Greg Gifune - Night Work

Frank took her hand and smiled warmly. "It's our pleasure. Corey's a great kid, ma'am, and we're happy to help."

"He's done nothing but talk about this show for weeks," she told them, still teary-eyed. "Now, after all this, it should just about make his year. Please thank Mr. Jefferson for me."

"I'll do that," Frank said. "We've also got a package for Corey in the locker room. Some autographed pictures and things we thought he might like."

Without hesitation, she leaned over and hugged all three men in turn. "Thanks again."

"Take care," Vincent said, watching her return to her seat.

"I guess every once and a while even we do something good," Frank grinned, elbowing Vincent. "Even you, Satan."

"Speak for yourself."

Gus shook his head. "Don't you have any feelings at all?"

"Sure," Vincent yawned. "I've got deep feelings for that blonde over there. Mostly in my nuts."

Benny emerged from the crowd and joined them at the rear of the room. "Can I talk to you guys for a second?"

"Shoot," Vincent told him.

He glanced over his shoulder at Elliot's concession table. "I had one of my guys watch him like you told me, Vin. He's been pocketing the cash on every third sale. Fucking guy's good, though. Magician's hands."

Vincent turned to Frank. "What'd I tell you?"

"Thanks, Ben," Frank said. "Make sure your guy gets a few extra bucks in his envelope. Tell Charlie I said it was all right."

With a quick nod, Benny returned to his duties at ringside.

Gus made a fist and shook it in the air. "That sonofabitch. We should kick his ass."

"Go ahead," Vincent said.

Gus cleared his throat and immediately assumed a less threatening posture. "Well, I would but… with my training I have to be careful."

"Yeah," Vincent cracked, rolling his eyes, "you might annoy him to death."

"Hey, I don't need the cops down on my head, man." Gus hoisted his pants up high on his hips. "You guys probably weren't aware of this but my hands are registered as deadly weapons with quite a few police departments."

"Oh, Jesus H. Christ." Vincent moaned and headed for the locker room. "Not the registered hands story."

"What the hell is his problem?" Gus asked.

Frank gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Go tell Elliot I want to see him in the locker room right after the intermission."

"What if he asks why?"

"Tell him you don't know."

Elliot entered the locker room with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. The wrestlers were congregated on one side of the room, Frank, Vincent, Gus and Charlie on the other.

"Luther Jefferson!" Elliot barked. "You, sir, are without a doubt, the man. Does this guy know how to work a room or does he – does he know how to work a goddamn room? Beautiful – absolutely beautiful is what that was. With the – with the kid and all – no one does it any better!" Luther, a towel draped over his sweat-drenched body, smiled and waved to him. Elliot approached Frank and the others, seemingly unaware of what was about to happen. "Hey, Frank, you wanted to see me, babe?"

Vincent turned and hit him full in the face. Elliot fell forward and to the side, his knee catching one of the benches and sending him sprawling onto the cement floor. The buzz of conversation in the room came to a halt as everyone looked to see what had happened.

"Get up," Vincent said evenly.

Elliot rolled over onto his back. Blood had already begun to ooze from his split lip. "Oh my – oh my God," he gasped. "Help… somebody – I think I'm having a heart attack."

Vincent reached down, grabbed a handful of shirt, pulled Elliot to his feet and slammed him against a row of lockers. "You're not lucky enough to have a heart attack."

"What the hell is this all about?"

"My money."

Elliot's eyes darted back and forth across the room, two blurred orbs behind the thick lenses of glass. "I don't – what does that – what are you talking about?"

"Just give him the money, Elliot," Charlie said.

He reached into his pockets with a shaking hand and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. "Fifty. I only skimmed fifty bucks. For God's sake, fellas, I – "

"Quiet." Vincent ripped the money from his hand and stuffed it into Elliot's mouth. "You think you got balls big enough to steal from me? Is that it?"

Elliot shook his head violently but didn't attempt to speak until Vincent removed the money and handed it to Charlie. "I'm sorry – so sorry, guys, it's – it's just that it's been such a bad run for me this tour. I – Frank – I tried to talk to you about – "

"And what did I say, Elliot?" Frank asked.

When there was no immediate answer, Vincent slammed him against the lockers a second time. "What did he say, Elliot?"

"No. He said no."

Vincent took him by the scruff of the neck and sat him down on the bench. He ran his hands through his hair and looked across the room at the wrestlers who all stood mesmerized. "When somebody steals from us," he said evenly. "They're stealing from all of you."

"I'm sorry," Elliot blurted out. "Please, I – "

"You're out," Vincent told him.

"Yes, I – I understand. I'll be packed up and gone in – "

"Leave the table and all the product. It belongs to us now. You're gonna take your snot-nosed little nephew with you and you're gonna walk out that door and never come anywhere near me again. Cabeesh, asshole?"

Elliot nodded wearily. "All right, Vin. All right."

Vincent swung open the door to one of the metal lockers. "But first, you're gonna put your hand in this locker."

Tears welled in his eyes as his lower lip began to tremble. "But… Vincent, you don't have to do this."

"Vin," Charlie said, as if to stop him, but one glaring look from Vincent changed his mind. He spoke in Elliot's direction but found it impossible to establish eye contact. "There's nothing I can do, Elliot."

"But Charlie, we go back – "

"I'm sorry."

Vincent smiled triumphantly. "Put your hand in the locker, douche bag."

"You… you can't…"

"Make me repeat myself again," Vincent told him, just above a whisper, "and I'll beat you to death right here, right now."

Elliot made a whimpering sound and slowly slid his hand into the open locker. He took a deep breath in an effort to control himself, and then began to cry uncontrollably, like a child.

"Jesus Christ, Vin," Luther said, standing.

"Am I talking to you?" Vincent asked without looking at him.

"Come on, man, that's enough."

Slowly, Vincent turned his head to meet Luther's gaze. "Go take a shower, champ. I'll let you know if I need you."

Luther stepped forward. "In the old days, if a promoter ever talked to me like that I'd just lock the door on him."

"So lock the door," Vincent told him.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that."

"It just did."

"You're gonna let him do this?" he asked Frank.

Frank lit a cigarette, left it between his lips, then moved behind Elliot and covered his mouth with both hands. "I'm the one who told him to do it, Train."

After a moment, Luther nodded and turned away. "Fuck it. Ain't none of my business anyway."

Even with his mouth covered the muffled screams could be heard as Vincent slammed the door across the back of Elliot's hand three times. Frank released him and he slumped to the floor, holding his shattered hand with the other as he curled into a fetal position. "Gus," Vincent said, "get this piece of shit out of my sight before I kill him."

"Is he conscious?" Gus bent over to get a better look at him. "Well, sort of."

Charlie, white as chalk, stared at Vincent with a blank expression. "Here," he said, holding out the fifty dollars Elliot had stolen.

"You keep it."