Greg Gifune - Night Work

"Take my word for it," Luther smiled. "He's pretty tough."

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his friends. "Those guys say I'm pretty tough."

"Look," Vincent said, "we just want to get something to eat and get the hell out of here, all right?"

He looked at Jose. "And who are you supposed to be? Super Spic?"

"We're not looking for trouble," Vincent told him.

"I ain't talking to you, dago-boy."

Vincent's face showed no reaction. "But I'm talking to you."

The man turned to Larry O'Leary. "Then we got this one. The American Hero, huh? Looks to me like you couldn't be more than a year out of high school. What war did you fight in, boy?"

Larry lowered his eyes. "Why don't you go sit down?"

He leaned closer. "Matter of fact, you sorta look like a queer to me. They oughta call you The American Fag."

The other men began to laugh, and Frank shot Vincent a quick look. Hands held beneath the table, he slowly slid his pinkie ring from his finger and dropped it into his pocket. Charlie sighed and shook his head. "We're only a minute or two from the highway," he said softly.

"Tell the truth, pretty boy," the man said. "You a faggot, ain't you?"

"Actually," Larry said, slowly lifting his eyes. "I am."

The speed with which Larry stood up, grabbed the man by the throat, and pinned him to the table, startled everyone. He held him there easily, his face so close that their noses actually touched. "Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't break your neck."

"Get him off of me!" the man screamed.

Vincent had rounded the table before any of the man's cohorts could reach them. The first to make an approach was a tall man with an enormous gut. Vincent launched a thrust-kick that easily snapped the man's knee. He collapsed to the floor, howling like a wounded animal, and the others stopped dead in their tracks, realizing that this would be no simple brawl, but a conflict where people were seriously injured.

"Come on, you fucking rednecks," Luther growled. "Bring it."

"Call the police," one of the men shouted to the waitress. "And get an ambulance. Randy's knee is busted up real bad."

Vincent motioned to the door and everyone but Larry slowly filed out to the parking lot. "Okay, kid, let him go."

Larry grabbed the man by the back of his neck and pushed him toward his friends. He staggered across the floor but was caught by one of the others before he fell.

"Anybody else?" Vincent asked, watching the other men, an arrogant smile spreading across his face. "How about you? You wanna hang out with your buddy down there on the floor?"

"Just get the hell out of here!" one of the men shouted.

Very slowly, Vincent backed out of the diner. In minutes, he and the others were all piled into their rented Nissan Pathfinder, barreling down the state highway, headed for the relative safety of a motel in Connecticut.

Jose high-fived Vincent. "Jesus, that dude's knee was wrecked. You don't play, brother."

"He was a big guy," Vincent laughed. "I wasn't taking any chances."

"I hope they didn't get our plate," Charlie sighed from behind the driver's wheel.

Al Sawyer, a referee in his middle forties, sat quietly in the back seat staring out the window. He was a tall, lanky man with a comb-over that began just above his right ear and ended somewhere on the other side of his balding head. He still lived at home with his mother in New Hampshire, and in addition to his career as a referee, worked full-time as an assistant supermarket manager.

"You all right, Al?" Frank asked.

"Yeah," he said, face pale. "I guess so."

"Maybe we can grab something to eat once we get into Connecticut?" Larry said.

Charlie shook his head. "Are you kidding? They roll up the sidewalks at seven."

"Another night, another vending machine," Luther sighed.

Still under the control of an adrenaline rush, Vincent took several deep breaths and did his best to calm down. "I knew those guys were pussies," he said, looking around for further vindication. "You wanna bet that fat fuck walks with a limp even after the doctors patch him up?"

Vincent's eyes found Frank in the relative darkness. He met his gaze with a quick wink but said nothing.

Charlie pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. "I'm way too old for this shit."

"You're never too old to run for the car," Luther laughed. "You guys see him haul ass back there? Not bad for an old white man."

"Eat shit."

Exhausted, Frank closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the seat. He heard someone say, "It's a glamorous life, ain't it?" amidst laughter and moans as Luther began reciting one of his epic stories from tours past.

The following morning, Gus joined the troupe in New London. He and Frank had breakfast in a cheap restaurant across the street from the motel and then returned to Frank's room for a scheduled meeting with Vincent and Charlie. Instead of going directly to bed, as he should have the night before, Frank had stayed up swapping stories and drinking vodka with Benny Dunn until dawn, and was already feeling the effects of three hours of fitful sleep.

Charlie staggered in first, sipping a cup of fizzing water he swore cured even the most debilitating symptoms caused by excessive drinking, and collapsed into a chair in the corner. Through eyes that more closely resembled slits, he managed to find Gus sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette.

"You look like shit," Gus told him. "Only worse."

Charlie nonchalantly raised a buttock and squeezed out a thunderous fart. "That's for you."

"Lovely." Frank frowned and fanned the air with his hand.

"My classic breeding is only exceeded by my boyish good looks," Charlie cracked. What began as a hearty laugh soon became an uncontrollable cough emanating from deep within his chest.

Gus held out his pack of cigarettes. "Have a smoke, you wheezing bastard."

He hawked a ball of phlegm into a small plastic wastebasket next to the desk and to everyone's surprise, actually took one of the cigarettes and lit it. "Nothing a little nicotine can't fix."

Vincent knocked and entered the room looking rather drawn but none the worse for wear. "Good morning."

"That's debatable," Frank said.

"What's up?"

"We've got a problem."

"So what else is new?"

"A serious problem," Gus announced.

Vincent made it a point to look directly at Frank. "I'm listening."

"I just found out over breakfast," Frank said. "Go ahead and fill them in, Gus."

Gus crossed his legs and attempted a relaxed posture. "This week I started contacting former clients from last year in the hopes of organizing the first leg of our New England tour for September," he began uncomfortably, "and I found a disturbing pattern. The GCWA has already signed three of them away from us for shots this fall."

"Global Championship Wrestling Alliance," Charlie groaned. "That's John Turano's group. I knew this was coming."

"They're following the exact route of our tour from last season," Gus told them. "They've already contacted six of our clients in the last month or so, and from what I can tell they don't plan on stopping any time soon."

"Which ones did we lose?"

"Fall River, Dedham, and Lowell."

Vincent drew a slow, deep breath. "Sonofabitch."

"The GCWA is basically a three-man operation," Charlie said. "Turano, his brother Marvin, and his cousin Joey Loomis."

"But everybody knows Turano's a piece of shit," Vincent said. "Most marks outside the business who talk to him or his people directly are turned off in the first five minutes."

Charlie nodded. "All three of them are buffoons. They've got a few independent bookers scattered around from here to Florida, but nobody major. They write all of their business on cost. They're established – been in the business for almost twenty years. The only reason they never became major players is because they're hit-and-run artists. They used to work a lot of dates in New York and Jersey, but they ripped off so many people it got to the point that their reputation made it impossible for them to conduct business. That's why they relocated to Philadelphia and tried to monopolize that state. They still do shots up and down the East Coast when they can get them, but they're mainly a TV federation now. Granted, the only thing worse than their live shots is that TV show – and it only runs on the smaller cable outlets – but it generates a shit-load of house shows for the pricks. It's Turano's bread and butter. He packages thirteen-week runs, sells advertising, produces the show, and gives it to the goddamn stations. He makes his coin on the shots generated by the TV show and from the advertisers and sponsors directly. He's been running TV shots for more than ten years from here to Pennsylvania, and it pays off. He just sits there in Philly and takes the shots as they come to him. It's the only way they could survive once the business cleaned itself up and started involving real sales pros. Turano knew he and his boys couldn't compete with competent, articulate salespeople, so he went the TV route instead."