Blood Red Turns Dollar Green, no. 1

by Paul O'Brien

  “Where's his fucking foot, Danno?”

  Proctor slapped the phone off the wall and fired a plant pot through the candy dispenser glass in front of him.

  “Move him,” Proctor shouted to no one in particular. “I want to bring my boy home with me.”

  Lenny quickly left the building.

  October 1st 1972. New York.

  “Listen, baby. I'm sorry,” Lenny said as he tried to jam his foot in his own front door.

  “You lost the car, Lenny? You were only gone an hour.”

  “Some Mexican guy took it. I was in trying to buy a gift for you and when I came out it was gone.”

  “What do you want?”

  Lenny stopped struggling. “I just want to see my family. Get cleaned up a little and maybe take a nap if I have time.”

  Lenny sat opposite Bree at the table in their modest kitchen. She was smoking and he was finishing up some eggs.

  “Do you think they might be back soon?” he asked his wife.

  “I don't know, your Mom usually takes them to her house after church.”

  Lenny scraped his last piece of bread around his plate. “So you're smoking now?”

  “So you're a cunt now?”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Bree stubbed her barely-lit cigarette out in the ashtray. “I'm trying to start, but I just can't do it,” she said as she wiped her tongue on her sleeve. “Thirty-nine years old and I'm still trying to fit in with all the other kids.”

  “Have you been getting the money okay?”

  Bree got up and poured herself a drink of water. “I want you to come home, Lenny.”

  Lenny threw down his fork. “Do you think I like being out there weeks at a time? Just look at me. We have a nice TV and that rug looks like it would be nice to lay on with my boys...”

  “I know about the rucksack,” Bree said.

  Lenny slowly pushed himself away from the table. “What rucksack?”

  “Lenny, you're making me into one of these women that snoops. Do you want to be married to one of these women?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then you're going to have to start telling me things.” Bree walked to Lenny and kissed him on the forehead.

  “There's ninety-two thousand dollars in our basement.”

  “I...”

  “Don't say it... just let me finish. That money is the only reason that I've stayed here, Lenny. Not because I'm greedy. It's because I know you. You're a good man and that rucksack is your way home. And I know you're trying, but we just want you.”

  Lenny stood up and put his hands on his wife's hips. “How much of it did you spend?”

  “A couple of grand. Me and the boys have been to Coney Island a couple of times and the boys got themselves some Space Walkers.”

  “That's not a couple of grand.”

  “It is when you're angry.”

  Lenny tried to kiss Bree, but she moved her lips just out of reach. “You smell like a hippie.”

  “Bree?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why is our whole house orange?”

  “Get with the times, Lenny. It's the seventies.”

  “I liked it better when my furniture didn't scratch at my eyes.”

  Bree smiled and kissed her husband. “When are you coming home to us?”

  “I want to make sure we're going to be okay before I come off the road.”

  Bree rested her arms on Lenny's shoulders. “We're not going to be okay if you don't come off the road. I'm not threatening you, I'm just telling you. Those kids are growing up fast and their hearts are broke enough waiting for you all the time.”

  “I've got something that I have to finish.”

  Bree recalled her arms and turned away.

  “No, I mean it. Trust me. I'm going to put this one thing to bed and then I'm done.”

  Lenny gently moved Bree's chin back in his direction. “I can get a real job again and be home every night. Maybe my old man will let me work in the store again? We can hate each other in real time like everyone else around here. It'll be great. I'll read my paper in the mornings and you can silently think of ways you'd like to chop me up because I've strangled all my dreams and turned into a shell of the man you married.”

  “You'd do that for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Sugar Lump.”

  Bree put out her hand and led Lenny up their stairs.

  October 1st 1972. New York.

  Danno threw his father's picture on the bed. He clicked open the safe and dragged the blocks of cash into a waiting bed sheet on the floor.

  In the kitchen, he pulled out his drawers and dipped his arm into the body of his cupboards and pulled out more bags of cash.

  In the barn, he hurriedly pulled more money that was wrapped in plastic from the bales of hay.

  “Annie?” he shouted as he rushed through the barn doors.

  “Danno?” said a male voice from behind.

  Danno stopped dead and waited for something.

  “Danno?” the voice repeated.

  It sounded familiar so Danno felt better about turning. Behind him stood his no-nonsense, grey-faced lawyer, Troy Bartlett. “I’ve got the papers you asked for. Is everything okay?”

  Danno happily nodded his head.

  “Would you like to go inside?” Troy asked.

  “I don’t have time,” Danno answered as he looked around for his wife. “I just need someplace safe to move some of my...” Danno lowered his voice, “...in case the government tries to fuck me over.”

  Troy nodded knowingly and held out a prepared file. “I’ve got the papers for your businesses here like you asked. I’ve placed Mrs. Garland.”

  “No,” Danno simply said.

  “Excuse me? I thought you were wanting to shift your assets into...”

  “I am. But not her.” Danno felt his words betray his wife. “Not that I don’t...”

  Danno’s embarrassment caught his lawyer off-guard.

  “I’m just here to do as you say, Mr. Garland.”

  “We’ll just think of someone else, that’s all,” Danno said as he hurriedly opened the file.

  October 2nd 1972. Atlanta.

  It was a public place, but that didn't make Wild Ted Berry feel totally at home. It was a neutral place, but that didn't bring him any great comfort, either. He had just a glass of water in the busiest restaurant in town. The menu looked good, but he didn't know how long this was going to take.

  Barry Banner entered the restaurant and walked toward the big Texan sitting at the table. He seated himself and got straight to it. “Is your fat piece of shit boss too fucking chicken to come out in public now, Ted?”

  “He said he'll make it up to Proctor and he wants you to tell him that they can still make money from this.”

  Barry scoffed at Ted.

  “Listen to me, you little fuck face. If I had my way, your jaw would be broken by now for what you did to Folsom – but Danno wants to do a deal,” Ted said.

  Barry held his counsel for a few seconds before replying, “Proctor wants the belt dropped in Florida this Friday. Four day’s time. No bullshit. That gives us time to put the word out and sell the tickets. Your guy comes down and does business in the middle of the ring. Proctor keeps a hundred percent of the gate and you all fuck off back to New York and pray that's all he's going to do to you.”

  Ted seemed unfazed. “Danno wants to give him a hundred percent.”

  “Well that's nice of that fat pig.”

  “One more quip from your face, boy, and I'm going to open you up right here all over this nice tablecloth.”

  Barry backed down and signaled for a glass of water too.

  “Proctor wants Danno to know that the NWC is behind us now. They were shocked at the way you guys left a boss' son. They also don't tolerate fake handovers. We all know the belt is coming our way, Ted. Tell your guy to just let it go and let happen what's going to happen.”

  Barry's water arrived. “Would you like t
o order now, gentlemen?” the long, perfectly-pressed waiter asked.

  “Another minute,” Ted said.

  The waiter walked away. Ted decided to have a look at the breakfast menu after all.

  “Aren't you getting worried about Proctor chasing Ricky Plick to be his number two, Barry? Doesn't that leave you without a cock to suck?”

  “You think I trust that all that nonsense is above board, Ted?” Barry stood up. “Proctor wants Lenny Long to ref the match. That's non-negotiable.”

  “Lenny?”

  “Yeah, he feels it will sell tickets to have the man responsible for all this down there.”

  “Does he, now? Do I look like some green fucking mark to you, Barry?”

  “Just make sure he's there and all this goes away. If he's not, then this all gets messier for your side, for longer. A lot longer.”

  Barry exited the restaurant to find a phone. Ted walked to the back to find a phone.

  Oct 2nd 1972. Florida.

  “How is he?” Barry asked on the phone from Atlanta.

  “We just moved him down here and he's going to be okay,” Proctor answered.

  “Well, they agreed.”

  “A hundred percent? He agreed to that?” Proctor asked from the office of the TV studio.

  Barry replied, “He's scared shitless of you, boss. No one even knows where he is. In four days, you get the belt and all the gate, too.”

  Proctor watched as Ricky Plick entered studio two for the first time. “And Lenny Long?”

  “There's no way Danno can justify protecting him. That won't be a problem.”

  Proctor let out a small sigh of relief. “Okay. I have to go and sell this. I mean, the least we can do now is make some money, huh?”

  “Some money, boss? You're going to have the biggest first night in all of wrestling.”

  October 2nd 1972. Florida.

  It was different than usual. There were more people huddled in behind the camera. Less noise. More concentration. An air of uncertainty.

  Heels and baby-faces put their weekly differences aside and stood in unison in the ring. Ironclad rule after rule was broken. No production, no storylines, no costumes this week. This wasn't the usual TV night for wrestling in Florida, but this wasn't going to be usual wrestling TV.

  Sean Peak, the local TV boss, was more nervous than he normally would be. He wouldn't attend anything to do with professional wrestling before, but in recent days it had been pulled into the local news for all the wrong reasons.

  He left the small two hundred seat studio and walked down the hallway as he counted down to show time. He relied heavily on God to get him this far in life. One more request for clear passage couldn't hurt.

  And even though he made his request to on high, something didn't feel right. Live TV was never a good place to try and air something that didn't feel right.

  Another prayer couldn't hurt.

  Maybe he shouldn't have taken the money. Maybe he should have told Proctor to stick to his ordinary slot. The bottom line was, if Sean had that much of a problem taking money from these guys, he might as well sell up, or shut the station down.

  Whether he liked it or not, pro wrestling was by far the biggest earner for his channel. And his annual national conference told him that it wasn't just his area, either. Wrestling and horse racing were proven to be two sure fire hits across all regions of the US.

  Outside, Ricky questioned himself and his ability to get the job done. He straightened his head and braced himself before he entered the arena. What a first day. What a way to break into a new territory.

  Flawless Franco whistled for Ricky's attention at the door. “Hey, I was looking for you out here.”

  Ricky put out his hand and Franco coldly shook it.

  “I hear you punched the old man in the face. Good job,” Franco said as he opened the studio door.

  Ricky nodded.

  “How did it feel?” he asked with a perverted smile on his face.

  “Great.”

  “Well, Proctor appreciated it.” Franco held the door open for Ricky to enter. “Welcome to your new home.”

  Ricky entered the hallway and noticed a deathly quiet around the building. Sensing Ricky's question, Franco quietly said, “Proctor hasn't spoken to no one since he got his boy back to the hospital here. Your Boys did quite a job on Gilbert.”

  “Do I have to watch myself in here?”

  “Yeah,” Franco said plainly as he overtook Ricky to lead the charge. “We all know what's going on.”

  Ricky grabbed Franco by the arm and stopped him before he could open the door. “What do you mean?”

  “I'm not a fucking mark. What do they call this in politics? Damage control. That's why you're here.”

  “I don't want to be on TV. You tell Proctor that I'm all about the work here; that's no problem. But I don't want to kick Danno when he's already on his way down.”

  “No kicks. Just sucker punches?” Franco discreetly opened the doors of studio two.

  October 2nd 1972. Florida.

  The lights dimmed in the studio and the cameras were counted in.

  Ned Theodore, Florida's wrestling announcer, stood with his comb-over in front of camera one. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would, at this time, like to inform our viewers that an event occurred two nights ago that shocked us all. It is to that end that we join you tonight and try to fill you in on what is happening in the world of professional wrestling. What was to be a heavyweight championship match turned into a dangerous and ugly affair in the back alleys of New York City. The images that you see here tonight should only be viewed with caution and by a mature audience. These images are graphic, to say the least.”

  Proctor could be seen trooping to the ring over Ned's shoulder. He rolled under the bottom rope and snatched the microphone.

  Ned chimed back in with a confused tone. “It seems we have something going on in... we'll get to those images...”

  “New York. New York,” Proctor shouted while signaling the camera to get closer to his face. “You took something of mine and you abused it. You took something of mine and you broke it. You took something of mine and you tried to kill it. Why? ‘Cause you're animals.”

  The troop of wrestlers huddled closer together behind their leader.

  “Yesterday, I had to take my wife and drive her to your stinkin' city. I had to take her to see her son, lying smashed and broken on a cheap hospital bed. Why was he there?”

  Proctor wiped the spit from his lips and pressed his fingers closer together.

  “That close you left him from God. That close. And not ‘cause you showed mercy. You didn't spare him ‘cause you grew a heart. My son made it back from New York because you're incompetent. You couldn't do it. In a dark alleyway with your best men. You couldn't get the job done on my boy. You want to know why?”

  Proctor ripped off his jacket and started to punch himself in the face.

  “Because he's my boy. He's my boy, New York. Made of the stuff I'm made of. We are the opposite of you. You're cowards. Yellow, all of you from your fat Mick boss all the way down. Do you think he'll see me? Do you think he'd take my calls? No. I tried to talk to your boss. Danno Garland, you Mick piece of shit.”

  Sean looked around in shock. No one used bad language on WDBO. Certainly not at six o clock.

  “Sue me, mister TV, if you want,” Proctor shouted as he took off his watch and threw it to the station boss.

  “If you think that I'm going to be censored...” He took his wallet from his pocket and threw that, too.

  “You can take my TV. You can take my company. But I'm going to get revenge. You hear me? You're a coward, Danno. Piece of shit. You wanted to break our deal. You snake bastard.”

  Sean Peak jumped from his seat and gave the signal to cut the shoot. He was immediately derailed by Ricky Plick. “We need to talk, Sean,” Ricky said as he walked the station manager to his office.

  “Ricky?” Sean wondered as Ricky led him back into his own o
ffice. “What are you doing down here?” Sean asked as Ricky closed the door.

  “My boss wanted to thank you again for the advice you gave us down in Texas.”

  “Tell him he was more than kind. I enjoyed the whole trip.” Sean was still unsure as to what was going on.

  “That same man is now willing to pay you three and a half times what those guys out there pay you for the same slot.”

  Sean found it hard to grasp, quickly enough, what was going on. “We want their slot, Sean. We're willing to pay you three and a half thousand a week for five years – half up front. What do you say?”

  Ricky looked over his shoulder to make sure their departure wasn't raising any eyebrows. His nervousness made Sean even more nervous.

  “I... I....” Sean struggled to string a sentence together. It didn't feel right. Who did business like this? “Can't we talk about it? Meet up...”

  “No,” Ricky cut him off. “This offer expires in five seconds, Sean.” Ricky lifted up his shirt and showed Sean several flat packs of money taped around his waist.

  In the ring, Proctor continued to punch himself in the face. Drips of blood stained his white shirt from a slit in his eyebrow. “You knew that your time was up with the title, and this was how you wanted to handle it. We shook on it like men, Danno. Well, you were right. Your time is up. You have nowhere else to hide. Nowhere. Jacksonville Coliseum, one week from tonight. And I'm going to fill the seats with eleven thousand rabid fans. I'm going to fill the back with every single wrestler who will take an invite. And I'm going to fill the ring with...” Proctor grabbed the camera lens and brought it right to his face. “Me.”

  The wrestlers exploded into cheers and could hold back no longer.

  “That's right. Me. Crazy King. And at the end I'm going to fill the aisle to the ring with the bodies of the two yellow bastards that attacked my boy.”

  The wrestlers behind roared on their leader. Proctor jumped from the ring and walked right into the lens of camera two.

  “I will guarantee you now that your big African is going to suddenly learn how to talk. He's going to have to, ‘cause I'm going to make him beg me to stop.”