Greg Gifune - Night Work

Frank shrugged. "Then what the hell do I tell him?"

"Make something up. Tell him you book acts for local nightclubs. That way it sounds like you're in a similar line of work and you're not some accountant or something. Remember, no matter what you say or do, until you prove different, everyone you run into in this business is gonna think you're a mark anyway. It ain't no different than a con game at the carnival, Frank. Same principle, cabeesh?"

"Yeah," Frank nodded. "Cabeesh."

Paulie struggled up off the couch, waddled to the TV and turned it off. "Rain's inside, you're not. All he wants to hear is what you can do for him. If he's gonna last he's got to expand, and he can't do it alone or he would've by now. Sell him on your business skills, it's your best chance."

"What else do I need to know?"

"More than I can tell you," Paulie said. "You'll pick it up as you go. All I ask is one favor, all right?"

Frank stood up. "Of course."

"You know my son, Raymond?"

"Sure."

"He's fucking stunadz," Paulie snapped. "I love him, don't get me wrong, but he's fucking stunadz. I got him into the business, showed him the ropes, and what's he do? He goes in and rips people off – and not just marks – the boys, other promoters, everybody. He almost ruined my name." Paulie moved closer, his once cheerful face turned dark. "Jesus Christ couldn't tell you how ashamed I was – my own flesh and blood acting like such an asshole. Still, I forgave him. Raymond's my only child, what else could I do?"

Frank swallowed with some difficulty. "Don't worry about – "

"I want you to understand something. I would never let anyone get away with making me look foolish again. Do what you got to do, just don't ever make me regret opening this door for you, Frank." Paulie offered his hand. "Just don't do it."

Frank shook his hand. It was clammy to the touch and damp with perspiration. "I'll never do anything to embarrass you, Paulie. You have my word."

"C'mon," he said, all smiles again. "I want to show you something."

They left the den and Frank followed his host through the kitchen into a small windowless room with wall-to-wall carpeting.

"This is where I come when I really want to relax," Paulie said, switching on an overhead light. A small leather bar with matching stools filled the back wall, and a trophy case of silver and glass stood prominently to the left of the doorway, loaded with awards and four ornate championship belts. An official-size pool table filled the center of the room, and nearly every inch of wall space was covered with identically framed photographs of Paulie with several wrestling stars and television people during various stages of his career.

"This is incredible," Frank mumbled, looking around.

Paulie went directly to the bar and removed two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "Have a drink with me."

"A drink? It's fucking ten o'clock in the morning."

"C'mon, c'mon, it's good for ya."

Frank hesitated in front of the trophy case and studied the belts. "I remember seeing that belt on TV years ago."

"Danny Crawton wore that strap." Paulie moved out from behind the bar with a drink in each hand. "He was my first champion. Used to call him Golden Boy, remember?"

"When I was a kid."

Paulie handed Frank his drink. "Sonofabitch could work a room like nobody I ever saw. Him and Vampire Zoltan used to whip the marks into such a frenzy, it'd sound like the whole goddamn building was gonna come tumbling down." Paulie grinned. "Take a hard look around, Frank. Even though most of the cash I made over the years is gone, I got memories nobody can ever take from me. It ain't exactly your ordinary kinda life, but if you're good at it it's one hell of a ride."

"I'll bet."

"You just remember to use your head. The people in this business aren't brain surgeons, but they're not stupid either. They know the angles, and they got big culones, you know what I mean? Hell, if you got half the brains your old man does you'll do fine."

Frank put a hand on Paulie's fleshy shoulder. "I won't forget this."

"Salud, Frank."

As he raised the glass to his lips, Frank felt himself smile. "Salud."

Gus pulled up in front of the apartment building in his GMC Jimmy and laid on the horn. He was a few minutes late, which was expected. Dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, Frank hopped into the Jimmy with briefcase in hand. "Sorry I'm late," Gus said. "It took me twenty minutes to convince my father he had to spend the night at my cousin Martin's house and another ten to cart his ass over there."

"No problem. Thanks for driving, man."

Frank glanced at his friend without trying to be too obvious. He'd hoped Gus might surprise him and actually look presentable, but it was not to be. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, black rubber-soled Oxfords, a severely wrinkled shirt and a thick-knot blue tie. His wristwatch was inexpensive, the rings on his fingers fake, and his glasses scratched and old. Frank spent a few seconds trying to decide if the coffee stains on the front of Gus's shirt were worse than the assortment decorating his clip-on tie, then remembered what Sandy had said and shifted his eyes to the wig. It looked as if it had never been washed. Frank wondered how the man had succeeded in sales, but despite his glaring flaws, he had. In fact, Gus was the best salesman Frank had ever known, and he'd known plenty. Why he never had money was something of a mystery.

"Hey," Gus smiled, "I've got the newer vehicle, why shouldn't I drive?"

"I appreciate it."

"You're picking up the room, right?"

"Yeah, I'll cover the hotel."

"That a new suit?"

"Relatively."

Gus nodded. "Mine too. I just picked it up. Ran me like six hundred, but what the fuck, a guy's got to look good, right?"

Of course the suit was several years old and could not have cost more than fifty dollars, but most of what Gus said was untrue. The depth, or number of lies he told on any given day was often beyond his control, and even though he seemed to understand that no one believed the majority of things he said, it didn't discourage him in the least.

Lying was only one of many peculiarities Frank tolerated, though he wasn't sure why. He'd never been an abundantly patient person, but when it came to Gus, his patience was virtually limitless.

After a lengthy and awkward silence, Gus said, "I appreciate you bringing me in on this."

Frank was reminded of the nights they'd worked together at the store. All those hours on break, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, talking and dreaming, trying to figure a way out. If nothing else, Gus had been a loyal friend for six years, and in Frank's mind, that not only had to count for something, it cancelled out some of his more flagrant imperfections. "Just be sure you keep quiet if things don't pan out," Frank told him. "The last thing we need is to catch shit at work."

"Fuck them," Gus moaned. "I've spent most of my life standing around one sales floor or another. I get home from work now and my feet and ankles hurt so bad I end up soaking them in hot water and salt. That's why I got the back problems I have, all that time on my feet, Frank, it's just not good. And there's the old football injuries," he added quickly. "Between the two it's a miracle I can walk at all. If it weren't for my martial arts training I'd be screwed. I don't care how banged up I get, I'll be kicking ass until they drop me in the ground."

Having witnessed Gus struggle through a job better suited to someone in their twenties was one of the largest factors motivating Frank's desire to escape the retail field. In truth, when Frank looked at Gus Lemieux, he saw everything he didn't want to be in another ten or fifteen years.

Gus lit a cigarette. "I ever tell you about the time those five punks hassled me at the mall?"