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.'
