Thunder rolled, and Frank's eyes shifted to Vincent. "Vin?"
"If nobody else thinks - "
"I'm only concerned with what you think at the moment."
Vincent loosened his tie. "We should probably move on him," he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "Otherwise we not only run the risk of looking weak, but we might make Turano feel more confident about coming after us later. Either way, things could and probably will get real ugly. Going this route will change everything for a long time."
"I say we hit back," Frank told the others. "Hard."
Charlie headed for the door. "This is where I step out."
"Maybe you should stay," Vincent suggested.
"I don't want nothing to do with the muscle end of things," he said firmly. "I made that clear from the beginning. I'm with you guys a hundred percent in whatever you decide only I don't want a hand in it. The less I know the better."
"How can you expect to be safe if you're ignorant of what's happening?" Vincent pressed.
"Tell me only what I need to know," Charlie said, then he looked at Frank for his approval. "Okay, chief?"
The rain seemed to increase in intensity, and in that split-second power shifted even further in Frank's favor. "Head on over to the venue. We'll meet you there in a while."
Charlie left without hesitation.
Gus moved to the window and watched him cross the parking lot in an awkward, almost comical sprint, his feet splashing puddles as he went. "What a pussy."
Probably smarter than the rest of us, Frank thought.
Vincent sighed. "Let's get to it."
"Close the blinds," Frank told him.
The things they were about to discuss were better suited to the dark.
***
The foul weather only helped to bring more people to the event. The auditorium was packed to the rafters, and Benny Dunn's security crew was on their toes from the opening bell. The show itself was one of the best Frank had ever seen the boys do. Of course, the bouts were identical to those staged throughout the course of the tour, but there was an additional element of excitement on this particular afternoon - generated mostly by an aggressive, boisterous crowd that seemed to inspire the wrestlers to bring the level of their performance up a notch.
Luther defended his world title successfully, coming back from the brink of defeat at the hands of The Lariat at least half a dozen times. With the flair of a seasoned professional, the Dark Train would stare into the crowd with pleading eyes; hands reaching out as if to touch the fans while his opponent increased the pressure on a submission hold that appeared to drive him to the very edge of consciousness. And the crowd responded, chanting Luther's name again and again, each chorus louder and more desperate until their hero struggled to his feet, absorbing the power of his fans' support and transforming it into a tangible energy capable of allowing him to finally turn the tables. After pinning The Lariat in dramatic fashion, Luther staggered from the ring, his championship belt held high above his head as he embraced the crowd at ringside, making sure to stop for a quick photograph with a local retarded youth who was to receive a percentage of the profits generated by the fund-raiser. Sensing the power of the moment, Luther slung his arm around the boy and encouraged him to wear the belt. Again, the crowd began to chant Luther's name.
Benny Dunn moved up the main aisle to ringside and lifted the boy over the metal barricade that separated the front row from the ring area and stood him next to the champion. The young man, star-struck and unable to believe that one of his idols had actually involved him in the show, looked up at Luther in awe. With the fans cheering him on, Luther secured the strap around the boy's waist and began parading him through the crowd.
"The official time!" Charlie's voice boomed over Luther's exit music as he watched from the center of the ring. "Twenty minutes, fourteen seconds. The winner by pin-fall and still ECPWL Heavyweight Champion of the World… Luther Dark Train Jefferson!"
Luther and the boy were still at ringside exchanging high-fives and dancing to the music as the frenzied crowd cheered uproariously.
"And let's hear it for the real champ!" Charlie said. "Corey Walters, folks! Let's hear it for Corey!"
The crowd now began to chant Corey's name, and the boy started to laugh, finally grabbing Luther around the waist with a hug that looked as if it might never end.
Frank, Vincent, and Gus watched from the rear of the auditorium. As the music continued to blare and Luther did his best to prolong his time in the spotlight, a woman moved through the crowd and approached them. She was attractive, dressed in plain, inexpensive clothes, and her hair was pulled back and fastened with an elastic. Her eyes were moist and she dabbed at them with a tattered tissue.
"I'm Jean Walters," she said, offering a shaking hand. "Corey's mother. I can't thank you gentlemen enough for this."
Frank took her hand and smiled warmly. "It's our pleasure. Corey's a great kid, ma'am, and we're happy to help."
"He's done nothing but talk about this show for weeks," she told them, still teary-eyed. "Now, after all this, it should just about make his year. Please thank Mr. Jefferson for me."
"I'll do that," Frank said. "We've also got a package for Corey in the locker room. Some autographed pictures and things we thought he might like."
Without hesitation, she leaned over and hugged all three men in turn. "Thanks again."
"Take care," Vincent said, watching her return to her seat.
"I guess every once and a while even we do something good," Frank grinned, elbowing Vincent. "Even you, Satan."
"Speak for yourself."
Gus shook his head. "Don't you have any feelings at all?"
"Sure," Vincent yawned. "I've got deep feelings for that blonde over there. Mostly in my nuts."
Benny emerged from the crowd and joined them at the rear of the room. "Can I talk to you guys for a second?"
"Shoot," Vincent told him.
He glanced over his shoulder at Elliot's concession table. "I had one of my guys watch him like you told me, Vin. He's been pocketing the cash on every third sale. Fucking guy's good, though. Magician's hands."
Vincent turned to Frank. "What'd I tell you?"
"Thanks, Ben," Frank said. "Make sure your guy gets a few extra bucks in his envelope. Tell Charlie I said it was all right."
With a quick nod, Benny returned to his duties at ringside.
Gus made a fist and shook it in the air. "That sonofabitch. We should kick his ass."
"Go ahead," Vincent said.
Gus cleared his throat and immediately assumed a less threatening posture. "Well, I would but… with my training I have to be careful."
"Yeah," Vincent cracked, rolling his eyes, "you might annoy him to death."
"Hey, I don't need the cops down on my head, man." Gus hoisted his pants up high on his hips. "You guys probably weren't aware of this but my hands are registered as deadly weapons with quite a few police departments."
"Oh, Jesus H. Christ." Vincent moaned and headed for the locker room. "Not the registered hands story."
"What the hell is his problem?" Gus asked.
Frank gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Go tell Elliot I want to see him in the locker room right after the intermission."
"What if he asks why?"
"Tell him you don't know."
***
Elliot entered the locker room with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. The wrestlers were congregated on one side of the room, Frank, Vincent, Gus and Charlie on the other.
"Luther Jefferson!" Elliot barked. "You, sir, are without a doubt, the man. Does this guy know how to work a room or does he - does he know how to work a goddamn room? Beautiful - absolutely beautiful is what that was. With the - with the kid and all - no one does it any better!" Luther, a towel draped over his sweat-drenched body, smiled and waved to him. Elliot approached Frank and the others, seemingly unaware of what was about to happen. "Hey, Frank, you wante
d to see me, babe?"
Vincent turned and hit him full in the face. Elliot fell forward and to the side, his knee catching one of the benches and sending him sprawling onto the cement floor. The buzz of conversation in the room came to a halt as everyone looked to see what had happened.
"Get up," Vincent said evenly.
Elliot rolled over onto his back. Blood had already begun to ooze from his split lip. "Oh my - oh my God," he gasped. "Help… somebody - I think I'm having a heart attack."
Vincent reached down, grabbed a handful of shirt, pulled Elliot to his feet and slammed him against a row of lockers. "You're not lucky enough to have a heart attack."
"What the hell is this all about?"
"My money."
Elliot's eyes darted back and forth across the room, two blurred orbs behind the thick lenses of glass. "I don't - what does that - what are you talking about?"
"Just give him the money, Elliot," Charlie said.
He reached into his pockets with a shaking hand and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. "Fifty. I only skimmed fifty bucks. For God's sake, fellas, I - "
"Quiet." Vincent ripped the money from his hand and stuffed it into Elliot's mouth. "You think you got balls big enough to steal from me? Is that it?"
Elliot shook his head violently but didn't attempt to speak until Vincent removed the money and handed it to Charlie. "I'm sorry - so sorry, guys, it's - it's just that it's been such a bad run for me this tour. I - Frank - I tried to talk to you about - "
"And what did I say, Elliot?" Frank asked.
When there was no immediate answer, Vincent slammed him against the lockers a second time. "What did he say, Elliot?"
"No. He said no."
Vincent took him by the scruff of the neck and sat him down on the bench. He ran his hands through his hair and looked across the room at the wrestlers who all stood mesmerized. "When somebody steals from us," he said evenly. "They're stealing from all of you."
"I'm sorry," Elliot blurted out. "Please, I - "
"You're out," Vincent told him.
"Yes, I - I understand. I'll be packed up and gone in - "
"Leave the table and all the product. It belongs to us now. You're gonna take your snot-nosed little nephew with you and you're gonna walk out that door and never come anywhere near me again. Cabeesh, asshole?"
Elliot nodded wearily. "All right, Vin. All right."
Vincent swung open the door to one of the metal lockers. "But first, you're gonna put your hand in this locker."
Tears welled in his eyes as his lower lip began to tremble. "But… Vincent, you don't have to do this."
"Vin," Charlie said, as if to stop him, but one glaring look from Vincent changed his mind. He spoke in Elliot's direction but found it impossible to establish eye contact. "There's nothing I can do, Elliot."
"But Charlie, we go back - "
"I'm sorry."
Vincent smiled triumphantly. "Put your hand in the locker, douche bag."
"You… you can't…"
"Make me repeat myself again," Vincent told him, just above a whisper, "and I'll beat you to death right here, right now."
Elliot made a whimpering sound and slowly slid his hand into the open locker. He took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, and then began to cry uncontrollably, like a child.
"Jesus Christ, Vin," Luther said, standing.
"Am I talking to you?" Vincent asked without looking at him.
"Come on, man, that's enough."
Slowly, Vincent turned his head to meet Luther's gaze. "Go take a shower, champ. I'll let you know if I need you."
Luther stepped forward. "In the old days, if a promoter ever talked to me like that I'd just lock the door on him."
"So lock the door," Vincent told him.
"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that."
"It just did."
"You're gonna let him do this?" he asked Frank.
Frank lit a cigarette, left it between his lips, then moved behind Elliot and covered his mouth with both hands. "I'm the one who told him to do it, Train."
After a moment, Luther nodded and turned away. "Fuck it. Ain't none of my business anyway."
Even with his mouth covered the muffled screams could be heard as Vincent slammed the door across the back of Elliot's hand three times. Frank released him and he slumped to the floor, holding his shattered hand with the other as he curled into a fetal position. "Gus," Vincent said, "get this piece of shit out of my sight before I kill him."
"Is he conscious?" Gus bent over to get a better look at him. "Well, sort of."
Charlie, white as chalk, stared at Vincent with a blank expression. "Here," he said, holding out the fifty dollars Elliot had stolen.
"You keep it."
As Frank and Vincent moved across the locker room all the wrestlers quickly occupied themselves. Luther was sitting on one of the benches, and looked up at them with a wry smile.
"Are we cool?" Frank asked him.
"We're cool." He winked at Vincent. "I didn't mean no disrespect, Vin. I was just afraid you were gonna kill him."
Vincent smiled. "What if I had?"
Luther looked at him and laughed lightly, but Frank could tell he found no humor in the question. In Luther's dark eyes he saw something new - something beyond the acceptance and respect it had taken them so many months to earn.
He saw fear.
CHAPTER 9
The digital alarm clock on the dresser read 3:18 p.m. With the shades on both windows drawn and the bedroom door open just a crack it might've been the middle of the night.
Frank rolled over, the soft mattress complying with the contours of his aching lower back. It had been unseasonably cold that night, and he'd used the top sheet when first slipping into bed, but the dense humidity typical of even coastal Massachusetts in July had returned with a vengeance. His underarms were sticky; the black hair across his chest and stomach moist and matted with sweat, and his throat was parched and mucky from too many cigarettes the night before.
It had been a quiet ride back from Connecticut. The drive home at the end of a tour always was. It seemed Frank lived a great deal of his life in cars these days, roaming the countryside like some modern day Gypsy, but any romanticism he'd associated with the lifestyle early on experience had taught him to dismiss as little more than wishful thinking. Going on tour was work - plain and simple - and it usually took a day or two to recover from it. No matter how much money the run yielded or the amount of enjoyment the participants derived from it, exhaustion eventually won out every time. Only a mark would fail to return home as limp and rung out as a used dishrag; a true professional left everything he had on the road.
As he lay there in the darkened room, still not completely awake, Frank tried to remember if a nightmare had been responsible for so abruptly interrupting his slumber. A maelstrom of varied thoughts served only to further cloud his mind, so he reached over to the nightstand for his wristwatch.
Frank heard movement in the kitchen. The bedroom door opened slowly, and Sandy entered the room wearing a top to one of her bikini swimsuits and a pair of cut-off jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place by a plastic clip, and her face bore almost no makeup - her smooth complexion as pristine as a child's. Frank detected the pleasant scent of her cologne as she padded barefoot across the carpeting and sat next to him on the edge of the bed.
"What are you doing home?"
"I took a personal day," she said, her hand touching his bare shoulder. "I thought it might be nice to spend a little time together. I knew you'd be spent but I didn't think you'd sleep all afternoon."
"Sorry."
"I must have been dead to the world when you got home, I never even heard you come to bed. What time did you get in?"
"A little after two."
"Wasn't the last show a matinee?"
"Yeah, but we had an end-of-tour party."
She smiled and shook her head. "You guys throw more parties than
the Rolling Stones."
Frank sat up a bit and rubbed his eyes. "I'm wrecked."
"How did the tour go?"
He motioned to a stack of money he'd tossed onto the dresser the night before. "Good."
"I saw that," she nodded. "We didn't have much in the house so I took a couple hundred and went grocery shopping this morning."
"You didn't wear that outfit did you?"
"Comes in handy when I'm low on double coupons," she laughed.
Frank reached around behind her and unhooked her top. She leaned forward and it fell into her lap. His eyes consumed her before his hands did, before his mouth did, before they made love for hours, stopping only long enough to recuperate and begin again.
When it was over they remained in each other's arms despite the heat, their bodies slick and glistening. Frank listened to his chest wheeze with every breath and wondered if he'd ever quit smoking.
"Are you awake?" he eventually asked. She nodded her head without raising it from his chest. "Did you think to call the real estate agent while I was gone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Anything reasonable in house rentals?"
"Two here in town," she said in a dreamy voice. "A nice two-bedroom on Piney Nook - you know, the cul-de-sac over by the Mobile station - and another in the center of town."
Frank wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. "I've got five days before I go on the road again. We better make appointments to look at them this week."
"Are you sure we can afford a house?"
"Of course," he said playfully, stroking her shoulder. "And that's just one of the perks being married to a wildly successful businessman like myself."
Sandy looked up at him and blinked her emerald eyes. "Is that what you are, Frank?"
"Most of the time."
"What about all the other hours in the day?"
His hand slid down into the crack of her ass. "Whatever I need to be."
"I need to know that you're all right."
"I'm fine, honey," he said, after a moment. "It's just that what I do can be difficult at times."
"Want to tell me about it?"
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