by Rex Burns
“Don’t tell me, let me guess: you get a headhunter’s fee for new members.”
Salazar was offended. “No—that’s penny-ante crap! I’m one of the owners! Now sit down and listen up because here’s your new life.” The shorter man wagged a thumb to aim Raiford toward a wooden bench. It ran along the front of a row of metal lockers set against a partition. Raiford sat obediently; Salazar remained standing, lifting on his toes in order to look down at his new property. “I’ll start you out as part of a babyface tag team. But you’re a cherry, and that means your partner’s got to carry you. He’s one of the finest workers in my stable, and he’ll teach you the game. You’ll pay goddamn close attention to what he tells you and do everything he says with no lip. And you learn it fast. The faster you learn, the faster we get you in front of the public and the faster you start bringing in revenue.”
“This is with that new outfit? American West?”
“It’s with who I say it’s with. That’s not your worry. The story line’s not your worry. Your worry is to learn moves from your partner and to sell moves to the audience.”
“How much do I pay this guy?”
“Thirty percent of your take for any tag-team appearance—after you take my commission off the top.”
Raiford figured Salazar took an additional ten percent of that thirty for services rendered. “Pretty soon I’ll be paying to wrestle.”
“You know what, hombre? That’s what most people do! Go on, haul your ass to any of these wrestling schools, if you can find one in this neck of the woods. Go on: see how much that costs you! Five hundred initiation fee. Fifteen hundred for six months’ training. And that’s for the no-name programs, hombre! What I’m telling you is you got a good deal here: I’m getting you started right off in the ring—in the ring, man!—and you got a trained professional, a real worker, as well as me to tell you what to do. And for what you’re paying, you can’t do no better than that nowhere!”
“All right, all right. I signed the contract.”
“Fuckin’ A. And you don’t live up to that contract, your ass is out and nobody’s spilling milk over it. And don’t think anybody’s getting rich off your ass. What I’m making off you now is pin money, man. You’re a investment of my very valuable time that right now adds up to a loss for me. Maybe even a gamble—you know what I mean?—because you won’t be earning jack-shit for a long time!”
“Until you make you and me rich.”
He nodded with exaggerated slowness. “That’s what I’m telling you—we’re in this together. And you can’t get there without me. If you get there at all.” He yanked open a door in the row of dented metal lockers that wobbled on bent legs. It reminded Raiford of his junior high dressing room, which had been in an alcove of the rural school’s industrial training shop. “Now, here’s a set of tights you can use for today. Get your own down at Tanks-A-Lot Sportswear. Tell them I sent you and you get a professional discount.”
“Owned by another in-law?”
“What the hell difference that make? You want a discount or not? You got a mouth on you, you know? By all the pricks of Saint Sebastian, you better learn to keep it shut until I tell you what comes out of it, you know?”
“OK—fine—what’s the name of my tag-team partner.”
“Colonel Crush. You heard of him, right? No? Well, a lot of people have—he’s got a lot of exposure. And a following—I start you out with his following, which is a hell of a lot better than you could find anywhere else. East Coast, West Coast, wherever. Your team’s called the Death Command. You’re Major Mayhem. Colonel Crush and Major Mayhem—good, huh? I came up with it last night. A major’s not as big as a colonel, right? So it gives us a story already: you do good, you’re getting better, and after a while you want to be a colonel, too. So the story’s already set up for a big grudge match between ex-partners, see? But you got to do good.” He paused to dare Raiford to object. “All right. Get suited up. George—that’s Colonel Crush, George Harmon—is already on the mat, warming up.”
The mat was a double thickness of cotton padding on a low platform that filled the center of a large and ill-lit weight room. One wall of the room was lined with a long mirror that ran in height from knee to ceiling; below the mirror was an equally long shelf holding assorted dumbbells. At one end of the mirror, from a row of clothes hooks, hung wide leather stomach belts salt stained from layers of dried sweat. At the other end were a drinking fountain and a pay phone. A sign on the wall over the fountain warned of herpes and added that all athletes must wear wrestling shoes and full tights when working on the mat. The facing wall held tiers of barbells and iron discs of all sizes. Slant boards were propped at one end. Another sign said this is not your gym—keep it clean or keep out. Raiford could guess which of the owners had placed that one. In a corner of the ring, pulling against the elastic ropes, a hefty man in a sweat suit twisted and squatted through a stretching routine.
Salazar dragged a folding metal chair from a corner. “Hey, George—here’s the cherry. Say hello to Jim Raiford, then teach him what he needs to know.”
“Glad to meet you.” Colonel Crush had mustaches over each corner of his upper lip and a shaved gap under his flattened nose. The mustaches drooped around his mouth to join two patches of cropped whiskers that framed a shaved and jutting chin. A red bandanna covered his head. “Mr. Salazar tell you about the money? What my percent is?”
“Thirty.”
“Good. So let’s see how you do.”
It didn’t take Bernie long to run a screening on Procopio, InterMountain EnterPrizes, and American West. But she came up with nothing on the last one. “Are you certain American West is the full name, Julie? I have eleven companies with those words in their name, but none that seems to have anything to do with wrestling or sports promotion.”
“Nothing at all?”
“You said it was a new company—it’s possible they haven’t yet gone through all the legal steps to get their charter. If that’s the case, it won’t be on file until they do.”
Julie hadn’t thought of that and made a note to dig a little more. “What about InterMountain EnterPrizes?
“It’s a brand-new company, too. Private, licensed in Colorado about six months ago for the usual ‘all legitimate business.’ The principal officers are Ronald G. Hensleigh, president and chief executive officer; Kenneth R. Pfeifer, secretary; Daniel A. Chertok, treasurer. Unless a couple of those people are millionaires, they have to have some silent partners or heavy investors because they’re starting out with capital assets listed at two-million-plus dollars.”
“How much?”
Bernie repeated the figure. “I went ahead and checked out the names and they don’t sound like millionaires to me. Hensleigh’s an agent for various music groups—rock bands, country and western, even some individual artists. I didn’t recognize any of his clients, but I’m not into the pop scene. I can access information if you want to know more about them, but you can probably find as much as you want on Google. Pfeifer’s an attorney with his own practice and no partners. I couldn’t determine what his specialty is, but he’s not ranked among major firms. And Chertok you know.”
Julie did. “Any idea of what kind of ‘legitimate business’ we have here?”
“I could scan public documents for title transfers and registrations. Something might come up.” A shrug entered her voice. “Then again it might be a waste of money.”
“Any possibility of finding what bank the corporation uses?”
“Always a possibility—never a guarantee, and something like that would have added expenses.” Bernie did not have to add what those expenses might be, nor would she over a telephone.
But from past queries, Julie knew that when the woman said “added expenses” she really meant it. “Let’s hold off on that for now. Maybe I can find another way and save a little. How much will it cost to go through
public documents?”
“Corporate name alone, or including the officers’ names?”
“Corporate name.”
“State, county, city, or comprehensive?”
“Comprehensive.”
She gave a figure and Julie sighed. “OK, Bernie. The usual ASAP.”
“You got it.”
And Julie did. A few hours into the afternoon, the fax rang and its printout listed legally recorded transactions by InterMountain EnterPrizes. They were few but recent, and impressive: a plat of land in the township of Central City, Gilpin County, $950,000; application for liquor and gaming licenses with the state Liquor Enforcement Division and the Gaming Division in Central City; applications with other state and federal agencies to set up business as a corporate employer: tax number, employee retirement fund account number, employee medical insurance and provider; application to Gilpin County and Central City Township for permits to erect a multiuse commercial building with a cost estimate of $1,750,000—followed by a hand-scrawled note from Bernie, “if you want the filed real estate description and building blueprints, I can get them.”
But Julie didn’t need any more information right now. What Bernie told her confirmed the suspicion that had been building: the legitimate business that InterMountain EnterPrizes was involved in was the legalized gambling that had brought a minor economic boom to the old mountain town of Central City and a major one to its neighboring mining town, Black Hawk. It explained why Procopio’s name was nowhere to be found in the company documentation: he had a criminal history and was forbidden by state law to be associated with gaming or casinos. Julie guessed that the almost three million the investors had come up with probably had a criminal history of its own. That would explain why Chertok was so nervous about her dad nosing around. Bernie’s information didn’t need to explain why that much money would be invested in Central City—that was explained by the new municipal parkway that linked I-70 to the town and cut out Black Hawk, as well as the recent vote to change state gambling regulations to allow higher limits on poker stakes and to add more games such as roulette. Interesting, but none of it offered a reason for Chertok to attack Lidke. Still, one of Lidke’s partners had—officially, anyway—committed suicide in Central City.
Making a few more notes, Julie faxed another request to Bernie asking her to check out Procopio’s name in Chicago as well as any ties to Rudy Towers, and to see if there were any papers or liens indicating that the newly acquired Central City real estate was being used as collateral for a bank loan anywhere. After that, she telephoned the State Gaming Commission to find out when the hearing was to be held for InterMountain EnterPrizes’s gambling license. A secretarial voice told her it was scheduled for 10 a.m. on October 15: two weeks away.
Then she called Lidke, identifying herself, since the office phone—for an additional fee—stated “Caller Unknown” on any caller ID.
“Gambling?” Faint in the background, Julie heard the now familiar crash of a heavy body slamming onto the suspended mat. “I put a little money in the football pool sometimes. Sometimes buy a lottery ticket, go out to lose some at the dog track. But that’s it.”
“And you’ve never heard of InterMountain EnterPrizes?”
“They a wrestling promotion?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then I ain’t heard of them. What’s going on, Miss Campbell?”
“We’re still trying to find the link between you and Chertok.”
“You know what the link is—he don’t want my competition.”
“But we have absolutely no evidence that Chertok has anything to do with Rocky Ringside or with you. Moreover, he has a lot of money invested in a gaming project up in Gilpin County. Enough to give him a big incentive to avoid trouble of any kind with you or with anyone else. The slightest whiff of criminal activity and any corporation he’s involved in will have trouble getting its gaming permit.”
“Well, I don’t know anything I ever done that ties in with gambling. Not right off the top of my head.”
“How about Rudy Towers? Did he have anything to do with Chertok or anyone in Gilpin County?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t say for sure. Why?”
“His body was found in Central City.”
“Oh—yeah. I didn’t think of that.” The line hummed slightly. “I don’t know of any connection that way, but maybe there could be. Rudy didn’t tell me everything he was doing.” After a pause. “He had a lot of deals going all over the place.” He added, “I guess that was a kind of gambling: he was always hustling some deal or other.”
And he had been worried about money. Often, people who worried about lost money had dreams of winning it back at the tables. “What about a new wrestling promotion called American West? Ever hear of them?”
“American West … . What about them?”
“I understand they’re local. Have you run across them?”
“I heard talk somebody wanted to start another local promotion. But that’s about it. What’ve you heard?”
“That they’re working on an affiliation with the FWO.”
“Aw, shit!” Lidke’s voice held the tumbling of high hopes. After a second or two, he said, “That’s the link, then, ain’t it? That’s the reason Chertok’s pulled all that crap. He don’t want nobody staking out the local venues so he can make a sweetheart deal with this American whatever.”
The possibility was there, and Julie had considered it enough to want to hear Lidke’s opinion. But she still could not see Chertok endangering a major gambling project with possible charges of intimidation, arson, and homicide—not over a business as small as Lidke’s. “Do you know anyone in American West?”
“I tell you what I do know: they’re not going to push me out.”
“Do you know their full corporate name? Or where their offices are?”
“Why you asking all that, Ms. Campbell? You know I ain’t got the money to pay you any more!”
“Because of the Palombino murder.” She added, “And we’re doing it on our own.”
“On your own? Then do it on your goddamn own, lady, and leave me alone!”
Blame the messenger. Julie hung up the receiver and let her hand rest a moment on its smooth plastic. Lidke would naturally be upset to hear about the new competitor, especially to learn it would be working with the FWO. One or two events by American West with big-name wrestlers visiting from the national circuit, and Lidke and any other unaffiliated promoters would be blown away. She stared at her notes and turned things over in her mind. Then she dialed again.
“This is Julie, Caitlin. May we talk for a few minutes this afternoon?”
“I can’t. Mr. Chertok has a meeting and wants me with him.”
“Do you have a moment or two now?”
“Yes. He’s out of the office.”
“Has he said anything about Rocky Ringside or our investigation?”
“No. I don’t believe he’s given any thought at all to you or that man you’re working for. He hasn’t mentioned a thing.”
“That’s good. But keep your guard up. When you gave me that list of his frequent visitors, didn’t you say one of them staged the local FWO bouts?”
“Vic Schmanski. Mr. Chertok works with the arena managers on business details and scheduling, but Mr. Schmanski is the one who actually produces the show.”
“May I have his address and phone number?”
“I have phone and fax. I don’t have a mailing address for him. He does all his work by phone or comes over here.”
Julie dialed the Schmanski number and when the man himself answered, she spoke quickly. “This is Mary Ellen Petrovski with the Denver Post, Mr. Schmanski. I’m doing a story on the wrestling scene in Denver and I hear you’ve been a major player in putting together a deal between the FWO and American West to promote local shows and
talent. Can I ask you a few questions about it?”
“Jeez—news travels fast! But it’s not much to talk about yet. We’re still in the organizing stage, you know? Trying to iron out business arrangements, venues, appearances, schedules, them kinds of things.”
“It really sounds exciting, and I know a lot of readers would be interested to learn about the possibility of the sport expanding in the Denver area.”
“Well, yeah, good. But, like I say, it’s a little early to go for publicity. If the deal falls through or we have delays, we could get, you know, egg on our face.”
“I can do an in-depth piece and hold it until you’re ready to announce. My editor will go along with that, and the story can help you out when you’re ready for publicity. Is American West the correct name of the local promotion you’re dealing with?”
“American Sports and Entertainment.”
“They’re a new promotion?”
“Yeah. Brand-new. That’s one of the reasons things are up in the air. They got no track record, and FWO doesn’t want to affiliate with a loser. Affiliates got to be able to produce, you know?”
“A farm club? Is that what FWO is after?”
“Something like that, yeah. We think Denver’s ripe for more professional wrestling venues, and with enough local talent and interest, we can develop live wrestling shows. But like I say, we’re ironing out details and we’re not ready to announce nothing yet.”
“Who do you talk with at American West?”
“Their lawyer. Ellis Huggins.” At Julie’s insistence and her assurances that the story would not break prematurely, Schmanski gave her Huggins’s telephone number. She thanked him.
“Hey, always a pleasure to help the fourth estate—just remember when our press release comes out, I helped you, OK?”
“Believe me, I won’t forget.”
When she hung up, Julie used the online reverse directory that Touchstone subscribed to. The address listed for Huggins’s number was in the 1100 block of Bannock. It wasn’t one of the prestige locations for attorneys, but it was only a short drive away.
