fiercely loyal to Fratenzza and quickly earned a reputation for being one of the bloodier, more dangerous enforcers in his stable. As the years came and went, Michael's responsibilities grew, and he eventually ended up working as private bodyguard to Fratenzza. Some time later he was given small interests in some of the loan-sharking, bookmaking, protection, narcotics, and money laundering operations. When he demonstrated a flair for business and began generating enormous profits, others above him were systematically removed, and soon Michael was running an area that included a piece of the profit from the region's enormous fishing industry, liquor stores, car dealerships, dry cleaners, nightclubs, vending routes, and even the sale of paper goods and concessions to local hotels and restaurants. Eventually, Michael took over all ventures under Gino Fratenzza's control, and was recognized by those in positions of power in Boston, Providence, and beyond, as his eventual successor.

  "You're advice and friendship is more than enough," Vincent said. "Obviously, Frank and I can learn a lot from you."

  Fratenzza smiled warmly. "You and Michael are like sons to me, you know that."

  "You've always been good to me, and I appreciate it."

  Fratenzza shifted his eyes between Vincent and Frank as he spoke. "It's important to remember who your friends are," he said softly, his face showing no expression. "Real friends never let anything or anyone come between them. Not money, not women - nothing. And of course no real friendship can ever be a one-way street."

  "Of course," Vincent said.

  Fratenzza looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. "Vic, have Dave get my car." He turned back to the table. "I'd love to stay and visit but I've got a full day planned with the wife. I wish you boys nothing but the best."

  After another round of handshakes Michael walked Fratenzza to the door. "That's it, Vin?" Frank asked in a whisper.

  "That's it. I told you, it's just a formality."

  "Now that I've met him, Fratenzza's not what I expected."

  "These guys never are."

  Michael returned to the table. "That went well."

  "When can we get this thing rolling?" Vincent asked.

  "Come by the office tomorrow and I'll take care of it," he said. "Just make sure you guys do the right thing, all right?"

  Vincent rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mike, don't bust my balls."

  "All I need is some sort of steady payment. If youse run into a problem, come to me and we'll work it out."

  "I understand," Frank assured him.

  Vincent folded his thick forearms across his chest and winked at his brother. "We'll have the vig paid in no time. Don't worry about it."

  Michael's face looked as if it had been set in stone. "I'm not worried."

  Frank felt a sudden chill and forced himself to smile. From the kitchen, Vic DeNicco announced that lunch was served and Michael invited them to stay.

  Frank was relieved when Vincent politely declined. He couldn't have eaten a bite if there had been a gun to his head. And in a way, there was.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Puma, in black spandex, leopard skin boots and a mask resembling the face of the cat for which he'd been named, bolted across the ring, hopped up onto the top rope and ran from one corner of the ring to the next with the skill of a high wire artist. Diablo Gonzalez had a hold of his wrist the entire time, finally yanking his opponent off balance, sending the Puma into a back flip in mid-air. Just before he crashed to the canvas the Puma tucked his knees against his chest and gracefully rolled through the fall, coming up on his feet on the far side of the ring. The fans exploded into cheers as Diablo stood in apparent awe of his opponent's recovery, then turned to sneer and hurl verbal insults at a particularly enthusiastic young fan seated at ringside. While he was distracted, the Puma ran the length of the ring, leapt into the air and locked both legs around Diablo's neck, taking him down to the mat with a spectacular flying head-scissors. As the Puma rolled off of his fallen opponent and climbed to the top rope, the fans began to chant his name. Diablo, obviously groggy, struggled to his feet and staggered about in an attempt to locate the Puma. But it was too late. Arms stretched toward the heavens like an Olympic diver the Puma launched himself off the top rope and onto the chest of Diablo Gonzalez. They fell into a tangled heap in the center of the ring and the Puma hooked Diablo's leg. The referee administered a dramatic three-count and the bout was over. A loud bell sounded above the roar of the crowd and the Puma's arm was raised in victory. As he left the ring, a throng of mostly young people mobbed him. Glistening with sweat, his sculpted chest heaving with each breath, the Puma patiently took time to sign autographs and briefly converse with his elated fans.

  At ringside, Gus looked at Frank and smiled. "He's good."

  Frank nodded. "I've seen them both on television."

  "How many people you figure Rain has jammed in here?" Vincent asked. "Seven, eight hundred?"

  "More like five or six," Gus answered quickly.

  "Ten bucks a ticket, you're talking about a six thousand dollar gate," Vincent said.

  "Rain's putting a couple thousand in his pocket tonight," Frank told them. "Easy."

  Vincent folded his arms. "Not bad."

  The ring itself looked enormous in the small high school gymnasium. In the center of the basketball court it was an impressive structure with neon ropes, a bright mat, and seve
ral canvas banners that read ECPWL draped along its skirt. An adequate sound system powered the announcer's microphone and was used to play music during the wrestler entrances and between matches. It was located at a long table that had been pushed directly against one side of the ring, where the timekeeper, Charlie Rain, and other officials were seated.

  Once the Puma had worked his way through the crowd and into the locker room, an announcer in black tuxedo with microphone in hand, climbed through the ropes into the ring and announced the next match.

  Charlie Rain sat at the ringside table beaming like a proud parent.

  Gus leaned over so he could make eye contact with Vincent. "What do you think of him?"

  "Haven't even met him yet."

  "What do you think so far?"

  Vincent grinned.

  Later, after two more matches had concluded, the announcer told the crowd there would be a fifteen-minute intermission. Charlie shot to his feet and approached his new business partners with the same energy he'd displayed in Providence. "Frank, you made it."

  "How are you, Charlie?" Frank smiled. "Great show."

  "Top shelf," Gus said. "Top shelf, Charlie."

  Charlie smiled at Vincent and offered his hand. "I don't think we've met."

  "We haven't."

  "Charlie," Frank said quickly, "this is my partner, Vincent Santangelo. Vincent, Charlie Rain."

  "Jesus, Frank, you got more partners than a law firm."

  "No," Vincent corrected him. "Only one."

  He glanced at Gus then looked at Frank with uncertainty. "A man likes to know who he's crawling into the sack with, you know what I mean?"

  "Vincent's my partner," Frank explained. "Gus is our sales manager. You'll be working closely with all three of us."

  "Sorry I couldn't make the Providence meeting," Vincent said. "I had a previous engagement, you know how it goes."

  Charlie offered a broad smile. "Hey, we're all here now, right? OK. Terrific. Can you guys stick around for a while?"

  "Sure."

  "Good, because there's a few people I want you to meet. I'd take you in the locker room but the boys get a little edgy about people they don't know wandering around back there."

  "We're going to be paying their salaries," Vincent said. "I suggest they get over it."

  Charlie's face turned bright red, and he forced a nervous laugh. "It's nothing personal, it's just the way it is. Like I told Frank, it'll take time to work you guys into the performance end of things."

  "Just so long as it doesn't take too long."

  "Sure… I'll, ah, I'll be right back."

  As he disappeared into the locker room, Vincent looked at Frank and winked. "Relax, I know how to handle this guy."

  "Just be cool."

  Charlie returned moments later with a black man dressed in stone washed jeans and a sleeveless sweatshirt. "Boys, I want you to meet Luther 'Dark Train' Jefferson, professional wrestling legend and ECPWL Heavyweight World Champion."

  As they made their introductions Frank marveled at the shape Jefferson had managed to keep himself in. This was a man he'd seen wrestle when he was a child, which meant the "Dark Train" had to be at least fifty-something. He was a shade over six feet with a physique of pure muscle most men half his age would've killed for. His head was shaved and his face featured both a goatee and the brutal remnants of the countless battles he'd endured over the years. His forehead was littered with scar tissue, his nose flat and crooked, and one of his ears cauliflowered, but despite his rugged appearance, Jefferson carried himself in a relaxed, amicable manner.

  "Luther is our chief talent booker," Charlie explained in a quiet voice, glancing around to make certain no one else could hear. "I book the headliners and the specialties - you know, stars, broads, midgets - and Luther handles the rest of the card. He trains most of the under-card talent himself. Luther defends his title as part of every ECPWL shot, and he works exclusively for us."

  "You know," Gus said suddenly, "I saw you wrestle in the Boston Garden dozens of times back when I was in high school."

  "Shit, you're making me feel old."

  Gus laughed. "Oh yeah, I saw you wrestle all the greats."

  "Yeah, I tangled with all of them at one point or another."

  "Hey, did you ever fight - "

  Vincent shot Frank a look that should have maimed if not killed. "We won't keep you," Frank said, interrupting Gus's question. "I'm sure you're busy."

  "Yeah, I got to get back to the boys. Nice meeting you, fellas. Look forward to working with you." As Jefferson returned to the locker room, Charlie glared at Gus as if he'd temporarily lost his mind.

  Oblivious, Gus shrugged. "What's the matter with you?"

  Rather than answering the question, Charlie focused on Frank and Vincent. "Luther also runs our room."

  "What does that entail?" Frank asked.

  "If all the matches aren't already arranged when the card is sold, Luther does the match-making. He also decides who gets put over."

  "Put over?"

  "To be put over means to win. Except for the main event, where either I make the call or let the headliners work it out themselves, Luther decides who wins, who loses, and how it plays out."

  Vincent looked directly at Gus. "You mean it isn't real?"

  Charlie laughed. "I hate to dump all this on you in just one night, but the Easter Bunny's a lying cocksucker from way back, too."

  Before the intermission was over, Charlie introduced them to Bobby Kelley, the editor of a national wrestling magazine, and Delta Diamond, the ECPWL Women's Champion. While Kelley interviewed Frank for a story on the expansion of the ECPWL, Vincent did his best to keep Gus away from everyone else.

  On the ride back to Massachusetts, from the backseat of the GMC Jimmy, Vincent leaned between the bucket seats and said, "Gus, you think you could do me a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "The next time you meet one of the wrestlers, keep your fucking mouth shut."

  Gus lit a cigarette, glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. "I was trying to be friendly."

  "Did you hear what I said?"

  Gus looked to Frank for help, but he had apparently fallen asleep in the passenger seat. "Yeah," he said softly. "I heard what you said."

  "We're supposed to be professionals. If we come off like star-struck fans nobody'll take us seriously." Vincent was so close to him Gus could feel his breath on the back of his neck. "Don't embarrass me like that again, you understand?"

  "Okay, Vin. No problem."

  Vincent sat back. "Remember when all the cunt wrestlers were just a bunch of big ugly bull-dykes?"

  "Yeah, that's changed, huh?"

  "You see the ass on Delta Diamond?"

  Hopeful that the confrontational portion of the conversation was over, Gus cracked a smile. "See it? I'd eat a bucket of the bitch's shit just to sniff her asshole."

  Behind him, in the darkness, Vincent laughed.

  Frank loosened his tie, grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and moved quietly through the dark kitchen. He stopped in the open doorway to their bedroom and rubbed the bottle against his forehead. It was hot and stuffy in the apartment and the cool glass felt good against his flushed skin. He waited a few moments before twisting off the cap then nearly finished the entire contents in a single attempt.

  "What are you doing?" Sandy's voice asked through the darkness. Frank switched on a small lamp on the corner of her dresser. His wife was laying on her side in a T-shirt and a pair of light cotton panties. The only window in the room was open, all the sheets had been kicked down to the foot of the bed and a small oscillating fan on the night table circulated the air but did little to cool it.

  "Hi." Frank sat next to her on the edge of the bed. She smelled vaguely of talcum powder and coconut. "I just got home a few minutes ago. Thought I'd have a beer and watch you sleep a while. I do that sometimes."

  Sandy propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. Her hair fell back away from her face and
tumbled across her shoulders. "That's creepy, Frank."

  "Creepy? What the hell's creepy about it?"

  "It just is."

  He put a hand on her shin, slowly slid it up between her thighs. They kissed softly on the lips, and Frank noticed her nipples pressed against the sheer fabric of the T-shirt. "You smell good, baby."

  Sandy removed his hand from between her legs, returned it to his own lap. "Don't even think about it."

  "What's the problem? You have a shitty day or something?"

  "Would you like to hear about my day, Frank?" she asked, face void of expression. "Would you like that?"

  He put the beer down on the night table and fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "You obviously don't give a shit about my day, so sure, let's talk about yours."

  "Craig Pearson called earlier."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did he want me to call him back?"

  Sandy maneuvered into a sitting position, pulled her knees in against her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs. "He wanted to let you know that your vacation pay will be included with your last check."

  Frank stood up and lit a cigarette. "Anything else?"

  "He said he was sorry things worked out the way they did."

  "I'll bet."

  "Did he fire you, Frank?"

  "I quit."

  "You quit."

  Frank sighed, blew a stream of smoke at the floor. "That's what I just said."

  "And when did you plan to tell me?"

  "I wanted to - "

  "Or weren't you going to tell me at all?"

  "Sandy, for Christ's sake - "

  "Were you planning to leave every morning and only pretend to go off to work? Or is it just that what you do with your life is no longer any of my goddamn business?"

  "I've tried to discuss my plans with you."

  "Your plans?"

  Frank stared at her. "What do you want from me?"