Greg Gifune - Night Work

Delta winked. "It's worse than you think."

"I'll bet it is." He kissed her on the forehead and headed for the door. "Thanks, ladies."

Pendelton was waiting for him in the hallway. Frank forced a smile and approached him like an old friend. "We're all set here, Doc. You should've seen their faces when I told them you were working – "

"Cut the horseshit, son," Pendelton cracked. "When do you need them?"

Frank cleared his throat. "They don't wrestle until after the intermission. That's at least an hour from now."

"Then I can take my time?"

"As long as you need."

Pendelton pulled a form from his bag and handed it to Frank. "Tate's all set."

"God bless ya, Doc."

He looked at Frank, his eyes dark. "God's got nothing to do with it, son." Pendelton pushed open the door and stepped into the locker room.

Frank found Charlie and Vincent standing in the entrance to the gymnasium watching the fans as they slowly began to arrive. "The early birds landing already?"

"You look like you're about to have a stroke," Vincent said, only just noticing him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm working, what the hell's it look like I'm doing?"

Charlie elbowed Vincent in the side playfully and motioned to two teenage girls who had stopped to ask one of the security people where their seats were. "Get a loada these two."

"I swear to God," Vincent chuckled, "girls did not look like that when I was in high school."

"Maybe you should go see if you can help them find their seats," Charlie said. "Tell the one with the cute little ass I'd be more than happy to let her use my face. It's the best seat in the house."

Vincent moved across the gym and immediately struck up a conversation with the two young women. Charlie and Frank watched for several seconds without speaking. "That sonofabitch is unbelievable," Charlie laughed. "Has he always been like this?"

"I can't remember him any other way."

Charlie started back to the locker room. "Come on, let's throw the state boys outta there and make sure everybody's all set. You took care of that thing with the doctor, right?"

"Yeah. Throw an extra hundred in Delta's envelope."

"Gotta love that broad."

Frank stopped him at the door. In the year that they had been working together there had been dozens of parties on the road, but the women always remained segregated from the rest of the troupe. Several stories circulated about Delta and the various partners she worked with, but no one seemed to know for sure what really went on behind closed doors with most of the female wrestlers. "Have you ever partied with Delta or any of the other girls?"

Something in Charlie's expression revealed he'd been asked that same question countless times. He smiled with his eyes before answering. "Nope, never have."

"She swings both ways, right?"

"Most of them do."

Frank looked around to make sure they were alone. "How come you never hooked up with her?"

"I don't shit where I eat." Charlie laughed lightly, as if to himself. "You know even though most guys play around on the road, I don't. I couldn't give a shit what other people do, but I decided a long time ago I wouldn't fuck with Delta and those broads. I can't afford to let them hold anything over me, know what I mean? And neither can you."

Frank shrugged. "I was just curious."

"Delta likes to play games. You think she don't know how hot she is? You think for a minute she doesn't know she can get you hard just by looking at you a certain way? Sex is her whole fucking act, Frank. She started out as a stripper – same thing with Tammy. Delta even did a few porno flicks in the early eighties, a copy of one of them circulated around the business a year or so ago. I got one at home if you ever wanna check it out." Charlie lit a cigarette and draped his arm around Frank's shoulder. "If you're really looking for a good time, you should check out the party me and the wife are throwing. The weekend after we get back from Indiana we're having some people over. Luther and his wife will be there, and a few other couples. If you want, bring Sandy. You can stay over. Or come by yourself. Either way, we'll have fun."

"Sounds good." Frank smiled. "Thanks."

They entered the locker room and ran directly into two of the state officials. "Everything's all set," one of them said. "We're ready whenever you are."

Charlie glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes."

While they continued talking, Frank made his way around the room, stopping to chat with most of the wrestlers. Luther was lying across one of the benches relaxing. Frank sat next to him. "Are we cool?"

"We're cool."

"Who's the man?"

"Larry."

"He and Dean are working the prelim."

"Yeah, opening bout," Luther said through a lengthy yawn. "You said you wanted the marks whipped from start to finish. We're giving them a bloodbath."

"Is this the kid's first time?"

"Second. First time live."

"He gonna be all right?"

"Better be."

Frank looked around. "Where's he at?" Luther pointed to the rear of the room where the toilet stalls and sinks were located.

He found Larry O'Leary, a twenty-year-old who worked as Private Sean Powers, American Hero, slouched over a sink with a small razor blade in one hand and a roll of white athletic tape in the other. Frank lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. "How's it going, brother?"

Larry stood up straight, rising to his full six-foot two inches. "No problems here, boss."

In the business, fan favorites were known as babies; those who were booed for a living were labeled heels. Part of O'Leary's gimmick was to run to the ring wearing camouflage fatigues and waving the American flag to the strains of Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. The crowds went wild and rooted for him with a nearly fanatical zeal. With his boyish good looks, sandy blond hair and big blue eyes, Larry was a baby many believed had the potential to become a major star. But he had only worked live shows for six months, and although Luther Jefferson had personally trained him, Larry was still relegated to the opening slot.

"You all right?" Frank asked softly. "You're looking a little tense."

Larry tore two strips of tape from the roll and began covering the dull edge of the blade. "I'll be ready."

"You sure you're okay with this?" Frank asked, motioning to the blade. "Because I can switch it to one of the other boys if you want."

His clear blue eyes met Frank's. "You're the man. If the man says, juice, I juice. I'm a professional."

Frank nodded. "You gonna pop-and-drop, or carry?"

"Carry."

"You can pop-and-drop if you want. Give yourself one good one and then very casually drop the blade in the corner where the ref can kick it onto the time table and one of us can grab it."

"I'm carrying." Larry held out his right wrist. It had been taped, but he'd left a small fold just below the base of his palm that acted as a compartment where the razor blade could be tucked safely away once he had made the necessary slashes along his hairline and forehead. "The way we've got the angle worked out, Dean's gonna juice too. We're gonna seesaw running each other into the ring posts so we'll both have to pop at least three or four times. It's gonna be a fucking mess."

Frank took a deep drag on his cigarette, recalled a conversation he and Charlie had had months before, when he'd first learned that no respectable wrestler ever used fake blood or capsules in the mouth. The blood had to be real. Juicing had become a right of passage for young wrestlers; the scar tissue it left behind, badges of honor for the veterans.

"Dean's putting you over."

Larry nodded proudly. "The ref's gonna stop it due to loss of blood. I ain't never gone over on anyone with a name big as The Mongolian Crusher. Luther says it'll make all the magazines." Despite his shaking hands he managed to hide the blade amidst the tape on his wrist. "What do you think?"