Blood Red Turns Dollar Green Volume 3

by Paul O'Brien

  Mickey Jack Crisp thought that it was the greatest place on Earth, especially since he had gotten his hands on some money. He got a small place with air conditioning, and a car that was reliable enough to get him from coast to coast.

  He didn’t know the wrestling business—didn’t much like to watch it on TV—but he sure did welcome the money that the bosses in the business had given him to do the things that they didn’t want to do, themselves.

  Most of the time, they’d pay him to do something, and they’d end up doing it themselves, anyway. Mickey thought that if they got as good with their killings as they did with their conning, they’d be unmatched mobsters.

  This night, however, he wasn’t thinking much about wrestling, bosses, or even his money. His mind was all taken up by the little blonde woman who didn’t like to talk. She had thrown herself around his waist, and they both burst into Mickey’s place.

  He’d been getting luckier and luckier with the ladies ever since he left New York with stacks of cash stuffed all over his body.

  Both of their breaths were strong with liquor. He had seen her outside the small bar at the end of his road. She was a hell of a find, and was confident out there on her own as she looked for another drink, and maybe a place to stay for the night.

  Mickey had liked the trade-off.

  They stumbled their way to his couch, and collapsed with her on top. Mickey broke away from her lips to see if she was real, like he pictured her in his head. She was—she was definitely as beautiful as he’d thought. He watched her effortlessly arch her back, and reach inside her purse for a condom.

  “What’s that for?” Mickey asked.

  She hushed him, and pushed him flat onto his back. “We don’t know each other that well.”

  In the end, Mickey took a while to die, but he did so without much fuss. Donta had watched other victims of his tear at their own necks when they realized that they were being hanged. Sometimes their own nails would cut their throats like little blunt blades. Not Mickey, though. The blonde woman had spiked him so well that, by the time Mickey realized he was being hanged; he could do nothing but accept it.

  Once they had finished fucking, Mickey stood up and tried to walk to his fridge. His place was looping around and swaying side to side. Donta easily came up behind him, placed the noose around his neck, and pulled the rope over his own shoulder, which took Mickey’s feet off the ground.

  With Mickey Jack Crisp—the only physical link between wrestling and the senator’s assault—dead, it was now time to make it look like something else had happened.

  Donta knew that his letter with the bullet inside would hit Washington the next day; it gave him little time to work.

  It was now up to him to finish his masterpiece.

  First, he moved Mickey to be hanging dead from his own bathroom door. Donta took off the man’s remaining few articles of clothing, and threw them into the hallway. He then filled the floor, bath, and sink with magazine and paper clippings of Senator Tenenbaum’s face. Every picture had Tenenbaum’s mouth cut out.

  Donta swapped out the clip from the gun he was planting to make sure that it was missing just one bullet—which was on its way to the capital.

  He then stooped to Mickey’s crotch level, and looked straight into the bathroom like he was following an invisible trajectory. The blonde had left behind the used condom, as she had been instructed to do. Donta carefully emptied its contents on the senator-covered floor, just under Mickey’s now flaccid penis.

  He covered the walls with stab holes and angry gashes. Tenenbaum was everywhere; when Donta left, Mickey’s cool little pad looked like the lair of a madman.

  A dead madman.

  New York.

  The next night.

  After days on his feet, Edgar Long sat in a daze on his couch. A hundred or more people had been through his house in the previous few days, but now all was quiet. His wife couldn’t do it: she couldn’t come back.

  She never wanted to see that sitting room, again.

  But Edgar wanted to clean it, which he did. He was a man of routine, and all of this change was playing with his nerves. His grandchildren had made it; his son was in critical condition.

  Danno Garland’s blood was on his walls.

  Edgar scrubbed until his arms wouldn’t scrub anymore. He got sick at the thoughts of his family in so much pain—so broken, now.

  He cried alone on his floor.

  As he sat there, hours later, the light of day was long gone. Edgar wanted his routine back. He wanted his grandkids back, and he wanted his son to live.

  He wanted to know what had happened.

  Nobody was saying anything, except that Lenny had shot Danno dead in Edgar’s sitting room. This didn’t sound at all right to Edgar: he knew his son, and he knew that he didn’t have cold-blooded murder in him.

  Something else must have happened—something more.

  So, Edgar sat in a daze on his couch, and watched. The Nightly View had been selling all evening about how it was going to shed light on what was happening in New York.

  Edgar knew that his son was mixed up in the wrestling business. He knew that the blood he’d tried to wash away half-belonged to Danno Garland, the New York wrestling territory boss: his son’s boss.

  Edgar just wanted to know what was going on.

  The anchor, Ant Stevens, welcomed his viewers and promised them an immediate update on what was happening in New York. It was the first time that Edgar was hearing the full story. A senator had been stabbed, and Danno’s own wife had been murdered just days before he, himself, was shot to death.

  They showed a picture of Lenny on screen. Edgar couldn’t help but fall apart, again. What was his boy doing in the middle of all of this?

  “And we thank wrestling promoter, Joe Lapine, for being here with us again tonight,” Ant said.

  “Thank you,” Joe replied.

  “We now know that the man who attacked Senator Tenenbaum was found dead in his own home today of an apparent suicide,” the anchor began. “Just so our viewers know, the senator is down in Florida, now, where he identified the man as the one who viciously attacked him.”

  Joe approached his response with as much compassion as he could muster. “It’s tragic all around.”

  “This man was found to have nothing to do whatsoever with your business,” said Ant.

  “Yes.”

  “We only raise this as an issue, because of the... theory that Senator Tenenbaum expressed here, this week.”

  “I wish the senator well, and we, in the professional wrestling business, are happy that another crackpot is no longer a danger. I heard that this man was still threatening the senator up to as late as yesterday.”

  “That’s correct; they were able to trace him from a letter that he sent to the senator’s office.”

  “Ironically, the assailant had nothing to do with wrestling, but was quite a promising boxer, which is a sport that Senator Tenenbaum supports openly.”

  “Now, we can’t tar a whole sport with one bad apple.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more,” Joe quickly replied.

  Edgar switched his TV off. His wife had been right: this would be the last time that he ever set foot in his living room, again.

  By dealing with the matter in such a public way, Joe Lapine had put himself in the middle of the spotlight, and he knew it. In any other scenario, there would have been no way that he would have taken himself from the shadows to make his face so synonymous with New York wrestling.

  But it had worked.

  California.

  Five months after Lenny was shot.

  Choosing Masquers Club in Hollywood was probably a mistake.

  “Y’all are going to have to move it to a bigger venue for next year,” Minnie told her husband, as they waved and saluted their way through the crowd.

  “Shut up,” her husband, Tanner, replied.

  Even though the venue had the touch of prestige and history, it wasn’t bi
g enough to hold the owners, promoters, and athletes from both the wrestling and boxing worlds.

  On this night, the wrestling business, itself, needed to give its best performance. In the previous few months, there had been chaos and deaths in Texas and in New York, which had raised some huge questions about the business.

  It was time to begin the process of moving on—starting again.

  Since the 50’s, the Four Corners Social Club was a weekly coming together of boxing and wrestling personalities, which, over time, had turned into a fraternity. On this night, it was a banquet.

  The club remembered the greatest, the forgotten, and the broke. It held itself in high regard, and prided itself in not taking aboard the politics that was rampant in both the wrestling and boxing worlds. The fact that it was nonpolitical, however, had made this the most political night of the year.

  The room was stuffed full of black ties, sparkly ball gowns, bald heads, and cigar smoke.

  Tanner pulled out his wife’s seat, and made sure that she sat in without incident.

  “Why are we sitting over here?” Minnie asked Tanner.

  “Shut up,” Tanner replied evenly and calmly.

  He walked around the other side of the table, and sat opposite her. All the other tables had six people to a sitting, but Tanner’s table was just for him and Minnie.

  “Why did they put us up against the wall?” Minnie asked.

  Tanner knew Minnie’s patter well: she was asking just the right questions to get him annoyed. There was something about her that didn’t like his mind to be too far away from her.

  “You said you didn’t want to share a table,” Tanner replied, answering her.

  “A middle table would have been nice, is all.”

  Tanner could feel his leg begin to bounce with anxiety, or anger—he never know which when it came to spending time with his wife. “Would you like to move?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” she replied.

  There was a few seconds of silence, while Minnie and Tanner both scanned the room to see if anyone noticed them.

  “It’s just... it’s disrespectful, isn’t it?” Minnie asked. “You’re put over here in the dark. I mean, what do they think is wrong with you?”

  “I asked for this.”

  “Even the bread is hard.”

  “What do you mean it’s hard?”

  “It’s not soft. What else can I mean?”

  “Well, then it’s hard on all the tables. They didn’t put stale bread just on this table to annoy you specifically. I’ll say something to the manager when we’re leaving. How about that?”

  Minnie turned to the table next to her. “Excuse me, is your bread hard? In the middle, it’s... firm?”

  The woman she asked shook her head. Minnie turned back to her table with a look of disgust on her face. Tanner was happy to hear the last of it. He had just switched off; it was a thing he could do around Minnie to just literally not feel anything about anything that she said or did.

  He knew by his wife’s face that she wanted to say something more, but he pretended to not notice. She would never lean across a table, as it wouldn’t be lady-like. When Minnie Blackwell was in front of eyes that were outside her marriage, she was an old southern belle. When no one could hear her, she cussed like a sailor, and added a ‘w’ to words, like ‘dog’.

  “What a great turn out,” 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, just a business thing.” Tanner said to his wife.

  Joe smiled at Minnie, as a way of backing up her husband’s story. Tanner turned away from the table for some privacy, and Joe sidled up beside him. With a small bit of privacy, Tanner could be his gossipy self.

  “New York is a fucking mess,” Joe said.

  “I heard that the driver didn’t even fight his conviction?” Tanner asked.

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

  “Are they dead?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Tanner knew that Joe knew more—Joe always knew more. Tanner knew more, too, but he didn’t want Joe to know that.

  But both men knew.

  There might have been bloodshed in New York, but every wrestling boss in the U.S could see that, now, the mecca of wrestling that was New York was 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?”

  “We’re showing the world that we’ve nothing to hide. New York was a couple of bad apples, that’s all,” Joe said, as he slapped Tanner on the back.

  “How are you, Missus Blackwell? You look lovely,” Joe said.

  “Thank you, Mister Lapine. Don’t you look dapper too,” she 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 does. No one far... or near.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the compére said into the microphone on stage, “I have been asked to read a prepared statement on the recent tragedies that have occurred within the wrestling community.”

  Joe, Tanner, and all the other bosses bowed their heads. Some used the quiet time to figure out how to get the crown jewel back; New York was an alluring territory.

  It was too tempting to leave on the shelf.

  California.

  1973.

  One year after Lenny was shot.

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

  “It won’t be long, now. Danno’s own lawyer couldn’t make his way out of all of this unharmed. I heard that his doors closed yesterday,” Joe said.

  “Does he still have—” Tanner tried to ask.

  “Yes, it’s the only contract he has left,” Joe replied.

  Tanner drew a comforting breath. “When are we going back to New York?”

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

  It didn’t go unnoticed with Tanner that Joe knew Danno’s lawyer by name—the same lawyer who held the papers saying that Lenny Long was the owner of New York.

  California.

  1974.

  Two years after Lenny was shot.

  “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, Ricky’s name was poisonous 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 without recognition.

  “I don’t mind,” Tanner replied, lying. “It means fucking nothing, anyway.”

  California.

  1975.

  Three years after Lenny was shot.

  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 went for the closed doors. “I love you, no matter what happens this year,” she said.

  Tanner believed her.

  California.

  1976.

  Four years after Lenny was shot.

  “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 listening wife.

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

  California.

  1977.

  Five years after Lenny was shot.

  The bar was quieter than the lounge. Joe could hear the mumble of someone talking down through a microphone in the room beside it.

  “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 manages the world heavyweight wrestling champion, and...”

  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, doing TV, and making their commitments if no one is boss?”

  California.

  1978.

  Six years after Lenny was shot.

  Tanner stood with Joe in the parking lot. He could see Minnie waiting for him in the lobby.

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

  “I did.”

  “You dropped it to another one of your wrestlers in your territory.”

  “Open up New York. Then I’ll...”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll put my belt against their 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.”

  California.

  1979.

  Seven years after Lenny was shot.

  Tanner turned in his bed. He couldn’t say that he was sorry to miss the banquet, this year. Nothing much was changing; no one was excelling, or not that he could prove. He knew that something was going on in New York, but Joe was smart enough to fill the other bosses’ positions with people who wouldn’t question him.