Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  “Are you here about an account?”

  “Yes.” Julie introduced herself. “I believe Mrs. Palombino called you earlier about her husband’s investment in Rocky Ringside Wrestling.”

  “She did. But I am very busy, Miss Campbell.” He glanced at the calendar. “I really don’t have time—”

  “I will only take a few minutes, Mr. Felsen. As you know, Mrs. Palombino is recently widowed and desperately needs help. Any information you provide could assist in her efforts to support herself and her young children.”

  The man’s long, pale finger tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know what I can tell you. It was rather melancholy—a sad duty—to have to explain to Mrs. Palombino that very little remained of her husband’s investment in the gymnasium.”

  “Wasn’t there any value in the property?”

  Felsen shrugged, his bony shoulders lifting his shirt like an uneasy ruffle of wings. “He pledged all his holdings against corporate debts—and the debts were there. It was a most unwise thing to do. Had I been consulted, I would have counseled against it.” A long breath. “Never invest more than you can lose, that would have been my advice— safety first, then search for profit.” He added glumly, “We have seen what ignoring that advice results in.”

  “Did you do much work for Mr. Palombino?”

  “Not as an individual account, no. I was retained as the corporate accountant for Rocky Ringside Wrestling.”

  “So you wouldn’t know about any other investments he may have had?”

  “No. In fact, I can’t recall ever meeting Mr. Palombino.” He explained. “Most of my business takes place over the telephone or through the mails. Or the fax.” He added with a tiny sigh, “Most of the time I don’t even leave my office.”

  Behind his desk hung a state license. Around it, the cream-colored wall seemed to absorb light as well as sound. “But Rocky Ringside isn’t bankrupt, is it?”

  “No. Its profit margin has been very slender, but recent income has brightened the picture somewhat.”

  “What kind of income?”

  “Profit above expenses.”

  He added nothing more. Julie asked, “Did you audit the company when Mr. Palombino died?”

  “Of course. The death of a partner—a major investor… . Of course I had to do an audit following his death. His investment had earned a very small return.”

  “A small return?”

  Another discreet shuffle of feathers. “I’m not at liberty to give you exact figures. Mrs. Palombino can, if she wishes to, disclose the sum.”

  “The income came before Mr. Palombino’s death?”

  “The account figures for August preceded his death, yes.”

  “Will the business do better in the future?”

  “That I can’t answer because I don’t know, Miss Campbell. All I do is look at a corporation’s past financial record. Developing growth projections is a separate field, and perhaps a happier one—if less precise.” He smiled, a sad lift at the corners of his mouth that quickly dropped away. “I’m the one who has to fill in the bottom line—I think of myself as the Bearer of Final Truth.”

  “And the final truth was that Mrs. Palombino’s share of the business was almost nothing.”

  “Sadly so, sadly so.”

  Julie thanked the man and closed the door softly on his silent office.

  Raiford was to meet Bausley at the Tap Out Lounge, and from there go to his agent’s office. Like Bausley, the agent spent a lot of time on the road hustling deals with clients, promoters, and other agents. Tonight was a good time to get him. The evening crowd at the Tap Out had that settled and comfortable feeling of a collection of regulars. Local residents stared in rapt silence at the large screen’s play-off game; a few families with kids and plates of tacos and enchiladas crowded the square tables; long-haired construction workers lined the bar; and—a sprawl of heavy bodies—wrestlers claimed their corner of the large room. Except for an occasional glance from a newcomer or a bashful and wide-eyed kid asking for an autograph while grinning parents watched from a table, the other patrons gave the wrestlers their space. Raiford figured that was why they liked the place.

  Bausley sat at a table with his back to the entry. As Raiford neared, the other wrestlers glanced up with wary or blank faces, guarding their privacy. Except for one, which flashed red with anger and embarrassment.

  “Hello, Billy,” said Raiford cheerfully. “Feeling any better?”

  “What the hell you doing here?”

  “Business, my friend. A little business with Doctor Witch.”

  Billy heaved to his feet. “I’m going to take a piss.”

  Bausley looked over his shoulder at the departing man. “I think you made a friend for life, there, Mr. Raiford. But then, ‘he makes no friend who never made a foe.’ Let me introduce you to some of the greatest wrestlers of all time.”

  Following Dr. Witch’s greeting, the atmosphere eased. As Raiford nodded around the table, he recognized one of the men by his ring name. The Cannibal was famous for his Chomp of Death and his costume decorated with cuts of raw meat that, when the camera was on him before a match, he liked to rip off and cram in his mouth while blood ran down his chin. Tonight he wore a billowing shirt decorated with smiley faces. “You the one kicked the shit out of Billy?”

  “He wasn’t too sober.”

  “That do happen. But I tell you what, he’s even meaner sober than drunk. If you’re planning on joining the band of brothers in the ring, watch out for your nuts or he’ll have you singing soprano.”

  Bausley stood, a large dark shape that claimed all the nearby light. “True, Brother Russell. But I think Mr. Raiford has become aware of the pitfalls and pratfalls of the canvas stage. Excuse us, gentlemen. ‘A man must make his opportunity as oft as find it.’ ” He explained to puzzled glances. “That means we have to decide if my man James, here, is going to be a heel or a babyface.”

  “Babyface,” said the Cannibal. “Got to be a babyface while he can!” Laughter followed them as they headed toward the back door.

  Raiford climbed into Bausley’s oversized pickup truck. The rear seat had been removed to allow more legroom up front, and a lowered driver’s seat allowed Bausley to see through the windshield without bending over. “What’s a babyface?”

  Bausley’s chuckle was a low rumble. “That’s what the Cannibal was laughing at: your face isn’t busted up yet. Have to be a pretty boy to be a hero, and most in the game don’t stay pretty for long.” His chuckle rumbled again. “Think of it as a virgin visage.”

  The agent’s office was a single room in a large brick home on Pennsylvania, a three-story, Denver Square design converted to business use—as many in the once residential neighborhood had been—and probably built in the 1930s. At one time the space served as either the living room or the parlor, and the black oak trimming of its bay window looked odd against the stark partitions dividing the area. A metal desk and filing cabinet made up the business part of the office; amenities were represented by two sagging chairs made of Naugahyde and chrome. Bausley told Raiford that his agent was into a little bit of everything—public relations, advertising, sports and entertainer promotions. In any game, money was his aim. And one of the man’s chief claims to glory was promoting a recording to best sellerdom, an Easter song titled “Have Yourself a Merry Crucifixion.”

  “Anyone who could sell that I wanted working for me.”

  Sure enough, on one wall a large frame held a gold disc and an ornately wreathed nameplate with that title. Farther down the wall another impressive award had been won from the National Advertising Association for the Year’s Best Slogan: “Euthanasia—Something to Die For.”

  Raiford shook hands with a stocky man in his late thirties. His hair sprouted in stiff black bristles on top. At the back a thin tail of hair hung down in a strin
glike braid. He wore an open guayabera shirt under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. “Raoul Salazar,” he said. “The Doctor tells me you’re the next Randy Savage.”

  “If that’s where the money is, why not?”

  “Aw ri’! That’s the attitude, bro’!” His glance measured Raiford’s torso. “You on ’roids? You taking anything to bulk up?”

  “I work out. I don’t take anything.”

  Salazar gave him a look. “You really want to do good in this game, you’ll probably have to go on a chemical program. You got a attitude about that?”

  Raiford looked at Bausley. “You take anything?”

  “I am neither ‘a prisoner of addiction nor a prisoner of envy.’ ”

  “He means no,” said Salazar. “But the Doctor don’t need to—he’s big enough.” He pointed to another picture, this one of a clean-shaven man with bleach-blond hair and bulging with heavy, flexed muscle that punched up his veins in wreaths beneath the skin. Behind the figure, a banner proclaimed World Bodybuilding Champion. “This guy was a nothing—your basic ninety-pound weakling. Signed with me, I developed him, directed his training program, marketed his image. Now look! And he’s just one of my successes. I got major successes in all phases of the entertainment and sports businesses.” The finger swung to a row of publicity photographs strung along the opposite wall: stiffly posed teams, faces with wide smiles, wrestlers in costume ready to grapple. “That’s some of the people I handle. Big draws, big time: WWO, FWO, WCO, WWE—you name the syndicate, you’ll find a Salazar wrestler. And you’ll find them at the top. They got where they are because they do what I say. That’s what you’ll do, you want to be on that wall. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

  “If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Salazar, catching something in Raiford’s voice, stared hard at him. “You think I’m maybe one of these Mexican Americans, right? One of these Chicanos from the barrio don’t know his anus from his elbow? That what you think?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I am—I’m one of the Boat People, man. Cubano. I come to this country with nothing—ten-year-old kid with no job, no training, no education, no nothing. Just the rags on my back and what I got here!” He thumped his fist over his heart. “Guts—maybe more guts than anybody you ever met before. I’m where I am because of me and nobody else! I know what I want and how to get it, and I can get it for you, too, you do what I tell you. You don’t do what I tell you, you can disappear, man—I don’t care. It’s no skin off my teeth, you hear me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  He stared again, weighing Raiford’s sincerity. “OK—all right. You come to me at a good time. We got major developments opening up and if you listen what I tell you, you can be part of the Federated Wrestling Organization’s development in this area. You don’t, you’re out of here. No apologies… . Let’s talk contract.”

  The talk boiled down to an explanation of why Salazar would receive a very big bite of any money Raiford made for the whole of his professional wrestling life—“You wouldn’t have it without me”—and what Raiford would have to do to get started in the game—“What I tell you.” Finally, Raiford had a chance to ask a few questions.

  “Chertok? Yeah, I know him—FWO’s regional rep. Work with him all the time. Great guy—can’t find a sweeter guy.”

  “Has he ever said anything about Rocky Ringside Wrestling?”

  “Who?”

  Raiford repeated it. “Or Joe Palombino?”

  Salazar shook his head. “I don’t remember. If he did, it wasn’t anything to do with money. That, I’d remember.”

  “I heard Chertok wanted to close them down. I thought he might be starting his own venue.”

  “Chertok?” Salazar frowned and shook his head again. “No way—you heard wrong. Chertok’s a real caballero and all, but he don’t know shit about handling wrestlers. What he is, is a booking agent, not a personnel-type agent. Another thing, he’s FWO. I mean, he’s got to know what’s going down with his own outfit.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “What it means is FWO’s already working on affiliation with a local promotion. That’s what I meant when I told you you come at a good time: gives beginners like you a chance to build up a following in this region. You listen to me, you’ll be on a local card in a month at most.”

  “Do you know who they’re affiliating with?”

  “Sure. It’s my business to know, right? You think I don’t know my business? American West.” He pulled a manila folder out of his desk drawer. “Hey, great talking with you, but talk is time and time is money, right? Let’s get the paperwork out of the way.”

  The contract was eight legal-sized pages giving Salazar rights to twenty-five percent of any and all of the signer’s future income derived from any and every aspect of sports and/or promotions: direct earning, ancillary, subsidiary, licensed, indirect, special, residual, and any other sources “not herein named.” A small clause extended his percentage to include any and all insurance payments if the signer was unable to continue his career because of injury in the ring. In return, Salazar would perform the usual and expected duties of an agent, though he was in no way responsible for any debts or obligations legal or otherwise that the signer was obligated for now or ever in the future. And he reserved the right to terminate the contract at any time free of any and every possible obligation or penalty if, in his sole judgment, the signer failed to perform as directed. Watched closely by the agent, Raiford signed.

  “Aw ri’! Congratulations! You’re in the Salazar stable—now I can start making you a star. But first I got to meditate. That’s how I come up with personalities for my people—I meditate. I’ll call you. It’ll be sometime tomorrow.”

  In the truck, Raiford shook his head. “Tell me that Salazar scripts those television interviews with wrestlers.”

  “ ‘A man may boast while the garland’s still fresh on his brow.’ ”

  “What?”

  “He talks big. But so far he’s come through. Besides”—Bausley’s laugh filled the cab—“I just earned a finder’s fee.”

  “Is everything in this racket done for money?”

  “As the good book says, ‘Wine maketh merry, but money answereth all things.’ ” After a moment, Bausley said thoughtfully, “And speaking of answers and questions, you were asking me about Chertok, too.”

  “Like Salazar said, he’s a big name in local wrestling.”

  “That may be true. And a ‘disinterested intellectual curiosity is the lifeblood of real civilization.’ I’m just not sure how disinterested your curiosity really is.”

  Raiford grinned. “I’m not sure how civilized, either.”

  15

  Julie punched in the telephone number. A child’s breathless voice answered the second ring with rehearsed politeness and a note of triumph. In the background, another piping voice wailed, “Mama—it was my turn!” When the woman came on, Julie introduced herself.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Campbell?” Her voice sounded slightly puzzled.

  “We haven’t heard from you for over a week, and we wanted to be certain everything’s all right.”

  Ms. Morgan tried to answer, but the wailing voice continued until a hand was placed over the receiver. Her voice came back. “I’m sorry, Miss Campbell—Sydney’s upset because her sister went out of turn answering the phone.”

  “Please call me Julie—and may I speak with Sydney?”

  The girl’s small voice said with hesitant excitement, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Sydney. Are you being a good girl?”

  She answered yes, and Julie asked a few more questions: age, four; sister’s name, Jessie. Did Jessie go to school? Yes, she was in the first grade and Sydney was in preschool. “You speak very nicely on the telephone, Sydney.”
When her mother came back, she complimented Julie on her skill with children.

  “Sometimes it’s easier when they’re not one’s own.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No—nor any plans for. Have you had any problems with Mr. Chertok? Any hints or questions from him about meeting with Mr. Raiford?”

  “No… . Is there something I should know?”

  “Nothing at this end. But I would like to ask you a few more questions. Would it be convenient if I dropped by this evening? After Sydney and Jessie are settled in bed, of course.”

  A pause. “What type of questions?”

  “Mr. Chertok, his acquaintances. Visitors to the office in the last couple of weeks—that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that’s new.”

  “Perhaps something that doesn’t seem important to you might tie in with something we’ve turned up.” Julie added before the woman could object further, “Would you prefer to meet me away from your home? We can do that.”

  “No—babysitters are always a problem. Especially on short notice. And I don’t often go out at night.”

  “Suppose I come by around nine. Will the girls be in bed by that time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine—I’ll see you then.”

  Nothing like bulldozing one’s way in. Julie swung around a curving lane between clusters of town houses that, the small trees and uniformly clean-looking paint said, had recently come on the market. Caitlin Morgan’s home, like the others, was a pod of four units that shared back walls and faced away from each other for privacy.

  Large commons areas of grassy lawn spread between the clusters and were divided by curving concrete walks. The whole complex backed to a park that, in the distance of evening, showed lit tennis courts with a few players and a playground with no one. Streetlights glowed soft orange over distant intersections, and the gathering dusk made the shrubbery turn into shadows that led up to the homes like secret avenues.