Night Work (3 page)

    Frank lit a cigarette. "Anything else you can tell me about Rain?"

    "I spoke to him myself. He seems like a nice enough guy, very respectful. He's in his early forties and comes from a sales background, but the story going around is that when he was in his early twenties he played on some TV show for a couple seasons. Some bullshit about this doctor and his wife who adopt all these fucked up kids. Anyway, the show only lasted two seasons and Rain went into a tailspin and blew all his cash. I hear he was a dope-head, and he's supposedly still got a bit of a drinking problem, so keep that in mind."

    "How do you mean?"

    Paulie offered a wry smile. "Drinking's a weakness, right? See, Rain wants to expand. He's looking around for a deal but Louie taught him right, so he don't trust nobody in the game. That means he's either gotta find some mark businessman with a few bucks to burn, or a young hustler like you who can make things happen."

    "You think he'll trust me then?"

    "Of course not." Paulie shrugged. "Still your best shot, though. Out of respect for me, he's willing to talk to you. Remember, this is a closed business. You don't get in unless you know somebody, and sometimes even that's not enough."

    Frank nodded. "I understand."

    "No, you don't. It's a whole different world, and don't nobody know what really goes on in it unless you're there. Of course, it's changed a lot since I worked it. In my day it was easier. There weren't more than four or five guys in the whole country you had to deal with back then. That all changed a couple years ago when the big boys started running wrestling like a fucking cartoon instead of a sport. All this marketing and sales bullshit - fuck that. I packed fans in from here to the Canadian border, Frank, and you know what sold the tickets? Heat, rivalries between the guys. I sold the sport on what went on inside the ring, not all this comic book shit they're doing nowadays. It's all hype, Frank. They spend more time screaming and yelling, doing interviews and selling toys than they do working. Most of these stiffs in the game couldn't hold a fucking candle to the boys I worked with. I'm talking real headliners, guys who knew how to work. Guys who knew how to keep their mouths shut."

    "How should I approach Rain?" Frank asked.

    Paulie scratched his crotch. "Tell me what you know."

    "I graduated from school in Boston in 1981. I learned the broadcasting and promotions business, worked in radio for a couple of years - "

    "Doing what?"

    "Promotional sales. The money sucked and job security was even worse. I wanted to try and get in on the ground floor with one of the big event promotions or talent-booking firms in New York or Los Angeles, but I was newly married and my wife didn't want to move. Needless to say, that didn't leave me a hell of a lot of options."

    "Broads - always the fucking problem - and wives are the worst. Pain the nuts."

    Frank forced a bit of laughter. "I had to find something steady that paid decent, so I took a retail sales job. I'm still there, only I'm assistant manager now."

    "What do you sell?"

    "White goods."

    Paulie frowned. "Sheets and pillows, shit like that?"

    "No, no. Refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers. I work at Appliance Mart over in Fairhaven."

    Paulie seemed unimpressed, and Frank didn't blame him. He sat quietly smoking his cigar for a few minutes then asked, "You do anything else?"

    "I get in on a scam now and then for extra cash," Frank admitted, "but nothing serious."

    "Ever been pinched?"

    "Not as an adult."

    "What'd they get you for as a minor?"

    "Assault and battery. Twice."

    Paulie laughed. "Got a temper, huh?"

    "I'm mellowing."

    "Why you wanna get involved in wrestling, Frank? Why not music or boxing or something else?"

    "I always loved wrestling, used to watch it all the time up until a few years ago."

    "Christ, don't ever say that to nobody else. Makes you sound like a mark."

    "Sorry, I - "

    "Don't be sorry, just watch what you say is what I'm trying to tell you."

    "Between you and me, Paulie, I don't want to spend the rest of my life selling stoves to housewives, you know what I'm saying? Maybe if I can make a few moves and get in with the right people I can turn things around."

    Paulie considered what Frank had said before responding. "Does your old man know about this?"

    "Does it matter?"

    "I guess not." He sighed. "It's just that I always liked your father, Frank, and I wouldn't wanna do anything to make him think less of me."

    Frank wasn't sure that was possible.

    "With all due respect, Paulie, I'm a grown man."

    "Which makes me one dried up old fuck," he said with a laugh. "Okay, kid, we'll leave him out of it."

    "Good. Now, when I meet with Rain, should I be honest with him?"

    "Hell no." Paulie sipped his coffee. "You got to understand something. Except for a handful of guys, everybody in the business acts like they're more than they really are. The problem is, nobody ever knows for sure who's telling the truth and who isn't, so you don't trust nobody and you go about your business assuming everybody you deal with is full of shit. It's just the way things are. You never shoot the works, understand? Keep Rain guessing. He'll do the same to you."

    "What did you tell him about me?"

    "Only that you're a friend of a friend and a man that's to be treated with respect," Paulie answered. "All he knows is that you're a businessman of some sort, looking to get into the game. If you go telling him you sell refrigerators or some shit like that, he'll laugh right in your face and you'll never get another shot. He'll spread your name around like manure, and nobody in the business'll ever take you seriously."

    Frank shrugged. "Then what the hell do I tell him?"

    "Make something up. Tell him you book acts for local nightclubs. That way it sounds like you're in a similar line of work and you're not some accountant or something. Remember, no matter what you say or do, until you prove different, everyone you run into in this business is gonna think you're a mark anyway. It ain't no different than a con game at the carnival, Frank. Same principle, cabeesh?"

    "Yeah," Frank nodded. "Cabeesh."

    Paulie struggled up off the couch, waddled to the TV and turned it off. "Rain's inside, you're not. All he wants to hear is what you can do for him. If he's gonna last he's got to expand, and he can't do it alone or he would've by now. Sell him on your business skills, it's your best chance."

    "What else do I need to know?"

    "More than I can tell you," Paulie said. "You'll pick it up as you go. All I ask is one favor, all right?"

    Frank stood up. "Of course."

    "You know my son, Raymond?"

    "Sure."

    "He's fucking stunadz," Paulie snapped. "I love him, don't get me wrong, but he's fucking stunadz. I got him into the business, showed him the ropes, and what's he do? He goes in and rips people off - and not just marks - the boys, other promoters, everybody. He almost ruined my name." Paulie moved closer, his once cheerful face turned dark. "Jesus Christ couldn't tell you how ashamed I was - my own flesh and blood acting like such an asshole. Still, I forgave him. Raymond's my only child, what else could I do?"

    Frank swallowed with some difficulty. "Don't worry about - "

    "I want you to understand something. I would never let anyone get away with making me look foolish again. Do what you got to do, just don't ever make me regret opening this door for you, Frank." Paulie offered his hand. "Just don't do it."

    Frank shook his hand. It was clammy to the touch and damp with perspiration. "I'll never do anything to embarrass you, Paulie. You have my word."

    "C'mon," he said, all smiles again. "I want to show you something."

    They left the den and Frank followed his host through the kitchen into a small windowless room with wall-to-wall carpeting.

    "This is where I come when I really want to relax," Paulie said, switching on an overhead light. A small leather bar with matching stools filled the back wall, and a trophy case of silver and glass stood prominently to the left of the doorway, loaded with awards and four ornate championship belts. An official-size pool table filled the center of the room, and nearly every inch of wall space was covered with identically framed photographs of Paulie with several wrestling stars and television people during various stages of his career.

    "This is incredible," Frank mumbled, looking around.

    Paulie went directly to the bar and removed two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "Have a drink with me."

    "A drink? It's fucking ten o'clock in the morning."

    "C'mon, c'mon, it's good for ya."

    Frank hesitated in front of the trophy case and studied the belts. "I remember seeing that belt on TV years ago."

    "Danny Crawton wore that strap." Paulie moved out from behind the bar with a drink in each hand. "He was my first champion. Used to call him Golden Boy, remember?"

    "When I was a kid."

    Paulie handed Frank his drink. "Sonofabitch could work a room like nobody I ever saw. Him and Vampire Zoltan used to whip the marks into such a frenzy, it'd sound like the whole goddamn building was gonna come tumbling down." Paulie grinned. "Take a hard look around, Frank. Even though most of the cash I made over the years is gone, I got memories nobody can ever take from me. It ain't exactly your ordinary kinda life, but if you're good at it it's one hell of a ride."

    "I'll bet."

    "You just remember to use your head. The people in this business aren't brain surgeons, but they're not stupid either. They know the angles, and they got big culones, you know what I mean? Hell, if you got half the brains your old man does you'll do fine."

    Frank put a hand on Paulie's fleshy shoulder. "I won't forget this."

    "Salud, Frank."

    As he raised the glass to his lips, Frank felt himself smile. "Salud."

    

    

    Gus pulled up in front of the apartment building in his GMC Jimmy and laid on the horn. He was a few minutes late, which was expected. Dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, Frank hopped into the Jimmy with briefcase in hand. "Sorry I'm late," Gus said. "It took me twenty minutes to convince my father he had to spend the night at my cousin Martin's house and another ten to cart his ass over there."

    "No problem. Thanks for driving, man."

    Frank glanced at his friend without trying to be too obvious. He'd hoped Gus might surprise him and actually look presentable, but it was not to be. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, black rubber-soled Oxfords, a severely wrinkled shirt and a thick-knot blue tie. His wristwatch was inexpensive, the rings on his fingers fake, and his glasses scratched and old. Frank spent a few seconds trying to decide if the coffee stains on the front of Gus's shirt were worse than the assortment decorating his clip-on tie, then remembered what Sandy had said and shifted his eyes to the wig. It looked as if it had never been washed. Frank wondered how the man had succeeded in sales, but despite his glaring flaws, he had. In fact, Gus was the best salesman Frank had ever known, and he'd known plenty. Why he never had money was something of a mystery.

    "Hey," Gus smiled, "I've got the newer vehicle, why shouldn't I drive?"

    "I appreciate it."

    "You're picking up the room, right?"

    "Yeah, I'll cover the hotel."

    "That a new suit?"

    "Relatively."

    Gus nodded. "Mine too. I just picked it up. Ran me like six hundred, but what the fuck, a guy's got to look good, right?"

    Of course the suit was several years old and could not have cost more than fifty dollars, but most of what Gus said was untrue. The depth, or number of lies he told on any given day was often beyond his control, and even though he seemed to understand that no one believed the majority of things he said, it didn't discourage him in the least.

    Lying was only one of many peculiarities Frank tolerated, though he wasn't sure why. He'd never been an abundantly patient person, but when it came to Gus, his patience was virtually limitless.

    After a lengthy and awkward silence, Gus said, "I appreciate you bringing me in on this."

    Frank was reminded of the nights they'd worked together at the store. All those hours on break, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, talking and dreaming, trying to figure a way out. If nothing else, Gus had been a loyal friend for six years, and in Frank's mind, that not only had to count for something, it cancelled out some of his more flagrant imperfections. "Just be sure you keep quiet if things don't pan out," Frank told him. "The last thing we need is to catch shit at work."

    "Fuck them," Gus moaned. "I've spent most of my life standing around one sales floor or another. I get home from work now and my feet and ankles hurt so bad I end up soaking them in hot water and salt. That's why I got the back problems I have, all that time on my feet, Frank, it's just not good. And there's the old football injuries," he added quickly. "Between the two it's a miracle I can walk at all. If it weren't for my martial arts training I'd be screwed. I don't care how banged up I get, I'll be kicking ass until they drop me in the ground."

    Having witnessed Gus struggle through a job better suited to someone in their twenties was one of the largest factors motivating Frank's desire to escape the retail field. In truth, when Frank looked at Gus Lemieux, he saw everything he didn't want to be in another ten or fifteen years.