The Hurting Circus

by Paul O'Brien

  “Why? Did it feel like your dick?”

  Tanner leaned in and whispered, “Did you really just say that, Minnie? Are you fucking nine years old?”

  Minnie turned to the table next to her. “Excuse me, is your bread hard? In the middle, it’s—firm, right?” The woman Minnie asked shook her head. Minnie turned back to her table with a look of disgust on her face. “What would she know? Looks like she hasn’t eaten anything in years.”

  Tanner just switched off as his wife’s mouth continued to move. It was a thing he could do to help survive being around her. He knew by her face that she wanted to say something more, but he pretended not to notice. She would never lean across a table, as it wouldn’t be ladylike. When Minnie Blackwell was in public, she was an old southern belle. When no one could hear her, she cussed like a sailor and pronounced “dog” like “dawg.”

  “What a great crowd,” Joe Lapine said, as he sat in one of Tanner’s four empty seats. Tanner nodded and took a slug of water. “Anyone call you yet?” Joe asked quietly.

  “No one in the Carolinas gives a fuck about what’s happening in New York,” Tanner replied.

  “Why? What happened in New York?” Minnie wanted to know.

  “Nothing,” Tanner said to his wife. Joe smiled at Minnie, as a way of backing up her husband’s story. Tanner turned away from his wife for some privacy.

  Joe sidled up beside him. “New York is a fucking mess,” Joe said.

  “I heard Danno’s driver didn’t even fight his murder charge,” Tanner said.

  Joe shook his head. “That’s what they’re saying. There were some kids found in the garage too.”

  “Dead?” Tanner asked.

  “I think they made it out alive,” Joe replied. Tanner knew that Joe knew more—Joe always knew more. Tanner knew more, too. But he didn’t want Joe to know that.

  There might have been bloodshed there, but every wrestling boss in the US could see now that the mecca of wrestling, New York, was there for the taking with no one at the helm.

  “What are we doing here?” Tanner asked. “Who gives a fuck about a Hall of Fame ceremony?”

  Joe smiled and waved to someone passing, keeping up appearances. “We’re showing the world that we’ve got nothing to hide. New York was a couple of bad apples, that’s all.” Joe leaned over to look past Tanner. “How are you, Missus Blackwell? You look lovely,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mister Lapine. Don’t you look dapper, too,” Minnie replied.

  “I hope that your husband wins the award,” Joe replied with a fakeness that only the wife of a conman could detect.

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. “Because there’s not a single other person in here who deserves to be named promoter of the year like my Tanner. No one far—or near.”

  Joe smiled and nodded. He fucking hated Minnie Blackwell.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the master of ceremonies said into the microphone on stage, “What an honor it is to have the great and good from the worlds of boxing and professional wrestling here tonight.” There was a warm round of applause from the gathered audience. He continued, “This room is more crooked than a retired boxer’s nose.”

  That one died.

  “Get the fuck off the stage,” shouted someone from the back of the room.

  “I hate these things,” Tanner muttered to himself.

  1974.

  One year after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Tanner and Minnie sat at the middle table and watched award after award get handed out. The bread was better this year.

  Joe sat with the Blackwells. “It won’t be long now,” Joe said in Tanner’s ear. “Danno’s own lawyer couldn’t make his way out of all of this unharmed. I heard that his doors closed yesterday. Lost everything.”

  “Does he still have the contract?” Tanner asked.

  “No one knows,” Joe replied, lying. Both he and Tanner knew that Danno’s former lawyer was holding the contract to New York.

  “When are we going back to New York?” Tanner asked. “I got a fucking unification match to cash in on.”

  “Soon,” Joe replied. “I mean, it’s a measure of how tight a situation is, when a lawyer as slimy as Troy Bartlett couldn’t make it out of there with his own shirt.”

  It didn’t go unnoticed by Tanner that Joe knew Danno’s lawyer by name. Tanner bet that Joe knew his phone number, too.

  1975.

  Two years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  “I’ve known Ricky for decades. Tell him I was asking for him when you see him,” said Maw Maw Vosbury as he left Tanner’s table. Little did the boxing promoter know that Ricky’s name was poison around the wrestling tables.

  “Don’t worry, bunny,” Minnie told her husband, as she wiped her lipstick off of his face. “This is bullshit.”

  Another year at the Four Corners Social Club Banquet without recognition. Tanner’s heart was broken yet again. “I don’t mind,” he said. “It means fucking nothing, anyway.”

  No one believed him.

  1976.

  Three years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Tanner and Minnie ran for the door. “Hold it open!” Tanner shouted.

  Minnie apologized to the doorman for being late. She and her husband handed in their coats and walked to the closed doors of the Four Corners Social Club Banquet.

  “I love you, no matter what happens this year,” Minnie said.

  Tanner believed her.

  1977.

  Four years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  “It’s a rib,” Tanner said, as he watched Jose Rios walk down from the stage with the promoter of the year award in his hand. “They’re doing it to piss me off,” he said to his wife.

  “Don’t let them see that it bothers you,” Minnie replied, her poker face in play. “Next year.”

  1978.

  Five years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  The bar was quieter than the lounge. Tanner could hear the mumble of someone talking through a microphone in the next room. He couldn’t even look his wife in the face. Both Tanner and Minnie were seated at the bar, ready to drink.

  “You not going in, sir?” the barman asked.

  Tanner shook his head. “Tell him why,” Minnie said to her husband. Tanner, again, just shook his head. “This man,” Minnie began, “is the most successful promoter in the country. He also promotes the world heavyweight wrestling champion, and every fucking year they—”

  Tanner gently moved his wife away from the bar. She was only drinking soda, but it didn’t take alcohol for Minnie Blackwell to cause a scene where her husband was concerned. “I love you,” he said and kissed her shoulder gently.

  “Tanner?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How is New York running small shows, still doing TV, and making their commitments if no one is boss up there?”

  Tanner knew exactly how they were doing it.

  1979.

  Six years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Tanner stood with Joe in the parking lot. He could see Minnie waiting for him in the lobby, under the banner for the Four Corners Social Club Banquet.

  “The other bosses want you to drop the belt, Tanner,” Joe said.

  “I did,” Tanner replied.

  “You dropped it to another one of your wrestlers in your territory,” Joe said. “They want you to drop it to one of them.”

  Tanner didn’t react much. “Open up New York. Then I’ll—”

  “I can’t do that,” Joe said, interrupting Tanner’s request.

  “I’ll put my belt against the New York belt. We do this right.”

  Joe tried to keep his cool. “The other bosses aren’t new anymore. They know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah?” Tanner said. “I know exactly what you’re fucking doing too, Joe.”

  Tanner stood on his cigarette and
followed his wife.

  1980.

  Seven years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Tanner turned in his bed. He couldn’t say that he was sorry to miss the banquet this year. Nothing much was changing and he didn’t know how much longer he could look Joe Lapine in the face without calling him a cheating asshole. Tanner knew that something was going on in New York, but Joe was smart enough to fill the vacant bosses’ positions with people who wouldn’t question him.

  Tanner was somewhat soothed by the fact that he still had the other heavyweight champion. The record books would show that New York had a heavyweight champion, and that Tanner Blackwell managed the affairs of the other wrestler who laid claim to the title. He rolled over in the dark and imagined what it would be like to put the titles back together again. He sipped the hot drink that Minnie had left beside the bed for him and imagined himself as the boss of New York.

  The Carolinas were good, but Tanner Blackwell wanted the prestige.

  “Joe called,” Minnie shouted up the stairs.

  “And?” Tanner shouted back.

  “You didn’t win again,” she replied.

  “Fucking bastards,” Tanner muttered as he pulled the covers over his head.

  1981.

  Eight years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Tanner looked at his wife’s empty seat beside him in the middle of the room. For decades he had wished that she’d shut up. How wrong he was. The room was bigger. The event was bigger. Everything had gotten bigger. As he got older, Tanner could feel himself getting lost in it all. Wrestlers were prettier and more asshole-like all of a sudden. Matches made no sense, and every fucking worker in the dressing room wanted to flip and jump around the ring. Winner after winner, Tanner didn’t recognize any of the faces on the stage.

  Joe sat where Minnie would have sat, had she still been alive.

  “I want New York,” Tanner said.

  Joe put a consoling hand on Tanner’s shoulder. Tanner picked Joe’s fingers off of him.

  1982.

  Nine years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  It had been ten years since the banquet first started, ten years since Lenny had gone inside, and ten years since Tanner had begun promoting his world heavyweight champion. Tanner wanted it, he wanted to win the prize; he wanted to be named promoter of the year. He wanted to be recognized for all the money he earned, all the records he broke, and all the bullshit he had to put up with.

  He wanted to say his wife’s name in public—he wanted to thank her out loud. He wanted her to be proud of him. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

  But he didn’t get. Again.

  1983.

  Ten years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Rust-colored piss was no good for any man, and certainly not for a man of Tanner Blackwell’s age. Coupled with the way he had been feeling, he knew that things weren’t getting better inside his body. But only queers and sissies went to the doctor.

  Tanner had a banquet to sit through. Another year of being forgotten even though he knew he was out-earning everyone.

  He zipped himself up and looked at his aging reflection in the mirror of the bathroom.

  Tanner was too old—and now too sick—to have no legacy.

  1984.

  Eleven years after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Outside, the dense Los Angeles air was adding to his frustration. Tanner pulled off his bow tie and ripped at his shirt buttons. His cane was still new and was more of an obstacle than a help. “Fucking—fuck,” he raged under his breath. He was trying to compose himself as guests came and went. He tried to look up and smile, but he simply couldn’t. The Four Corners Social Club Banquet had fucked him over again.

  “Come back inside,” Joe Lapine said, as he held the front door for Tanner. “It’s only a stupid award.”

  “Terry Garland? That’s who won! Terry-fucking-Garland is promoter of the decade?”

  “Tanner—”

  “I’m done with the politics of this,” Tanner replied. “No one else is saying it, so I’m going to say it. I’m not asking you anymore. New York is back in play! It has been for years.”

  Joe could see that Tanner was far more upset than he had been in previous years. “Who cares about a fucking award, Tanner?” Joe said. “You’re making more money than everyone in that room combined.”

  “You think this is about money, Joe?” Tanner replied.

  “Absolutely,” Joe said. “And that’s all it’s about, but a lot of people in our business have forgotten that.”

  Tanner downed the last mouthful of his peppermint drink and belched loudly while rubbing his stomach. “What do you want when you’re old and rich, already?” Tanner said.

  “I don’t know. What else do you want?” Joe replied.

  “I want my fucking due, Joe.”

  Joe stepped toward Tanner and tried a more diplomatic approach. “If you go marching into New York without the approval of the NWC, what do you think will happen?”

  “One way or another, I’m doing this,” Tanner answered.

  “You can’t undermine the NWC, Tanner,” Joe said. “You, me, and everyone else who have been protecting this business are suddenly going to be fighting off every spick, nigger, and Paddy who wants to get into the match-fixing game. No one can see us fracture, ’cause if they smell weakness, we’re all fucked.” Joe could see that his words had sobered up Tanner’s thoughts, somewhat. He continued, “If you want New York, then you do it the right way, the right way in front of the other territory owners, the right way in front of the athletic commission, and the right way in front of the law. ’Cause let me tell you this: if there’s one place in the world that we have to look legit after all the shit we’ve been through, it’s there.”

  Tanner rested his empty glass on the roof of a nice new car and walked toward the hotel door. “I’m going to get New York,” Tanner said. “Don’t fucking get in my way, Joe.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kid Devine sat in the front row of an empty Madison Square Garden. He thought about his match that was coming up and how it would play out. He thought about his father, the wrestling business, the threats, and how all that would play out too.

  He heard footsteps on the risers behind him.

  “Let me smarten you up,” said the voice in the darkness.

  In wrestling, this phrase meant everything. A veteran saying those words to a rookie was a passing of the torch, a sign that you’d been truly accepted in the wrestling business. It involved a lot of trust—a lot of faith that the person learning would take on the old traditions, the proper way of doing things. That they would protect the secrets of the wrestling business.

  On this night, the rookie knew the voice of the person that was about twenty rows back. The only lights were those above the ring, so Kid could only make out a silhouette in the stands.

  “Can we let the people in?” a staff member shouted. “They’re starting to go crazy out there.”

  “No,” the man in the stands replied. “A few more minutes.”

  Kid stood up and leaned against the apron of the twenty-by-twenty red, white, and blue ring. He tried to look beyond the lights. “Why don’t you come down here and show me something, old man?” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  The man in the stands struck a match for his cigarette, and Kid caught a glimpse of his pained, pale face. “You okay?” Kid asked.

  “I’m fine,” the man answered. He took a pull from his cigarette. “Now, there’s only four basic parts to a wrestling match: the Shine, the Heat, the Comeback, and the Finish. The Shine is where our hero starts off well, and wins a couple of small, early victories to get the crowd excited. They paid good money, so give them what they want.” He took another pull and continued.

  “To start with.”

  December 24, 1983.

  New York.

  Lenny just wanted t
o go home. When he had crashed the VW Kombi van, when Bree kicked him out, when he drove his family to Las Vegas, and when he killed his boss—all Lenny Long had ever wanted to do was go home. He had never wanted it more than on this night, though. As he lay on his dirty cell floor, blood dripping from his fingers and pooling in front of him, Lenny imagined his cozy log fire crackling at home. He tried to focus on the gifts he would wrap, and how he would lie on his belly with his sons to play with their presents. He could smell his kitchen and imagine the joy of home at Christmastime. With a flick of his tongue he checked the inside of his mouth. He could feel that his gums were torn by the fingernails of another man. That was the way the previous decade in prison had been for Lenny: beating after beating, because he was quiet and wanted to stay that way.

  His cellmate—and attacker—began to whale away with lefts and rights and head-butts and scratches and bites. He screamed in Lenny’s ear about something and nothing—it didn’t matter. He grabbed Lenny by his hair and dragged him across the floor. The sudden jerk reminded him of the other times this had happened—times when he was petrified and would beg for his life. It was Christmas Eve, and Lenny wanted to be with his family. But no one in the wrestling business ever really got to go home—not as themselves, anyway. Only a scant few would turn up at their own door finished with the business for good. After years on the road, in the ring, and in the bars, living from a bag, a car, or a shitty motel room every night, it was no wonder that children saw a stranger at home, and that wives packed up and left. Lenny Long knew that more than most.

  In prison, he had no control over where he was going. There was no left or right, no choice of paths, and no way home. He was moving in his head, though. He had always been small in size and quiet in nature. He had grown up that way, and Lenny had always kept to himself. He had never mixed much, and the only form of violence he had been exposed to was in Madison Square Garden, where he gladly paid a fair ticket price. That was before Attica Correctional Facility became home.

  After years of being terrified, Lenny now felt different. As his attackers kicked and punched him, Lenny felt no pain. Each kick was welcome, each stomp invited. No words or sounds had escaped from Lenny’s mouth since he had been put in that cell. Lenny just thought that the beatings were what he deserved. It was what he had coming. Over the years, his fingers were broken, and his teeth were made jagged and loose. His eyes were smashed to yellow and black, his arms were too sore to lift, his ribs too bruised to breathe. He was in a hell that he felt was of his own making—until that freeing second where he knew he’d suffered enough.