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  "I'll try to contain my excitement."

  "You've got a lousy attitude, Frank. That's always been your problem. You're bright, nice-looking, and you have a lot of talent. But you've got this huge chip on your shoulder, and it holds you back."

  "I want us to have a better life. Now's the time to take a chance, while we're still young."

  Sandy stepped into a pair of black pumps. "You're twenty-eight years old. The only thing it's time to do is grow up."

  "Just because you go through life with blinders on, don't expect me to."

  "Whatever," she snapped. "I've got to get going."

  Frank nodded wearily. Sandy's heels clicked against the kitchen floor as she crossed the apartment, and he knew she'd leave without so much as a kiss or another word. When Sandy was fed up, she disappeared. Just like that.

  The door slammed, and Frank's thoughts turned immediately to Providence.

  ***

  Paulie Caruso had once been one of the most influential and powerful professional wrestling promoters in the country. From the late fifties to the late seventies he'd controlled all the action from the northern-most point in Maine, to the tip of Cape Cod. Known for being nearly as flamboyant as many of his wrestlers, Caruso was a squat, bulbous man who never left the house without his oversized fedora, steel-toed cowboy boots and remarkably cheap linen suits. Were it not for his wide, constant smiles and jovial manner, his fleshly face and deep-seated eyes would have been intimidating.

  With control slipping to younger, better-financed rivals and his health waning, Paulie retired from the business in 1978 and turned things over to his son, Raymond, who managed to lose in two years everything his father had spent a lifetime building. Even once his heyday had come and gone, Paulie was still spoken of fondly and extended respect by those in the business. Raymond, on the other hand, considered useless, was shunned.

  Frank was seven years old the first time he met Paulie, and had been even more impressed with him than he was with the show. Frank's father and Paulie were childhood friends who had grown up in the same neighborhood in New Bedford, and although they had taken vastly different career paths, they remained casual friends over the years.

  Although Paulie's federation toured all over New England, his headquarters was a small building in Brockton he owned called the Caruso Sports Arena. Built like a tower, fans were hoarded in and seated almost directly on top of each other on cheap, portable bleacher-like contraptions unique to Paulie's place. To see the arena in person was to see the fruit of shady business dealings at its worst. Since the building had been hastily constructed and built with only jamming as many people into a confined space as possible in mind, it was clear the moment one stepped inside that even the most basic building and fire codes had been ignored. But Paulie had enough money and influence to make the local police and politicians look the other way. Any permits or licenses he needed, he bought. Riots were a usual occurrence, as were lawsuits from patrons who were routinely injured, but Paulie just kept rolling along, throwing money at those he could silence, using muscle on those he couldn't, and packing three to four thousand fans into a space designed to accommodate approximately half that number every Friday and Saturday night.

  Every month or so Frank's father would take him to the arena to see the matches. There were always vacant seats at ringside set aside for VIPs, and Paulie would seat Frank and his father as close to the action as possible. Frank was delighted by the visits, and often got to meet and get the autographs of some of his favorites star, courtesy of Paulie. But even as a child Frank understood that such outings were labors of love for his father. He was an educated and learned man who was decidedly uncomfortable in both the arena setting and in the company of men like Paulie.

  But for a young boy like Frank, Paulie Caruso was a god. One of the local television stations broadcast the bouts from the arena every other Saturday night, and Paulie was always right there in front of the camera along with his wrestlers. To be just a showman or just a businessman was commonplace. But to be both, it seemed to Frank, was the ultimate.

  Years later, Paulie spent his time puttering around his modest home in Brockton. He was twice divorced, and his son had moved to Florida to pursue some new business scheme, so most of his time was spent alone. He was thrilled when Frank called.

  The screen door opened to reveal a much heavier version of Paulie than Frank had remembered. The linen suit was gone, replaced by cheap, nondescript slacks, a T-shirt, dress socks and sandals. The fedora was all that remained. "Frankie," he smiled, waving him in. "How are you?"

  "Hello, Mr. Caruso."

  The old man slapped him on the back with more force than he appeared to have and laughed loudly. "Mr. Caruso? I known you since you was a kid. I known your father since we were dumping green. Leave that formal crap outside. You call me, Paulie, okay?"

  Frank followed him through the kitchen into a small den. The shades on both windows were drawn. A console television filled one corner, a vinyl recliner and crane-necked lamp another. In front of the couch was a TV tray with a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal, a mug of coffee, and a copy of Hustler.

  "You want a cup of coffee or something?"

  "No, thanks." Frank smiled. "I'm all set."

  Paulie motioned to the recliner. "Sit, sit."

  He sat on the edge of the chair, waited until Paulie had positioned himself on the couch before he spoke. "I really appreciate you seeing me, Paulie."

  "How's the old man doing?"

  "Good."

  "He still working?"

  "Oh yeah."

  "He's a good man, your father."

  "Yeah, thanks."

  "You tell him I said hello, all right?"

  Frank had no intention of telling his father he'd had any contact with Paulie at all, but nodded anyway. "I'll do that."

  Paulie glared at the cereal. "Doctor makes me eat a bowl of this slop every day. If I don't eat it, I get constipated something fucking awful, Frank. I end up squatting on the toilet trying to push a turd the size of a fucking grapefruit out of my ass, and trust me, that ain't exactly a fun time, you know?"

  Frank nodded, unsure of how to respond.

  "If the oatmeal don't get me," he chuckled, holding up the magazine, "the snatch does. I don't know why, but looking at pussy always gives me the runs. Ain't that the strangest goddamn thing, Frank?"

  "Yeah, I'd have to say it is."

  "But who the hell wants to hear about that, right?" He tossed the magazine onto the couch, leaned back, and pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. "I got things all set up for you tonight in Providence."

  Frank felt a rush of relief. "Great. Who am I meeting with?"

  "Fella by the name of Rain. Charlie Rain."

  "Doesn't ring a bell."

  "He's a min."

  "Min?"

  "Short for minnow," Paulie explained, lighting his cigar with an unsettling sucking sound. "It means he's small change in the business. Still, it's the best way in. All the other independents are gonna waste your time. They'll bleed you and cut you loose. Rain's been working New England and parts of New York for about two years now, so he's new to the game himself. Does mostly high school and small college stuff, an occasional state fair, but that's it. From what I hear, the boys respect him. They tell me he's an honest, harmless sort of guy. Pays on time, pays fair, and he's easy to work with. He earned his chops with Big Louie Bazooka."

  "The wrestler?"

  "No, the hair stylist, of course the wrestler. Louie wrestled when you were a kid. After he retired he went to work for a few of the big boys, learned the promoting game and then branched out on his own. He ran ad-book shows for a few years. You know those sleazy police union deals where they set up a telephone boiler room and pressure people to make donations in exchange for a couple tickets to the show? I guess he took Charlie Rain under his wing and taught him the business. But about a year ago Louie had a stroke and wound up in some nursing home in upstate New York. He could be dead by now, I
got no idea."

  Frank lit a cigarette. "Anything else you can tell me about Rain?"

  "I spoke to him myself. He seems like a nice enough guy, very respectful. He's in his early forties and comes from a sales background, but the story going around is that when he was in his early twenties he played on some TV show for a couple seasons. Some bullshit about this doctor and his wife who adopt all these fucked up kids. Anyway, the show only lasted two seasons and Rain went into a tailspin and blew all his cash. I hear he was a dope-head, and he's supposedly still got a bit of a drinking problem, so keep that in mind."

  "How do you mean?"

  Paulie offered a wry smile. "Drinking's a weakness, right? See, Rain wants to expand. He's looking around for a deal but Louie taught him right, so he don't trust nobody in the game. That means he's either gotta find some mark businessman with a few bucks to burn, or a young hustler like you who can make things happen."

  "You think he'll trust me then?"

  "Of course not." Paulie shrugged. "Still your best shot, though. Out of respect for me, he's willing to talk to you. Remember, this is a closed business. You don't get in unless you know somebody, and sometimes even that's not enough."

  Frank nodded. "I understand."

  "No, you don't. It's a whole different world, and don't nobody know what really goes on in it unless you're there. Of course, it's changed a lot since I worked it. In my day it was easier. There weren't more than four or five guys in the whole country you had to deal with back then. That all changed a couple years ago when the big boys started running wrestling like a fucking cartoon instead of a sport. All this marketing and sales bullshit - fuck that. I packed fans in from here to the Canadian border, Frank, and you know what sold the tickets? Heat, rivalries between the guys. I sold the sport on what went on inside the ring, not all this comic book shit they're doing nowadays. It's all hype, Frank. They spend more time screaming and yelling, doing interviews and selling toys than they do working. Most of these stiffs in the game couldn't hold a fucking candle to the boys I worked with. I'm talking real headliners, guys who knew how to work. Guys who knew how to keep their mouths shut."

  "How should I approach Rain?" Frank asked.

  Paulie scratched his crotch. "Tell me what you know."

  "I graduated from school in Boston in 1981. I learned the broadcasting and promotions business, worked in radio for a couple of years - "

  "Doing what?"

  "Promotional sales. The money sucked and job security was even worse. I wanted to try and get in on the ground floor with one of the big event promotions or talent-booking firms in New York or Los Angeles, but I was newly married and my wife didn't want to move. Needless to say, that didn't leave me a hell of a lot of options."

  "Broads - always the fucking problem - and wives are the worst. Pain the nuts."

  Frank forced a bit of laughter. "I had to find something steady that paid decent, so I took a retail sales job. I'm still there, only I'm assistant manager now."

  "What do you sell?"

  "White goods."

  Paulie frowned. "Sheets and pillows, shit like that?"

  "No, no. Refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers. I work at Appliance Mart over in Fairhaven."

  Paulie seemed unimpressed, and Frank didn't blame him. He sat quietly smoking his cigar for a few minutes then asked, "You do anything else?"

  "I get in on a scam now and then for extra cash," Frank admitted, "but nothing serious."

  "Ever been pinched?"

  "Not as an adult."

  "What'd they get you for as a minor?"

  "Assault and battery. Twice."

  Paulie laughed. "Got a temper, huh?"

  "I'm mellowing."

  "Why you wanna get involved in wrestling, Frank? Why not music or boxing or something else?"

  "I always loved wrestling, used to watch it all the time up until a few years ago."

  "Christ, don't ever say that to nobody else. Makes you sound like a mark."

  "Sorry, I - "

  "Don't be sorry, just watch what you say is what I'm trying to tell you."

  "Between you and me, Paulie, I don't want to spend the rest of my life selling stoves to housewives, you know what I'm saying? Maybe if I can make a few moves and get in with the right people I can turn things around."

  Paulie considered what Frank had said before responding. "Does your old man know about this?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I guess not." He sighed. "It's just that I always liked your father, Frank, and I wouldn't wanna do anything to make him think less of me."

  Frank wasn't sure that was possible.

  "With all due respect, Paulie, I'm a grown man."

  "Which makes me one dried up old fuck," he said with a laugh. "Okay, kid, we'll leave him out of it."

  "Good. Now, when I meet with Rain, should I be honest with him?"

  "Hell no." Paulie sipped his coffee. "You got to understand something. Except for a handful of guys, everybody in the business acts like they're more than they really are. The problem is, nobody ever knows for sure who's telling the truth and who isn't, so you don't trust nobody and you go about your business assuming everybody you deal with is full of shit. It's just the way things are. You never shoot the works, understand? Keep Rain guessing. He'll do the same to you."

  "What did you tell him about me?"

  "Only that you're a friend of a friend and a man that's to be treated with respect," Paulie answered. "All he knows is that you're a businessman of some sort, looking to get into the game. If you go telling him you sell refrigerators or some shit like that, he'll laugh right in your face and you'll never get another shot. He'll spread your name around like manure, and nobody in the business'll ever take you seriously."

  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 overhea
d 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."