Blood Red Turns Dollar Green Volume 3

by Paul O'Brien

  The last straw for Joe was when Donta pulled out the eyeball of a bar patron in Joe’s hometown. To an outsider, such a thing might sound like the act of a frenzied man, but Donta didn’t do frenzy—or any emotion, for that matter.

  The eyeball had come out in as calm a manner as one could do that sort of thing.

  Joe had to put an end it, so he had doubled Donta’s salary, and retired him from competition. If Donta was going to hurt people, then he might as well hurt the people that Joe wanted hurt.

  Donta would usually only get a call if someone had stiffed Joe on a payment. Sometimes venues would try to pay as little as possible, or some local TV guy would move Joe’s TV time, and they would get a visit from Donta. In this case, it was going to be Donta’s highest profile job; he sat in his car, relishing the thought of it.

  “Mister,” said the street kid who knocked Donta’s window.

  Donta handed him a five-dollar bill, and directed him toward his open trunk.

  The kid threw his stash of newspapers into the waiting trunk, and disappeared. Donta opened his door, and walked around to see that the trunk was now half-full with newspapers and magazines. This was the result of going from town to town paying kids and homeless guys to buy him a few papers here and a couple of magazines there.

  Even with one on top of the other, it was easy to see the common thread on all the front pages: it was the face of the New York senator who had been attacked, Senator Hilary J. Tenenbaum.

  Donta closed the trunk and drove as fast as he could toward Florida.

  London.

  Same day.

  They assembled downstairs in the closed-curtain breakfast room, which otherwise had a beautiful view overlooking London and the River Thames. Not a single person around that table gave a fuck about scenery, however, nor the history attached to it; they were interested in their money. They were also interested in how Joe was going to make this situation in New York right.

  Joe entered the perfectly manicured room feeling a little jet-lagged and stale from the flight. At the head of the table, in Joe’s seat, was Tanner Blackwell, the owner of the Carolina territory, and one of the heavyweight champions. Down at the other end of the table was Jacque Kaouet and Jose Rios, who owned the Quebec and Mexico City territories respectively. Sitting in the chair by the window was Niko Frann, the owner of the L.A. territory.

  Joe started. “Thank you for being here, gentlemen.”

  He received a round of nods as he pulled out a chair for himself.

  “We need to discuss our loose ends,” Joe said. “And we need to agree on a course of action to get us through this dangerous time for our business.”

  Tanner could sense that his opportunity was slipping away. Before their world changed, Tanner had made a deal that purposefully created two heavyweight champions who both despised the other’s existence. Their unification match was to be a record breaker—a huge windfall.

  He could see that it was all evaporating.

  “Can’t we make New York have the unification match, or something? Before we change everything, we can still get this done.” Tanner said.

  Joe eased into his reply, but not before he made sure that his tie was centered. “I’m proposing to the executive here today that we go back to basics.”

  “Here, here,” came the response.

  This was exactly what Tanner didn’t want.

  Joe continued, “We’re going to honor our own rules, which state that all title changes and territory sales are to be sanctioned by us collectively, first.”

  Tanner could see the biggest pile of money of his career disappearing before his eyes. “Listen, we can go back and get this match set up for the end of the month. We can’t have two champions out there in the long-term: that hurts the prestige of both belts.”

  Joe could hold his temper no longer. “Look around this room! Look at the fucking empty chairs in here! One by one, we killed each other—for what? For New York, that’s what. If we continue down this road, that place is going to be the end of us. Just look: remember the people who used to share this council with us?”

  “Of course I fucking remember,” Tanner replied.

  “Good.” Joe pounded the table. “If you’re thinking of buying or selling territory, then it has to come here before anything else happens. We vote on what’s best for business. This whole fucking mess was made by people making deals outside of this meeting, and, as chairman of this council, I am useless if I have no fucking idea of what is going on.”

  Joe watched the room as he was given a quiet nod from everyone in the room—everyone, except Tanner.

  “No more side-deals and secret handshakes,” Jose Rios said. “We’re supposed to be working the marks who buy our tickets, not each other.”

  “We work as a collective, like we used to before,” Jacque added.

  Joe looked to be doing what any reasonable and responsible chairman would do: he was putting everything back on the table, and was taking away the decision-making from the back alley meetings and ‘wink-wink’ deals that were killing their business.

  The other bosses weren’t crazy about having a leash and a muzzle put on them, but no-one had a counter-argument ready to fight it—not with the unprecedented mess that was left in New York.

  “I am sick of lying low every couple of months because one of us gets greedy or stupid. Or both,” Joe said.

  “I second that,” Niko nodded.

  “That’s fine for you guys,” Tanner said as he picked some fluff from his trousers.

  “Why is it okay for us, and not for you, Tanner?” Jacque asked.

  Tanner wet his thumb, and wiped the last nuisance from his suit. “Because to sanction this approach would mean that everyone here would have to change nothing.”

  Tanner turned his attention to Joe. “You know I want New York, and you know that I want that unification match. New York and I both have heavyweight champions out there. It was only a few weeks ago that we made the decision to create two titles, just so we could put them back together. Owning one title is like having one ball: it’s great, but if there’s a pair, you want the fucking pair.”

  Joe leaned back against the table so Tanner could see the whites of his eyes. “Well, then, you try to get those things, but you come through us when you do. As of right now, this council is saying that New York is too hot. You hear me, Tanner?”

  Tanner dismissively turned away from Joe. “What do the rest of you think?”

  The other bosses shook their heads.

  “New York needs time,” Niko said. “There are investigations and cops everywhere asking about who we do business with. We’ve never had this before, Tanner.”

  In his head, Tanner had already killed and burned everyone in the room.

  “Do we have a plan to take the focus off New York, right now, so we can go home and earn some fucking money?” Niko asked.

  Joe could feel his usefulness and worth rising by the second. “I already have something in motion.”

  With that short statement, Joe had won the room. The NWC would close ranks, and play small, but safe. New York was out of reach.

  Kinda.

  Florida.

  The next day.

  Donta Veal walked across the old tough floorboards to the counter of the local store. Out of all the places his job took him, he hated Florida the most. It might have been the weather, or it might have been the people. It also could have been the stationary ceiling fan above his sweaty head that made no fucking difference whatsoever to the heat.

  In his experience, Floridians by-and-large were a friendly bunch who prided themselves on knowing their neighbors. This was a good thing for finding people, but it was a bad thing for being remembered.

  In his line of work, he never wanted anyone to remember that he had been in town. If he was in town, it was to do something that he didn’t want to be picked out from a line-up for doing.

  For this reason, he had a Fedora pulled slightly over his eyes, not that t
here was anyone in the small, local store who would notice. This wasn’t a tourist spot; this was a sweaty, brown-necked local place that sold milk, newspapers, postcards, and stamps.

  “It’s snowing back home,” he told the lady behind the counter.

  He wanted to sound touristy, but he didn’t want to say enough to be memorable. The counter lady didn’t care, but smiled anyway. He didn’t care, but smiled back, too, as he handed her the money.

  “Keep the change,” he said as he took back his postcards and stamps.

  Donta took his purchases outside into the sweltering heat. It was wet, warm, windy, and humid all at the same time. He’d only been in Florida for a day, and already he was looking forward to getting the fuck out of there.

  He pulled his hat down further, ran to his car, and threw the postcards into his back seat. Then he opened his glove box, and took out a pre-written, pre-sealed envelope.

  It read:

  Senator Hilary Tenenbaum,

  United States Senate,

  Washington D.C 20510.

  Donta carefully took the newly purchased stamps, and licked them in place at the top of the prepared envelope. He left his car, and went to the post box that was built into the side of the shop. He made sure that his face was covered before covertly sliding the envelope into the slot.

  There was only one man who could tie the wrestling business to the attack on the senator, and that man lived about five minutes from where Donta posted this letter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  New York.

  Same night.

  The Nightly View was a magazine-styled current affairs show that aired out of New York. It usually ran two or three investigative pieces with its studio anchor, Ant Stevens, directing traffic and linking one piece to the next. During this night’s segment, would be the start of the in-studio interview.

  Sitting in the dark, both interviewer and interviewee were quiet, with their heads bowed and their faces freshly powdered. They waited to be counted in.

  “3... 2...”

  “And now we turn back to New York, where, in recent times, the stories of murder, corruption, prostitution, and bank robberies seem to come in by the day. We still have police dogs on the subways, and not even New York’s own politicians are immune to the city’s slide, with Senator Hilary J. Tenenbaum having been attacked on the street only a few weeks ago.”

  Anchorman Ant Stevens’ golden voice brought his viewers to a listening state as he directed traffic to Tenenbaum, who was sitting in the studio opposite him.

  “We now have with us that very same senator,” Ant informed camera one. “And, because of the charges levied in today’s papers, we also have, on the phone, a wrestling promoter out of Tennessee, Mr. Joe Lapine.”

  “Thank you,” the senator said, as he managed a fleeting nod of thanks.

  “Senator, you say that this attack was because of your investigation into professional wrestling in New York State. You say that this sport isn’t a sport, in fact, and that everyone involved in it knows the same.”

  Senator Tenenbaum cleared his throat. “That’s correct. On the night I was viciously set upon, I was walking back to my home office to finish up some papers that I needed for the pro-wrestling hearings the following morning. I was trying to get a bill together to ban professional wrestling in the State of New York. I never made it home to do so. I was warned...”

  “Warned, sir?”

  “Yes, the man who did this to me didn’t wear a mask, or a hood, or anything. He was sent to intimidate me. He looked me in the face, and told me to stay out of business that wasn’t mine.”

  The senator took a drink of water to steady himself; he was clearly emotional.

  “Mr. Tenenbaum, I hope you’re doing better, sir,” Joe said over the line.

  Senator Tenenbaum shook his head in disgust.

  “What do you think when you hear a story like this, Mr. Lapine?” Ant asked, passing the floor to Joe. “And, by the way, thank you for ringing in. We find it hard to get people from your line of work to come on the record.”

  The lights in the studio were hot and a little stifling. Joe, however, was sitting back at his hotel desk in London. He was coming to the end of his forty-eight hour visit, and this was one of the last things he had to do before he left.

  “Thank you for taking my call. Just to say, I personally have no dog in this fight. I know New York is having huge crime trouble in general, and I just run a small circuit back home in Memphis.”

  “What do you mean by saying you have ‘no dog in this fight’?” Senator Tenenbaum asked. “Aren’t you the chairman over the whole cartel?”

  Joe snorted back. “Cartel? Listen, Senator, with all due respect to you, I’ve had to listen to you go on every show on TV and radio, talking about our great sport like that. I’ve had enough. We’re a business, just the same as boxing is. I don’t know what, exactly, you think I’m the chairman of, sir. I hold my own promoter’s license, and I pay my share to the athletic commission, like I’m told to do, and that’s about the size of it.”

  The senator jumped back in. “A few days ago, the wrestling promoter here in New York was shot dead.”

  “That case in ongoing,” Joe replied. “And it was of a personal nature, and nothing to do with the sport of wrestling.”

  “So, you’re saying this isn’t all connected?” The senator’s voice was firm.

  “First, when I heard about Danno Garland’s passing, I was saddened, but not surprised. His dear wife was the victim of a robbery, and he seemed intent on dishing out his own...”

  The producer off-camera was nodding his head to the anchor.

  Ant chimed in. “Like you said, Mr. Lapine, the investigation is on-going. I suggest that we stick to tonight’s issue.”

  The senator couldn’t wait to get back in. For years, he had been trying to get something on these wrestling guys, and now he smelled the faintest whiff of blood. “This is all connected. All of a sudden, the wrestling business is responsible for a lot of criminality, and bloodshed...”

  “I’m sorry to hear that anyone got so brutally assaulted. It must be a confusing time for the senator.”

  “No, no, no...” Senator Tenenbaum replied.

  “Did you guys have anything to do with the senator’s assault and brutal stabbing on the streets of New York, Mr. Lapine? Yes, or no?” Ant asked.

  Joe continued. “Well, Ant, some nutcase comes along and does that to Senator Tenenbaum; he doesn’t even bother to cover up, or try to hide. That sounds like someone with issues beyond sport or politics, to me.”

  Ant Stevens held up a police sketch for his camera.

  “Do you know this man?” the senator asked Joe.

  “No,” Joe replied. “I do not.”

  This was true.

  “You’ve never seen him before?” Ant asked.

  “Only in the media—the same as everyone else,” Joe answered.

  This was kinda true.

  “Can you come on here, Joe, and say that this man isn’t one of yours?” Senator Tenenbaum asked.

  Joe took his time in response. “No, I can’t say that.”

  Joe’s riposte caught both Ant and the senator off guard.

  “Sorry, sir?” Ant asked.

  “I know that man has nothing to do with my wrestling business here in Memphis, but I have no idea if he’s connected to any other business out there.”

  Both the anchor and the politician were momentarily stumped.

  Joe continued, “How could I say that? Well, the professional wrestling business is huge in this country. There are thousands of wrestlers and promoters and ring crew, etcetera. I can’t vouch for them all, sitting here, tonight.”

  The senator thought that he was finally seeing one of the wrestling bosses mess up and drop their guard for once, and he was itching to get back into the conversation.

  Joe wasn’t about to give the floor back now, though. “What I can say for sure is this, sir: if that man is found to
be connected in any way to our sport, I will personally join the senator in making sure that the wrestling business is brought to a close for good and for all.”

  For the second time in a short segment, Joe had totally wrong-footed the anchor and the senator.

  “Even if he’s found to not be from your neck of the woods?” Ant questioned.

  “I don’t care. If my business, which I love dearly, has caused this kind of hurt and distress to anyone, much less an elected representative of the people, then I’ll shut it down, myself. Is that fair enough, Senator?”

  Camera two zoomed in good and tight to Senator Tenenbaum’s face, waiting for his reply. The senator’s political wiring was sparking enough to know how this was coming across to the ordinary American at home.

  “I welcome Mr. Lapine’s offer and intentions,” was all that Senator Tenenbaum could mumble.

  He knew that Joe had boxed him in with his faux kindness and concern. Anything other than thanks from the senator would have been ill advised.

  “And to finish, sir,” Joe replied, “I sure would be grateful if you offered me the same courtesy. If this man is caught, and if there’s no hint that he is from our business, would you consider informing the American people of such? All the accusations are needlessly hurting a proud one hundred year old sport.”

  “What do you say, Senator?” Ant asked, already thinking of the next segment.

  Senator Tenenbaum could only nod his head in reply.

  Ant Stevens once again held up the police drawing of a man that the wrestling bosses knew as Mickey Jack Crisp.

  “Okay, I want to thank Senator Tenenbaum from New York, and Mr. Joe Lapine, who I understand is on vacation right now.”

  “That’s right, Ant,” Joe answered with a fake laugh. “But I’m looking forward to coming right on home.”

  The next day.

  Florida.

  Florida was the noisiest quiet place on earth. Things moved in the bushes, grass, trees, and skies, and spending a coal-black night down there took some getting used to if you weren’t familiar with everything.