Greg Gifune - Night Work

Luther was sitting on the couch, one of his massive arms draped over his wife Claire's shoulder. He rose to greet Sandy, taking her small hand gently into his own which Sandy thought was roughly the size of a baseball glove. Claire was about Sandy's height, ten years older, perhaps fifteen pounds heavier, and infinitely worldlier. She also shook Sandy's hand, if for no other reason than to extricate it from Luther's grasp. Claire's thick brown hair was stylish, her designer eyeglasses unmistakably expensive and her manner bubbly and anxiously friendly, which seemed somehow to overshadow her rather average looks and slightly chunky figure. It was clear from her sassy attitude that Claire was more than a match for the towering man at her side.

Steve and Pepper Dalton were both in their thirties. Steve seemed to constantly smile with his blue-gray eyes, as if easily amused. He struck Sandy as the kind of man who knew he was attractive to women and made it obvious that the feeling was more than mutual. His light-colored hair was brush-cut, and he possessed the square-jawed good looks of a comic-book superhero. Just over six feet tall, he had a body that could have been sculpted from Grecian marble, and was dressed in tight black jeans, an even tighter tank top and a pair of cowboy boots. A former wrestler, Steve had worked briefly for Frank and Charlie before moving to the big league circuit. On the verge of stardom, a severe back injury had forced him to retire from the ring. He had recently signed with a major federation as a manager to several big name heels, and also occupied his time with a strip club he owned in Hartford. Sandy remembered seeing him on television, a loud-mouthed character not at all like the soft-spoken man she had just met.

Pepper was a former dancer at Steve's club, only recently retired, and the white spandex body suit she wore with a paisley sash cinched around her waist explained why she had been such a popular dancer. Red Hot Pepper, as she had been known, was a tall peroxide blonde with a blinding smile and a chest that could have had its own zip code. Her eyes were heavily made up with blue eye shadow, and she wore the sort of lipstick that is applied with a brush, the color a startling red.

Sal Leoni was the final guest at the party. He was a sickly-thin, fortyish man with thinning, gray-brown hair. He wore dark glasses and sat by himself in a chair in the corner, oddly content to stare down the hallway at the front door. He seemed to be expecting something, or someone. "Nice to meet you," he said. He shook Sandy's hand formally, as though at a cocktail party at a European embassy. He all but clicked his heels. Despite the late August heat he wore a brown herringbone wool jacket, buttoned tightly. Sandy did not rule out that this odd man might be concealing a weapon.

Having circled the large room, Sandy and Beth found themselves back at the bar. It was obvious that Charlie and Frank had stopped talking about whatever serious matter they had been discussing as the women approached. Sandy noticed that Frank had put aside his beer and was now drinking some amber liquor on the rocks, probably scotch.

"Did you meet everyone?" Charlie asked Sandy with a smile. She nodded. "And you're still here?"

Beth rolled her eyes. "After Charlie has a few drinks he thinks he's Johnny Carson. More like Ed McMahon, I'd say. We'll be in the kitchen if you think of anything interesting to say." She led Sandy down another small hallway to the kitchen. Turning the corner, Sandy noticed Luther and Claire were now dancing together, more like hugging, really, as they swayed to some music other than that which was now on the stereo. Charlie and Frank had resumed their discussion, drinks and cigarettes in hand, their heads bowed conspiratorially together.

The kitchen was all white and stainless steel, immaculate and oddly intimidating. It looked like an operating room. Bread and vegetables were spread over a large butcher-block table. "I always wait until the last minute to get things done," Beth sighed.

"Can I help?" Sandy asked.

"You don't mind?"

"Don't be silly, not at all."

Beth folded her arms across her chest and smiled. "I'm glad you came."

"Thanks."

"Why don't you make a salad while I cut up the potatoes." Beth walked behind Sandy, around the side of the butcher-block to the refrigerator.

"Tell me about yourself," Sandy said quietly. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a nurse."

"What area do you work in?"

"ICU."

"That must be fascinating."

"At times." She smiled. "It's nice to have – I don't know – a direct impact on people. Especially kids. But it's never easy dealing with death, even when it's a constant aspect of what you do. After a while you force yourself to accept it as a part of life. If nothing else, death certainly doesn't discriminate."

Sandy found herself surprised at how articulate Beth was, particularly after having met her husband. They seemed an odd pair at best, and acted as if the main point between them was more tolerance than love.

"What about you?" Beth asked.

"I'm a receptionist."

"With a face and body like that, I would've thought you were a model, maybe an actress," Sal said suddenly. Neither woman had seen him enter the kitchen and were now surprised, unpleasantly. Sal grinned behind his dark glasses. It was a smile that didn't show his teeth, just a thin grim line of a mouth. His face was lined and unhealthy-looking.

Beth gave him a cross look. "Try not to scare the guests, okay?" Sal turned back down the hallway, stopping in the bathroom before returning to the living room. "Obviously Sal can be crude at times, and he's been known to have a rather peculiar sense of humor, but he's harmless, I guess."

"He's kind of creepy," Sandy said.

She watched Sandy as if expecting her to continue. When she didn't, Beth said, "So, you're a receptionist?"

"At a bank."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Not especially."

Both women laughed, and began to prepare the food.

In the living room Frank and Steve were huddled near the bar. "How's the back holding up?"

"Some days are better than others, brother."

"How about the club?"

"It's taking up more and more of my time. We're packing them in though. I didn't plan to still be in the wrestling game at this point, but it's hard to walk away from the money I'm making, even as a manager." Steve mixed himself a fresh drink. "Charlie tells me you guys are tearing things up on the independent circuit."

Frank sipped his drink. "Can't complain."

"I've been trying to convince Steve to work part-time at the school," Luther said, joining them at the bar. "I could use some help with training, but he's too busy watching all those sloppy asses bounce in that dive he's running."

Steve laughed. "There isn't a sloppy ass in the bunch. They're tight, brother. And I mean tight."

"Why don't you guys go light the grill," Charlie said.

As though commanded, Sal opened the blinds concealing one of the sliding glass doors. He cautiously peered around the large deck and adjacent swimming pool as if expecting to find intruders.

Steve caught Frank staring at Sal and nudged him gently with his elbow. "He's cool," he said quietly. "He's with me."

"If you say so." Frank shrugged. People like Steve always had partners, not the kind anyone ever saw or heard of, but rather the kind who sent men like Sal to tag along and watch over their interests.

As Sal slipped quietly outside, Charlie escorted Frank, Steve and Luther to the kitchen. He removed a waxy brown box from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. "Ain't it amazing," he said, "what'll fall off the back of a truck." He opened the box to reveal a dozen slick red, thick London broil steaks.

"It's magic, Charlie," Beth said, lighting a cigarette.