Night Work

by Greg F. Gifune

  "I know most of those boys." Montgomery smiled. "They'll understand."

  "Can't we just buy a weekend license?"

  "It's Saturday," Lawson said. "Everything is closed."

  "Couldn't a man in your position issue a temporary license just to get us through this?" Vincent asked. "We'd be happy to pay the necessary fees, of course."

  Lawson exchanged glances with Montgomery then returned his gaze to Vincent. "I don't know. That'd be highly unusual."

  "I'd just hate to see the school lose an opportunity to make some money," Frank said softly. "It doesn't seem right."

  Montgomery turned to Lawson right on cue. "How about it, Phil? Is there anything we can do?"

  "Phil," Frank smiled warmly. "You don't mind if I call you Phil, do you? There must be some way to make this right."

  "I might be able to sign off on the existing document," he said, handing the license back to Frank. "Thereby making it valid for a weekend event. But weekend licenses cost more."

  "How much more?"

  "Considerably more."

  Frank wrapped two hundred dollars around the license and nonchalantly handed it to Lawson. "Why don't you take another look at it and make sure there's room for your signature?"

  Lawson angled the license toward Montgomery so he could clearly see the amount of money that had been offered. The policeman seemed unimpressed.

  "We all set?" Vincent asked after a moment.

  "I'm afraid not."

  "That's the best we can do."

  "I'll shut you down."

  Vincent's expression turned cold. "Then shut us down."

  "Let's all try to be reasonable here," Frank suggested. "We're not millionaires, gentlemen."

  Lawson produced a laugh that sounded like a wheeze. "Let me be blunt. We don't like your kind around here," he said softly. "You scurvy types come to our town with your flashy suits and diamond rings and big phony smiles and act like you own the place. Well, you don't own this place. We do."

  Anger smoldered behind Vincent's eyes. "That's why we're negotiating."

  "There's a carnival comes through here every year," the police chief said. "It's been stopping here since the seventies. Phil and I have an arrangement with those boys, and we're willing to work with them because it's a long-term relationship. But you may never do another show here again."

  Vincent's expression seemed set in stone. "I know I speak for Frank when I say that I feel two hundred dollars is more than reasonable for a temporary license, fellas. But in the interest of getting this done, what would you say if we were willing to donate, say, another two hundred to a charity of your choice?"

  Before either man answered, Frank slid the money into Montgomery's shirt pocket. "We'll trust you guys to get it to the right folks."

  "And here," Vincent said, a smile slowly surfacing on his face as he handed a small stack of tickets to Lawson. "I'm sure you must know some people who'd like to see the show."

  Frank nodded. "Bring some family and friends on us."

  "The matches start at eight," Vincent told them. "We'll have it wrapped up by eleven and we'll be packed and out of town by midnight."

  Lawson and Montgomery exchanged glances, and the smaller man quickly inspected the license again. "I must have been mistaken. Everything appears to be in perfect order here."

  Once he and Frank were alone in the locker room, Vincent began to laugh. "Christ," he sighed, "it's like the same two guys in every town."

  Frank lit a cigarette. "It never ends, man."

  "Fuck 'em."

  As they left the locker room they were confronted by Elliot Rosby, a freelance concessionaire they rented space to at each show. He and his young nephew had toured with Charlie Rain since the early days of the ECPWL, and sold T-shirts, photographs of the wrestlers, videos, hats, and programs. At the conclusion of each night, Elliot kicked back twenty percent of his profit to the ECPWL, but never without a complaint, and seldom without a lengthy discussion.

  "Frank, Vincent!" he said in his typically loud voice. "Just the people I wanted to see. Have you got a minute?"

  "Oh, Elliot," Frank moaned, "anybody but you right now."

  Vincent increased his rate of speed and escaped down the hallway with a wide smile. "Gotta go but Frank's got a few minutes to chat, don't you, Frank?"

  "What do you need?" Frank asked.

  Elliot was in his late forties, of average height, and had a chunky build. His eyes appeared larger than they actually were due to the thick lenses of his glasses, and even his enormous handlebar mustache, sprinkled with flecks of gray, did little to deflect attention from his bad complexion. In his younger days Elliot had been a magician on the nightclub circuit in New York City, and though he never achieved stardom he had earned a decent living. Reportedly, Elliot had lost it all due to a penchant for gold-digging women. He constantly claimed to still be a working magician and often approached Frank and Vincent with various magic act ideas, none of which were ever taken seriously.

  "Well, what I need - what I need is - is to have a conversation," Elliot said, the words tumbling from his lips with their usual nervous cadence.

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't have time for a conversation right now. Can we do this later?"

  "But - you see, this is just it - this is just the problem, Frank. I ah, I used to go right to Charlie and talk to him when I had a problem, right? Now he tells me to speak with you or Vincent. It's certainly nothing personal - I want to make that clear, Frank - please don't misunderstand - it's absolutely nothing personal - but, well, I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that Vincent isn't the easiest guy in the world to have a conversation with. He's a great guy - don't, ah, don't get me wrong - it's just that he can be - you know how I mean - awfully disagreeable at times and honestly -

  "Elliot - "

  " - I get the feeling he just never listens to me."

  "Elliot, what do you want?"

  He frowned and scratched his beard. "I was talking to some of the guys and, ah - they were saying it's going to be a weak crowd tonight. Can you shed any light on that, Frank?"

  "Probably five to six."

  "Oh, boy," Elliot rolled his eyes. "Oh, I mean - five or six hundred makes it - well, it makes it very difficult for me to do any business that's, ah - well, even remotely substantial. Just stop for a second and think about it from my end."

  Frank started off down the hall. "I don't have time for this shit."

  "All I'm saying," Elliot went on, following close behind him, "is that it - you know - makes things difficult for me."

  "I'm tired of this, Elliot. You make me have this exact conversation with you whenever we don't sell out."

  "But, Frank, you - you're certainly reasonable - a reasonable man and all, and - "

  Frank stopped, faced him. "No breaks."

  "I'm simply asking - "

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Maybe tomorrow in Connecticut I can make it up, but Jesus H., Frank - five or six hundred marks just isn't - "

  Frank put a hand on Elliot's shoulder and leaned in close to him so as not to draw attention. "Then pack up and go home."

  "You see, now that - that's the thing I'm - that's exactly the thing I'm talking about. Why do you have to hurt me like that? Why do you have to treat me like a mark when all I'm trying to tell you is - "

  "You open that table," Frank told him, "and you owe me."

  Elliot looked as if he had been mortally wounded. "The thing I'm wondering - nand for God's sake, I'm simply wondering - is that maybe just for tonight - and only for tonight, Frank - maybe you could find it in your heart to let me kick you boys ten percent instead of - "

  "I don't have a heart, Elliot."

  "No, that's - come on now that's - that isn't true at all. I understand you have to, you know, have to carry yourself a certain way, Frank, but I know, believe me - I, ah - I know when someone is - "

  "Twenty points."

  "I'm only asking for tonight."


  "Twenty fucking points."

  Elliot sighed heavily. "Who loves you more than me? Who loves this show more than me? I - I can't figure out why - why you have to treat me this way."

  "I'm tired of this, Elliot. I've got enough to worry about without having you stuck up my ass with this bullshit, okay? Here's how it is, and I'm only saying this once more so pay close attention. You work my show you pay me my fucking money. Period. Can you understand that, or should I have Vincent take you into the locker room and explain it again?"

  Elliot's face dropped. "I'm asking, Frank - that's all. It was only a request, I mean - you say no - it's no."

  "Fine." Frank forced a smile. "Then we're all set."

  Elliot gripped Frank's shoulders and nearly hugged him. "Of course we are!" he said through a burst of laughter. "Don't get so upset, babe - it was only a question. Now, go on - go - you're busy - I can tell you're busy. The last thing you need is me bothering you, right? Am I right, boobalah? Right, chief?"

  "It is not humanly possible for you to be more accurate than you are at this exact moment," Frank mumbled.

  "Point taken, brother - absolutely taken and understood, all right? Can't fault a man for trying."

  Even as Frank abandoned him in the hallway and returned to the gymnasium, he could still hear Elliot babbling.

  ***

  The team from the State Athletic Commission arrived a few hours before the scheduled starting time. Dressed in identical blue blazers with state patches over the breast pockets, they appeared on the scene and took over the locker room immediately. Charlie, Frank and Vincent knew most of them as it was always one of a few regular crews that worked all of the wrestling and boxing shows in the state. For the most part, everyone got along well. They allowed Frank, who had registered with the state, to work as timekeeper, and generally assigned the referees Charlie requested when he registered the shows with the state office. Mainly, they were in attendance to collect a five-percent tax on the gross ticket sales, but they also assigned judges for the bouts, made sure all licenses, insurance, and workmen's compensation forms were up to date, and even oversaw the doctor, who was responsible for conducting physicals on the wrestlers before they were allowed to complete.

  As was always the case, an hour or so before the show, the locker room was crowded and chaotic. Charlie and Vincent were busy filling out forms and paperwork with the state officials. Luther was working out angles and finishes for the matches involving under-card wrestlers. The two main event headliners were off in a corner, playing cards with one of the referees, and the doctor was slowly making his way through the long list of physicals. Meanwhile, Frank spoke with the midgets, Little Cowboy Pete, and Kid Ka-bang. "Vincent spoke to you guys, right?"

  Pete smiled, struggling into a pair of small leather chaps. "Yeah. Sorry about the room, boss. We got a little loaded last night."

  "Next time it comes out of your pay," Frank said firmly.

  Kid Ka-bang, a black midget who wrestled in a tiger-skin loincloth, nodded woefully. "It ain't gonna happen again."

  "Nobody else uses you guys as much as I do, right?"

  "That's right," Cowboy Pete agreed. "And we appreciate it, boss."

  Frank lit a cigarette. "You want to go back to doing house shows for the big federations?"

  "Fuck that," Kid Ka-bang laughed. "You get big money but you gotta smoke too much pole for it."

  Pete nodded, slapped his partner on the back. "I heard that, brother."

  Frank smiled. "You know, you'd be just about the right height."

  Little Cowboy Pete shook his head. "Gee, never heard that one before."

  Frank laughed and moved through the room. One of the state commissioners stepped in front of him with a clipboard and a pen. "You doing time tonight?"

  "Yeah."

  He thrust the clipboard at him. "Sign line six and initial lines ten and twelve. Is Charlie doing the ticket count?"

  "No," Frank said, handing the clipboard back to him. "Vin's handling it tonight. Charlie's announcing."

  "Okay," the man nodded. "The doc wants to see you."

  "What's wrong?"

  "No idea. Ask him." The man began conversing with one of the other officials, and Frank quickly made his way across the room to the corner where Dr. Richard Pendleton was hovering over Dean Tate, a wrestler who worked as The Mongolian Crusher.

  "Doc," Frank said with the biggest smile he could muster, "how've you been?"

  Pendelton glanced at Frank without offering any discernable reaction. He was a thin man in his late sixties who seemed perpetually slumped over. His face was creased with wrinkles, his hands covered with liver spots, and his demeanor always cautious and guarded. "Hello, Frank."

  "What's up?"

  "This man can't go tonight."

  Frank looked at Tate, who offered a timid shrug. "Why not? Are you sick?"

  "I feel fine," Tate answered softly.

  "What's the problem, Doc?"

  Pendelton continued filling out a form without bothering to look up from it. "His blood pressure is through the roof. It's no wonder, look at him. He's not an inch over five foot ten and he weighs nearly four hundred pounds."

  "I've been trying to watch my weight," Tate sighed.

  "Hold on," Frank said, mind racing. "Dean, didn't you tell me you just went to your doctor a couple of weeks ago?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And I thought you said everything was fine."

  "It was."

  Frank turned back to the doctor. "Then there must be some mistake, Doc."

  "There's no mistake. I can't pass this man."

  "I think it might've been the snack food," Tate suddenly said.

  Pendelton looked up from his clipboard. "Snack food?"

  "I slept late this morning," he explained, "and I didn't stop for lunch, so I ate a box of cupcakes I had with me."

  "You ate an entire box of cupcakes?" the doctor asked.

  Tate blushed. "Yes, sir."

  "Just the same, in all good conscience, I can't let you wrestle, son."

  "This'll screw up the whole card," Frank told him.

  Pendelton buried his nose in his paperwork again. "I'm sorry. My decision is final."

  "Doc, I don't have an extra man." Frank looked at his watch. "And it's too late to get somebody down here to replace him."

  "I feel fine," Tate said again.

  Frank waved at him to be quiet. "The guy's zooming on a sugar high, Doc, that's all. He's fine."

  The doctor flashed an angry look. "If this man goes out there and drops dead of a heart attack, do you know who'll be to blame? Do you know who everyone will crucify?"

  Frank knew he was up against the wall; he'd been there before. "Did I mention the ladies are working this card?"

  "I saw the roster earlier."

  "Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk."

  Pendelton's eyes brightened. "Yes, that's… that's good."

  "Tell you what I'm gonna do," Frank said quietly. "Right now they're down in the other locker room getting ready. I'll go let them know you're working as state doctor tonight; make sure they're expecting you. All I ask is one small favor, Doc. Can you do me one small favor?"

  Pendelton shrugged. "Depends."

  "Wrap that thing around Dean's arm again and give it just one more shot for me. In about two minutes, meet me out in front of the girls' locker room and let me know the results. Whatever you decide we'll live with. Fair enough?"

  "Five minutes," Pendelton grunted without altering his expression. "See that the girls are ready for me."

  Frank left the locker room and headed down the hallway toward the women's dressing area. He'd not yet reached the door when David Delvecchio intercepted him. "Hey, boss, I wanted to apologize about last night, I - "

  "Not now," Frank snapped, continuing past him.

  Delvecchio leaned his emaciated frame against the wall and shook his head dejectedly. He had long stringy hair that he kept pulled back into a ponytail, several colorful tattoos on h
is forearms and shoulders, a nose ring, and a constant look of confusion and fatigue. He and a crew of two other men were responsible for transporting and constructing the ring at all ECPWL shows. Delvecchio was only in his late thirties but had been in the wrestling business for more than two decades, and was well known as both a reliable ring rat, and a helpless heroin addict.

  One of Benny Dunn's security guards stood poised in front of the women's locker room dressed in a company-issue, bright yellow "security" T-shirt. "They in there?" Frank asked; knocking and entering before the guard even had time to respond. "Incoming, ladies!"

  Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk were sitting on one of the benches talking above the strains of an enormous boom box. "Frankie," Tammy said, eyes bright. "What's up?"

  He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "You know how it is, Tam. It's never easy being me. We got a bit of a problem."

  Delta smiled, revealing a beautiful set of teeth, and sauntered over to him. She combed her blonde hair behind her ears with a finger and let her eyes wander seductively down Frank's body. "Tell Mommy all about it."

  Frank lit a cigarette. Dressed in a tank top and skimpy satin shorts, Delta's curvaceous figure was impossible to ignore. "You know Doc Pendelton, right?"

  Tammy, an equally tantalizing dark-complexioned brunette, shook her head. "Christ, not him again."

  "Afraid so."

  "Got an extra butt?" Delta asked. Frank lit one and handed it to her. She inhaled deeply, her eyes never leaving his. "What's that prick pulling this time?"

  "He's threatening not to pass Dean."

  "I wouldn't pass the fat bastard either," Tammy laughed, still straddling the bench. "Imagine trying to find his dick?"

  Frank looked at her. "You're such a prude."

  "So what's the deal?" Delta asked.

  "We're fucked without him."

  Delta glanced over her shoulder at Tammy, who offered a subtle, if not bored nod, then turned back to Frank. "Let me guess. You promised the good doctor a chance to conduct a couple of thorough examinations, right?"

  "What can I tell you?" Frank said, a nervous laugh escaping him. "He's got me by the balls."