Greg Gifune - Night Work

"I'm originally from the neighborhood. I've known Vincent and Michael since junior high school."

"Is your father alive?"

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"Joseph."

Fratenzza thought for a moment. "Joseph Ponte doesn't ring a bell. Do I know him, Frank?"

"I don't believe so."

Frank suspected Fratenzza already knew the answers to the questions he was asking, and was putting him through the process for reasons that had little to do with ascertaining accurate responses to such mundane inquiries.

"What does your father do for work?"

"He's a teacher at Saint Mary's in Fall River. He and my mother moved out of the neighborhood a few years back."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"Not yet."

Fratenzza nodded, deeming the reply acceptable. "I always like to see young men attempting a better life. Too many youngsters are lazy today. We've got an entire generation of people convinced the world owes them a living. Between MTV, the ridiculous clothes kids wear today and that horrible rap music they listen to – which isn't even music to begin with – their brains are rotting. It's a shame."

"It's the niggers." Michael sighed. "They're the problem. You got white kids running around trying to be black. I mean, Christ, you can't turn on the TV or the radio without having nigger after nigger jammed down your throat, you know? It's fucking ridiculous. Seen an NBA game lately? Good luck finding even one white guy on the court. Ten percent of the goddamn country and we let them run the place."

"I have a lot of respect for the colored," Fratenzza said evenly. "You've got girls who already have two or three kids by the time they're fourteen, fifteen years old. They sit home and watch TV while the government pays for everything. You think that's stupid? You got kids who don't even graduate high school walking down to the corner welfare office for checks every month – teenagers who've already figured out how to milk the system – they never work a day in their lives. That doesn't sound too stupid to me. The stupid one's the kid who goes to some sucker job for minimum wage when he can get it for free. No, I respect the colored. I don't want them living next door to me, don't misunderstand, I'm only saying they're not as stupid as people make them out to be, and at the rate they're having kids it won't be long before they're the majority. Then you better pray they never get organized."

"They're too busy shooting each other and selling drugs in their own communities to be a threat to anyone else," Michael scoffed.

"Michael, you're terribly racist."

"Fuck them."

Frank tried to mask his discomfort. Unfortunately racism was always a potential part of any neighborhood, but he had not been raised that way and didn't share the bigoted views being tossed about so effortlessly. In normal company, had anyone said anything like that he would have spoken up immediately and vehemently. But this time he sat silently and let their hatred spew freely like the palpable thing it was.

Fratenzza laughed lightly; turned to Vincent and Frank. "Let me tell you something. You can spend your lives working and sweating so somebody else can get rich, or you can put the same effort and dedication into making yourselves successful. I've never understood why anybody would want someone else to reap the rewards of their labor – it makes no sense to me."

"That's exactly why we want to make this move," Vincent said quickly. "It's an opportunity to get inside a business that's nearly impossible for outsiders to break into. With the right financial backing I really believe Frank and I can make a go of this."

"Why wrestling?" Fratenzza asked.

"There's a lot of money to be made," Frank explained, gaining confidence in his ability to contribute. "With the right people involved."

Vincent let his forearms rest on the table between them. "Right now everything is run by the old guard. I think we can bring a fresh perspective to the business."

"The only reason I ask is because several good businesses exist for two enterprising young men like yourselves. Dry cleaning, for example, is a tremendous avenue. Liquor stores are another. When was the last time you saw one of them go out of business? Michael's involved with both types of operations, he can tell you how profitable they can be."

"I've suggested several ventures I could help them with," Michael explained. "Businesses more mainstream in nature. But their only interest is in promotions."

Fratenzza nodded thoughtfully. "I know nothing about the wrestling business myself, of course, but I'm sure you and Frank have given this a great deal of thought. If you're prepared, and Michael's kind enough to help you get started, I see no reason why you shouldn't go ahead with your plans."

"Thank you." Vincent smiled.

Fratenzza's eyes shifted back to Frank. "I'm happy to offer you advice and friendship, but unfortunately I'm not in a position to help financially. I've had only modest success in business myself, you understand."

At least on paper, that statement was true. His oceanfront homes in Rhode Island and Florida were in his wife's name. All three of his cars were leases obtained for free through one of several dealerships he was involved with, and again listed in his wife's name. Although he owned an enormous amount of local commercial real estate, it too was listed in other names or under the umbrella of dummy corporations that could never be traced back to him. The only thing Fratenzza admitted ownership of was a modest cigarette and coffee vending machine business. As far as the IRS was concerned, he earned between thirty and forty thousand dollars a year. No one knew for sure how much he was actually worth, but between his legitimate businesses and his sizable take from all the loan shaking, bookmaking, protection, and drug trafficking in southeastern Massachusetts and parts of Rhode Island, Gino Fratenzza was a millionaire several times over.

He'd run the area for years, and in what were known as "Fratenzza neighborhoods" life was good. In the community where Frank had grown up everyone knew that Fratenzza and his associates were in charge. Everyone knew they took money from local businesses for protection; operated as shylocks and bookmakers, and involved themselves in all sorts of sordid and illegal activities, only no one cared, because while these men terrorized other people in other places, in their own neighborhoods things could not have been safer. No drugs were sold in the neighborhood; no one worried about being mugged or raped; shootings and street gang warfare happened elsewhere. Fratenzza ran neighborhoods where old women could walk the street after dark without fear, and young children could play without being bothered or threatened. On those rare occasions when something negative did occur, those responsible for breaking the rules were dealt with harshly, and Fratenzza's men made sure everyone either heard about the punishments or witnessed them firsthand.

A deliveryman who had lured a young girl into the back of his truck and then molested her was castrated and dismembered alive, the remains of his body then dumped at the edge of the neighborhood for the police to collect. A man who had stolen money from the local church had had his arm removed below the elbow and was made to volunteer as an evening custodian at the rectory for the remainder of his life. Two teenagers from the south end of the city who had sold drugs in Fratenzza's protected territory were executed, both shot in the back of the head and left on display on the same local playground where they had attempted to conduct business only hours before. By most Fratenzza and his men were viewed as heroes instead of gangsters, something that made the daily operation of their businesses that much easier.