The Savage Little Flea

by Steve Shadow

  I ground my teeth. “Thanks, Mr. Jules. I promise there will no more problems. You have a nice weekend.”

  I hung up the phone and slammed the wall with my palm. Fuck these crooked assholes. All I wanted was to own a movie theater and show the films I liked. Instead I had to put up with crooked unions, crooked firemen, crooked cops, and crooked building inspectors. I was beginning to see that there was no place for an honest man in the Chicago business world. Everybody had a hand out. Chuey had told me about the corruption in Mexico but I could not see much of a difference between there and here. This wrestling deal with Chuey would probably turn out to be the same crap all over again. Now I would have to deal with the state and who knew what horrors would find their way up from Mexico. Shit, maybe I should just give the whole thing up and look for a straight 9 to 5 gig. Who was I kidding? I had tried to go that route after college and was not cut out for the square world. I went through jobs like a hot knife through butter. I just wasn’t built for the straight life.

  I was worn out and ready to call it a night. I checked all the exit doors, shut down the main lights and set the alarms. I stopped to gaze around my crummy little dream palace and took one last deep breath of the popcorn tinged air. I loved this old theater and would miss it if I had to let it go. I had been coming here to see movies since I was a little kid. It was like a second home to me.

  I locked up the outer theater doors and walked to my yellow Pontiac convertible. I dropped the top and pulled out. The night air was chilly and except for the odd hooker or P.R. drug dealer, the streets were deserted. It was a bad neighborhood but I loved every inch of it since I had come to work at this theater as a teenager. There was a funky bar and diner next door that was always full of local characters. A block away was the EL train and a great old fashioned restaurant below it. Even though it was cheap to eat there all the waiters were old-timers and wore heavy black aprons and were very formal. It reminded me of the old Hollywood films. I sometimes wore a beat-up gray fedora and suit when I went there. I had bought the hat from a street musician on Maxwell Street. I felt like Sam Spade in that outfit.

  Driving down the dark streets in a blue funk I realized it was going to be another lonely night at my tiny place. It was Friday night, date night and all I had to look forward to was an empty apartment, a doobie and a cold beer. This was not the glamorous life of a theater mogul that I had dreamed of all those years ago.

  I got to my little one-bedroom and opened the door to an empty, musty place that was always in a mess. I kicked off my shoes and rolled a couple of joints. I cracked open a cold Coors from a case that a friend had brought back from Colorado. I was restless and opened my phone book. I thought maybe I could find a girl that I could convince to come over to see me. I thumbed through the pages and did not see many names and none that I really wanted to be with. I could feel myself starting to crash from the long day and figured I might as well just hit the sack. Even if I did get one of my past conquests to come over I knew I would regret it in the morning. I pinched out the joint and swallowed the last of my beer. Miles blew softly in the background as I shuffled off to get some sleep.

  3

  Over the weekend we had late night meetings at the theater concerning the wrestling matches. I met Chuey’s friends who seemed nice enough and willing to go along with whatever Chuey wanted. I had always seen Chuey as a short, smiling guy who had learned the theater business from his father. His father was an old union man in Mexico City who had the whole family on the payroll. Now I got to see another side of him and I was very impressed. Even though my Spanish was not good enough to keep up with the rapid fire conversation, I could tell who the boss was. Danny translated what he could for me. He was pretty fluent from all the time he had spent in Mexico. After all the details were worked out everyone left except Danny and Chuey. I told them we could go to the bank on Monday and I would get the seed money. They already had a date in mind for the first matches. Chuey alerted the luchadores he had hired in Mexico to get ready.

  I told them about my troubles with Jules and the union and what happened between me and his flunky Mort.

  “Ay, Jack,” said Chuey. “This is not good. They is bad people. You should no trust Senor Jules. You know when I have to work other jobs for him he no pay me nada. I think mi familia come to Chicago maybe things is different but lo mismo aqui, almost the same as was in Mexico. That is why I think we go back to lucha libre. Maybe then all is different; maybe, but I no think so.” He laughed out loud at this.

  Danny shook his head. “It’s the same crap everywhere. Somebody is always there to tell you what to do. Or else they got a hand out and a big stick. Tell him, Chuey. How many times did we get screwed out of a purse by promoters? We traveled all over Mexico and every damn match was a new pile of shit. That’s why I quit the game. I was sick of getting screwed over. But what else can I do? Shelly has been bringing home the bacon for the last couple of years but her job ain’t shit so here we are. We got to try and build some cash; I ain’t getting any younger and as bullshitty as these matches are they still take a toll on the old body.”

  Danny turned to Chuey and play punched him in the shoulder. “Damn Chuey, remember the days when we would fight every other day and stay up all night drinkin’ tequila and bangin’ the senoritas? We was full of piss and vinegar then; thought the fun would never end. Hell we had us some good times. Now it takes a hell of a lot longer to recover from a fight than it did a few years ago. And this cold weather don’t help at all. I feel it in my bones. Time to move to Florida or go back to Mexico is what I keep saying to Shelly.”

  Chuey just nodded his head. He climbed up the stairway a few steps so he could put his short arm around Danny. “Ay amigo, we had some good years, this is truth. But we do it again. Estamos muy guapo y muy fuerte, es verdad.” They both were laughing. Chuey had said they were both still handsome and strong. I went downstairs to lock the doors.

  It was after midnight. I had let the staff go and we were about to set the alarms and close up when that slob Mort walked in with two goons in tow.

  “Hey, dickhead,” I greeted him. “We’re closing up. I talked to Jules so what are you back here for?”

  He had a large bandage across his nose which made him look like even more of a fat clown.

  “What, you think you have a little chat with Mr. Jules and everything is hunky-dory? You think you mess with the union and it’s no big deal? You ain’t nothing but a punk kid who thinks he’s hot stuff. You think I’m just some flunky? Screw you, I got clout, I got a rep. You hit the wrong guy, Jackie. Now you are going to see what messing with me brings down on your head.”

  I began to see what this was all about. I could handle myself but these two guys with Mort were big and looked mean.

  Mort turned to the muscle men. “Boys, I think its time to teach Jackie here a little lesson in manners. I don’t think he got proper respect for who we are.”

  I started backing up as the two goons came forward.

  “Hey, what is this? What is happening, Jack?” Chuey stepped down from the stairs he had been standing on so he would be tall enough to give Danny that hug.

  “Mind your own fucking business, wetback,” Mort snarled. “You and blondie there just get out of here while you can still walk. This is between me and Jack.”

  Chuey walked up to Mort. “If is between you and Jack what is these two guys doing? Are they the referee’s?” Danny started laughing. Chuey stood looking up at Mort with his hands on his hips. One of Mort’s goons grabbed Chuey, who was at least a foot shorter, by his arm.

  “Fuck off, beaner. You heard the man. Get the hell out of here.”

  With a move that came so fast I barely saw it, Chuey let out a yell and dropped down out of the guys grasp. He reached behind the goon’s knees and lifted him up. The bruiser fell backward and hit his head on the lobby tiles. He was out cold. The dude had to have outweighed Chuey by a 100 pounds but he was lifted up like a feather. The other guy came at Chue
y but Danny, who had also come down off the stairway, stepped behind him and put him in some kind of wrestling choke hold. The guy struggled against Danny’s grip. He was kicking his legs out but only getting redder in the face. He kept this up for a bit but soon passed out and fell to the floor unconscious.

  Mort was once again with his back against the wall. His eyes were popping out of his head.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” he pleaded. “I only came to talk Jack. Let’s not get too hasty here. Now you guys are in real trouble. When Mr. Jules hears about this it is only going to get worse for you.”

  “Sure Mort, except it can’t get any worse. You be sure and tell Jules all about it. I know he ain’t got anything to do with this. Matter of fact, I should call him right now and let him know just what his flunky is up to. Should I make that call?”

  “All right, Jack. You win for now. Like I said, I only came to clear the air and set things right between us.”

  “Sure you did, that’s why you brought these two assholes with you. Fuck you, Mort. Next time I see your fat ugly face you won’t walk away with just a broken nose. Now get the hell out and take these two pieces of shit with you. I don’t know where you found them but I think the Lincoln Park Zoo is missing a couple of apes.”

  The two guys on the floor began to stir. We helped them up and shoved them out the door while they were still groggy. I booted Mort in the ass as he left.

  They crawled into a car and drove off. I turned to Chuey and Danny. “Shit, you see what I got to put up with.” I now looked at them both with a new appreciation. “Wow, you two were pretty slick. You are one strong little dude, Chuey.”

  Danny chuckled. “Yeah, he surprised a lot of guys. They only saw a little man but they learned the hard way. That’s why Chuey is called La Pulguita Salvaje. It means the savage little flea.”

  Chuey was all smiles now. “You see, Jack. We make good team, Crusher and me. We do good matches. What you think, Danny?”

  “Sure, Chuey, we go back to the top.” They locked arms in some kind of wrestling move and shuffled around the floor. I laughed, mostly in relief that I had avoided a beating, but also in sympathy with their joy at being back in the game.

  After locking up and setting the alarms we headed back to the Gold Coin for a little late night blintz fest. We chowed down while wise cracks from Sophie flew hot and heavy. We sat for hours, drinking coffee and dreaming the dreams of desperate men.

  4

  On Monday morning I awoke with a new found sense of dread. What in the hell was I playing at? Maybe Mort had not come to pound me on his own. Maybe it was Jules who had sent him. Who the hell could trust a front man for the mob? Bills were piling up and I was sinking dough into something I knew nothing about. I started to sweat under the covers. Shit, I thought, maybe I should just pack up and head west. Screw the theater and everything else. I was getting in over my head and felt the walls closing in.

  I threw off the bedding and got up. I staggered to the john and blinked at the mirror. Man, I looked like shit. The stress was beginning to wear me down. I had some coffee and got dressed. I had to meet Danny and Chuey at the Uptown Bank and get the money for the license.

  After we finished emptying out my account at the bank the rest of the morning was spent at the State of Illinois building filling out paperwork for the permits. Chuey had all the info on the wrestlers coming from Mexico. After that we went out to the Chicago Coliseum to make sure everything was in place for the event. It was strange going out to the old arena. I had been there the previous year for what turned out to be the last convention for SDS, Students for a Democratic Society. We had also used the arena as a meeting place during the Democratic convention in 1968. Those were heady days; when change seemed really possible. All that idealism was being ground down as the war in Viet Nam continued and Nixon sat in the White House scowling and swapping spit with two-gun Kissinger.

  I stood inside the old arena and took a deep breath. It seemed like just yesterday. At that time we were charged with a sense that things were changing in America. Our numbers swelled in opposition to the war, racism and the entire old boy’s network that was so desperately out of step with its youth. We were filled with optimism and a sense of our growing power. Then, after protestations of peace and an end to the war, Nixon got re-elected and the bombing of Laos and Cambodia began. It was bitter pill to swallow. I found it hard to digest the fact that from rage-fueled idealism I had sunk to dealing with the very corrupt institutions I had vowed to destroy. I shook my head and tried to bury the ghosts of the past. I had other concerns now; like staying afloat and in one piece.

  Chuey had set up the matches for the following Saturday. He showed me the posters his friend had printed. Chuey had an army of kids who would be pasting them up all over the Mexican neighborhoods. He also got some ads in the Spanish language press. They looked pretty good. The artwork on the posters depicted masked wrestlers in different poses and it was all done in the style of 1930’s Soviet propaganda art that I had seen in books.

  “Hey Chuey, who did this artwork? Do you know Diego Rivera?”

  “Is good pictures, no? I tell you we make good for the ads.”

  I took a couple of the posters and planned on framing them.

  The arena itself was really run down and in the middle of a black ghetto. It had been built in the 1890’s and was going to seed but the rent was cheap. Everything seemed to be going well. I dropped Chuey and Danny off and rushed back to the theater to meet my new employee.

  When I got to the Roxy I spotted a heavy-set guy in a trench coat standing with his hands in his pockets and hunching up his shoulders against the cold air. He was lounging in front of the box office. I parked, got out of the car and walked up to him. He stepped forward.

  “Hey, are you Sennett?” When I nodded he held out his hand. “I’m John Bavasi, call me Bucky. Mr. Jules sent me.”

  I shook his hand. He had a face that was puffy from drink and wrinkled with age. His light brown hair was thinning. Up close his clothes looked shabby and worn.

  “Glad to meet you, Bucky,” I lied. “Let’s go inside and I can show you around.”

  We went into the lobby. He looked around as I locked the doors behind us after turning off the alarm. I led him upstairs to the projection booth. By the time we made it up the two short flights to the balcony he was huffing and puffing. Without an invite he plopped in a chair.

  “Look, here’s the deaI,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “I get 300 a week, in cash, on Fridays. I ain’t listed as an employee. I’ll show up when you say and I can help out. I ain’t never done this kind of work before but I’ll learn if you show me. I know what the deal is but I ain’t looking to be a hard ass. Jules and I go way back and I get that he is doing me a favor, so let us not get off on the wrong foot. I heard about your little scene with that lame jerk Mort. I got a laugh out of that one. I wouldn’t mind popping that little fart myself. But just remember one thing.”

  He leaned over and looked at me with a cold no-nonsense glare in his eye. “I work for Jules, not for you. I report to him and he is no one to mess with.”

  Terrific, now I had a spy and more threats. “OK Bucky, that is clear enough. Chuey will be here soon and he can show you how to do everything. I want you to learn as much as possible so you can take over. I got other projects for Chuey. This place is falling apart and needs lots of work.”

  “Hey, all I do is the stuff up here. I ain’t doing no labor.”

  “Yeah, I would not expect that you would. I’m surprised you’re even willing to do anything.”

  “Well, I ain’t no deadbeat. Some guys would just show up to collect the dough. The truth is I ain’t got no family and nothing to do. I got shot up pretty bad in the war and as you can see I ain’t in the best of shape. I drink a little but you can count on me. I ain’t much but I still got some pride.”

  He stood up looked around. “Pretty crummy up here.”

  Screw you, I thought, if you
don’t like it then leave. “Well, see what you can do to make it more comfortable. The main thing we have to watch out for is fire. We burn carbon rods to illuminate the screen and the film stock is very flammable, that means no smoking. You want to catch a smoke you got to go outside.”

  “That’s OK,” he said. “I want to stop anyway. The Doc at the Veterans says I got to break the habit.”

  Chuey came in and I introduced them and left to get the new film canisters that had arrived for our weekday showings. During the week I usually had two crime films from the 50’s. This week we were showing Concrete Jungle and The Killing. Even though they did not do well I could not resist dropping some noirs in when I could. The foreign films were doing a lot better but I loved the old stuff. I turned on the popcorn machine and made sure the bathrooms had been cleaned and the theater floor had been swept. Chuey’s family did these jobs and also maintained the heating and air conditioning. My cashier Sandy and candy counter girl Betty showed up followed by Brucie, the ticket taker and usher. We were all set for another week of cinematic fun and games.

  5

  On the following Wednesday morning I went to O’Hare Airport to meet the wrestlers coming in from Mexico City. They were a scruffy lot with long hair and each carrying a large duffel bag. Getting through customs was easy enough. I vouched for them and despite the fact that they spoke hardly any English and my Spanish was rudimentary at best we made it through the formalities and to my car without any trouble. They had all been to the States before so the thrill I thought they would have at being in the U.S. to wrestle was not there. They jabbered good naturedly among themselves. They were so big that we looked like one of those clown cars in the circus where they squeeze 15 people into a tiny auto. I had to lower the convertible top for some extra room. We got a lot of strange stares from passing motorists as we sped through the Chicago streets.