by Rex Burns
She waited. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked the mindless, ceaseless yap of a penned and abandoned animal. The boards of the porch creaked beneath her shifting weight. Finally, as she was about to knock again, a latch chattered and an elderly man peered through the rusty door screen from beneath shaggy white eyebrows. “Last door-to-door salesman to come this way got shot. Didn’t look as good as you, though. What’d you say you’re peddling?”
“I’m not peddling—I’m looking. Does a Herman Theil live here?”
“Yeah, he does. What you want with him?”
“I want to talk with him.”
“Hope you like it.” Forehead pressing against the dusty screen, the man stood silently and stared back.
Julie shifted. “Well?”
“Well what? You said you’d like to talk to Herman Theil. You’re talking to him. I said I hope you like it. So if that’s all you want, I guess we’re done talking.”
“Oh, wait—” Julie spoke through the closing door. “I mean a younger man. The Herman Theil who wants to be a wrestler. Does he live here?”
“You mean Little Herm, then. Ought to say who you mean. Wait a minute—I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.” The door finished closing and Julie heard the faint thump of stiff legs move away. A couple of moments later, it opened again and a young man, taller than Julie, stared out.
“Help you?”
Julie introduced herself and got a little more mileage out of her official-looking ID. “I wondered if there was anything at all you could tell me about what happened Saturday night at the gym.”
“Just what I already told some police officer. It really ain’t much.”
“I’d like to hear it. May I come in?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He backed away from the door, and Julie let herself into the shadowy living room. The overstuffed couch, the throw rug, the little tables at each end of the couch were all worn. The old man looked up from an equally well-used armchair set in front of a large television screen. The screen showed a ruggedly handsome man with an eye patch staring into the wide blue eyes of a blonde whose shiny lips were parted. They gazed at each other without saying anything while a violin slowly warmed up on the soundtrack. “Three Herman Theils.”
“What?”
“Three Herman Theils. Me, my son, my grandson. I’m Herman Senior. My son was Junior. My grandson’s Little Herm. You got to say which one you mean.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Theil.”
Little Herm gestured. “Come on this way.” Then to his grandfather, speaking a bit louder, “We’ll go in the kitchen, Grampa. So we don’t disturb your program.”
“Go where you want to—don’t make no difference to me. Ain’t my program, neither.”
Julie followed through a doorway. In contrast to the dark and cramped living room that felt like a closed fist, the kitchen was sunny and large and open. Sometime in the past, it had been expanded with a back porch addition whose bank of casement windows looked into a small backyard with a miniature windmill, now rusty, and a concrete fishpond overlooked by a plaster Madonna who seemed surprised that the fish and water were gone. The counters were tidy; a short stack of plates and silverware sat drying on a folded dishcloth. Theil waved a hand at a dinette set, a plastic-topped table with tubular chrome legs and chairs to match. “We’ll talk here. Grampa wouldn’t want to miss his soap operas.”
“You live here with him?” Julie felt as if she’d stepped onto the set of a ’50s sit-com.
“Yeah. There’s just the two of us now that Gramma’s dead. My dad was killed in Desert Storm and I didn’t get along with my mom, so I moved here. He’s my family.”
“And now you want to be a wrestler.”
Little Herm’s heavy, curving shoulders rose and fell. Despite his height, he wasn’t overly big—more on the rangy side. But in time he should fill out, especially if he kept at the weights and ate well. “Always wanted to be one. Professional sports is the only chance a guy like me has to make real money, you know? I could go to college—my old man’s GI bill would pay for a lot of it. But school bores the hell out of me, and there’s no jobs anyway. I mean, I can work at McDonald’s with or without a college degree, right?”
“That’s what you do now? Work at McDonald’s?”
“Naw. I used to. Now I’m a part-time security guard. Up at Flatirons Crossing—minimum wage and no fringes. Grampa calls it scut work; he wants me to get a real job, some kind of union work in industry or manufacturing or construction. But there ain’t no real industry around here no more, and Colorado’s not a union state. And construction comes and goes—mostly goes, lately. I tell you, there’s nothing better out there. I looked. I even thought about going into the army, but Grampa didn’t like that idea—giving one son to the oil companies is charity enough, he says.”
“So you’re going to get rich as a professional wrestler?”
“It’s maybe worth a try! Those guys make a lot of money, man, and none of them’s any smarter than me. If I had the five thousand, I’d hire me a WWE trainer or an FWO one and get into the game that way. But I don’t so I can’t. That’s why Otto’s gym sounded so good—it’s a way to learn some stuff, and I can pay by the week. He’s been talking about starting his own local promotion, too, and about how much you can learn on a local circuit so you’re not just another stiff when you move up.”
“What do you mean, ‘hire a trainer’?”
“That’s how you have to do it. I talked to some guys that wrestle for the FWO. They told me all about it. Just to get a shot at it, you got to hire one of the FWO-approved trainers and get certified. Then, if they like you, you can start as a stiff in the prelim matches out in the boonies—you know, little towns out east or down south and all. They match you with a worker who helps you learn stuff—holds, falls, timing. If you do OK there, you can move up to the bigger venues. Then it just depends on how far you can develop your audience and what your manager and the producers can do for you.” He added, somewhat defensively, “It ain’t so easy, neither. You not only got to learn wrestling and build up your body, but you got to be a, you know, good actor, too.”
“Who did you talk with?”
“A couple guys with the FWO. They’re real nice when you get to know them. And if they think you’re really serious about being a wrestler.”
“Where did you find these guys?”
“The Tap Out Lounge. Over on Federal Boulevard. That’s where a lot of them hang out when they’re in town.”
“You don’t have to have any wrestling experience to get started?”
“Not to get started, I guess. Not as much as Otto wants us to know, anyway. Just a few basic moves. They teach you the rest. That’s one of the things the trainer is for—to show you. That, and how to get contacts with the pro circuits and their scouts.”
“They guarantee jobs?”
“Well, no. Guy was up front about that—said it was a gamble and if I didn’t catch on with the fans, there’d be no matches, irregardless of who your trainer or manager is. That’s what I like about Otto starting his own circuit: I can get in on the ground floor, get experience in front of crowds and some local exposure to build up a following. That, and the fact Otto don’t charge no five thousand up front.” Little Herm gazed for a moment into a bright future. “If I do all right with Rocky Ringside, I can maybe jump to the WWE or the FWO later. You know”—he shrugged—“if enough local people like me and I get a following.”
Julie noted the names of some of the wrestlers Little Herm had spoken with at the Tap Out. Then she asked the young man what happened Saturday.
“It wasn’t no different from always: me and Ray worked out, and Joe and Otto told us what to do. Then I showered and left. First I heard about the shooting was on TV this morning. It’s really too bad, you know? Joe was a really good guy.” He added, “I don’t
know what this means for the gym, now. I ain’t talked to Otto yet.”
“Did Joe seem worried when you saw him?”
The young man thought a moment. “No. But they both seemed kind of different—neither one of them was really into it. Usually, they act mad and yell a lot. Stir us up for the last round, you know? A lot of times Otto gets in the ring and shows us stuff. He’s real quick and in good shape, and if he thinks you’re not listening to what he’s telling you, he’ll knock the cr— the fire out of you. But not Saturday. I mean, they made noise, but it was like they were thinking of something else.” He glanced at Julie. “The police officer I talked to didn’t ask nothing about that.”
“What did he ask?”
“Just what time I left.”
“Which was?”
“Nine thirty, maybe a little after.” He explained, “I get off work at seven thirty most days and then put in a couple hours at the gym.”
“And when you went home, that left just Otto and Joe at the gym?”
“Ray was there, but he was leaving right behind me.” He thought of something. “Hey, we didn’t know what was going to happen, you know! We didn’t know we should’ve hung around!”
Julie assured him she understood that; she was just trying to get a clear picture of that evening’s events. “Was anyone else around the gym when you left? Anyone who seemed to be waiting for you to go?”
The youth thought back and slowly shook his head. “That time of night, the only people down there are the wrestlers. I didn’t notice anything different.”
“Otto and Joe usually clean up after everybody’s gone?”
“Usually, everybody on the night shift helps out; we get a little off the tuition for helping. I usually sweep, sometimes empty the garbage—that kind of thing.” He explained, “It helps keep costs down, Joe said. That way they don’t have to hire a cleaning crew.”
“Who was supposed to wrestle that night?”
“There’s four or five of us usually come in. Saturday night it was Todd and Jason—they like to work out together. And Eric was there. So was Pedro. And like I say, Ray.”
Julie added to her notes. “How many wrestlers in the stable?”
“Ten? Twelve? I don’t know for sure. Some work out in the mornings and some in the afternoons. And then the evening crew. I try to come in the afternoons when my schedule lets me—it’s not so crowded then. But most of the guys come in after work at night or Saturdays. Some come every night, some every other night. Depends on how much they pay. I’m usually the last one in because I get off so late, so I’m the last to go, usually. But I don’t know how many in all, day and night.”
Little Herm couldn’t tell Julie a lot more, not even the names of the wrestlers who worked out during the day. “We don’t see that much of each other. Otto knows—you’ll have to ask him.” And he had no idea who might dislike Joe enough to kill him. “Nobody, man! I mean, he was a real decent dude, you know?”
“What about Otto? Suppose someone had been after Otto and got Joe instead?”
That idea was just as shocking. And he had never heard of anyone named Chertok.
10
Promptly after the lunch hour, Raiford’s telephone rang. The cool female voice asked him to please hold for Mr. Chertok. As he waited, Raiford remembered a symmetrically lovely face and two striking dark blue eyes under raven hair. Then a not-so-nice voice came on.
“I thought we had an understanding, Raiford. I thought I made it damn clear to you that I don’t give one small damn if Lidke or anybody else opens a goddamn local wrestling club or syndicate or whatever!”
“That’s what I told my client, Mr. Chertok.”
“But it ain’t what you told the cops, is it? Cop’s been over here half the morning asking all sorts of questions. Like maybe you told him I had something to do with killing what’s-his-face.”
“I told the officer what you told me: that you have no reason to be involved with my client.”
“You shouldn’t’ve even mentioned my fucking name!”
“I was asked about your name, Chertok. The officer asked me what I knew about you threatening Lidke. He wanted to know of any possible link between that threat and Palombino’s murder.”
“Jesus Christ … !” The telephone was silent for a long moment. Then Chertok’s voice came back, at first talking to itself. “I don’t need this. I really do not need this crap! In the first place, Raiford, I never threatened that bastard. And in the second place, I don’t know a thing—not one damn thing—about anybody getting killed!”
“That’s fine with me.”
“Well, here’s something else better be fine with you: you tell Lidke to stop talking about me or I’m going to be all over him like stink on shit. I mean that!”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Chertok?”
“No! It’s a goddamn fact!” The line clicked into silence.
Julie was staring at the display on the computer when Raiford came into her office. “Are we in the black or the red, Julie?”
“Sort of gray, surprisingly enough.” She keyed out of the program. “But it will be a lot blacker if Technitron comes through.”
“Even if it doesn’t, we’ll be all right.” He settled against the iron railing that protected the lower part of the window. “I not only have faith, but I know that God looks after the pure and innocent.”
“Are we either?”
“Yeah—that is something to consider.” But his focus was in a direction other than the state of their bank account and souls. “Wager’s shy about giving information on Palombino. Maybe I should have bought him a bottle of scotch last Christmas. He sent his regards and he did say Lidke’s car was torched—definite evidence of an accelerant.”
“Cause of death?”
“He’s pretty sure it was by gunshot, but the full autopsy’ll take a few days. Wouldn’t comment on defense wounds or much else. Other than that, he was his usual warm and outgoing self. How was your morning?”
She told her father about her visits to Mrs. Palombino and to Little Herm.
He nodded and said, “That’s good thinking, partner.” Then, “The kid didn’t see anyone around when he left the gym?”
“That’s what he says. Of course he wasn’t looking for anyone, and that area’s pretty dark. If someone didn’t want to be seen, it wouldn’t be hard to stay out of sight.” The telephone rattled before she could test the idea that had formed on her drive back to the office.
It was Bernie Riester; she had finally reached the end of her paper search. “It took a lot of digging, Julie, but I thought you’d want me to go as far as I could.”
That was Bernie’s way of warning against the cost of the computer time and database vendors’ fees, and it sounded as if Touchstone was diving back into the red. “That’s right.” Julie tried to sound happy as she flipped on the speaker so her father could listen. “Dad’s on the line—go ahead.”
“Hi, Jim. OK, here’s what I came up with. Mammoth Productions is privately owned, so accessing tax records was a challenge, and I had to use several gateway companies to pull out what I needed.”
“I heard you the first time, Bernie. Do what you have to.”
“OK, Julie. I just don’t want you to have a heart attack when the bill comes through. Sidney Chertok and his wife are listed as the sole owners, but the organization’s start-up funding apparently was underwritten by at least two other companies. As much as eighty percent of Mammoth’s profits are distributed back to them: Ace Holding Company and Miller Finance.”
“Anything on them?”
“That’s where it gets trickier. Both of those companies are private, too, and most of their listed principal officers don’t have public records at all. No credit, birth, marriage records—none whatever.” She paused for emphasis. “I have to tell you, it’s a pattern I’ve seen before.”<
br />
Raiford asked, “You’re saying they’re fronts for still another company?”
“It’s not that simple. I think they’re legitimate businesses on their own. But they’re tied together financially in such a way that there’s a lot of—ah—flexibility in what they report to the IRS. And here’s something else: I’ve run across a couple of the names before. Ever hear of Champion Enterprises?”
Both father and daughter admitted ignorance.
“Private. Chartered in Illinois in 1995 for the usual ‘all lawful business’ purposes. But one of the principals was Willard Chambers. You never head of him, either?”
Right again. Touchstone didn’t go back that far.
“OK. He was an Illinois state senator. Blue-blood family, son and grandson of big-time lawyers, preppie, Ivy League, the whole bit. In his third term, it turned out he’d been owned by the Cipetti gang for years. Him, you’ve heard of, right?”
“Yeah.” A lot of people had. The Cipettis—father and son—were among the medium-sized fish churned up by the Kefauver crusades way back in the ’50s. Not as big as Carmine Galante or the Bonannos or Tony Salerno. But big enough. Although the name wasn’t often heard anymore, rumor had it that the son and now the grandson were still active. “Did you find any other links to the mob, Bernie?”
“Two more names. Edward Filippone, who’s one of the partners in Champion, is also a principal in Ace Holding. No police record, but you can’t forget a name like that. I knew I had run across it somewhere, so I ran a wider search. Turns out his old man is Eugene Filippone, who was pretty well up in the Balistieri gang in Milwaukee before he disappeared. Eddie’s a CPA in Chicago. The second name’s also a principal in Ace: Robert Wade. That’s an easy name to forget and he has no police record, either, except I ran across him in the Filippone search. The Milwaukee paper identified him as an attorney for local crime figures.”