She leaned in close to him, puckered her lips as if to kiss his cheek, and whispered, 'Then don't call me honey, motherfucker.'
The others burst into laughter as the waitress turned on her heels and sauntered off, leaving Charlie stunned but laughing too. 'You okay, brother?' Jose laughed, patting him on the shoulder. 'You gonna be all right?'
Charlie buried his nose in the menu. 'Jesus what a bitch.'
While the others laughed and teased Charlie relentlessly, Vincent kept a watchful eye on the group of men a few booths away. They had huddled together more than once since their arrival and it was clear that they were planning some sort of approach. He sized them up one at a time, deciding which ones were more likely to give him trouble in the event of a physical confrontation.
'Frank's right,' Vincent said, once the laughter had subsided. 'Let's eat and take off. I don't like the look of that crowd over there.'
Luther nodded to the others. 'You heard the man.'
Despite the fact that both Jose Puerta and Larry O'Leary were young and unknown to anyone other than hardcore fans, it was apparent that they were, in fact, in the business. They both wore flashy weight-lifting pants and sleeveless sweatshirts. Jose wore a bandana, two large gold hoop earrings, and had shaved the tips of his eyebrows to give them the upward slant of a comic book villain, and a large gauze bandage covered a significant portion of Larry's forehead, concealing his self-inflicted wounds. The event had been highly advertised, and in a small community where everyone knew each other, these odd-looking creatures could only be part of the freak show that had come to town. Add to the mix that Luther Jefferson, although on the downside of what had been a fabulous career, was still often recognized on the street, sometimes by only casual fans of wrestling, and you had a situation that spelled trouble in most small towns after dark.
Before the waitress returned, one of the men from the table Vincent had been watching stood up and approached them. In his late thirties, he was compact, broad-shouldered and dressed in jeans and a soiled T-shirt. He needed a shave, and brown strands of greasy hair hung loosely beneath a baseball cap bearing the name of a heavy equipment manufacturer.
'Here we go,' Frank said quietly.
Charlie dropped the menu. 'Oh, Christ.'
'Everybody be cool,' Vincent told them. They had all been through this before, and, like children at a fire drill, knew exactly what to do. 'Nobody get hot.'
The other men giggled and suppressed nervous laughter as their friend inched closer. He stopped a few feet from the edge of the table and smiled. 'Hiya doing?'
'How are you?' Vincent said.
'Hey.' The man looked at Luther. 'You the Dark Train, ain't ya?'
Luther offered a guarded smile. 'That's right.'
'Me and my buddies saw the show over at the high school tonight,' he said, alcohol slurring his speech.
'Glad to hear it,' Luther said. 'You have a good time?'
'Hell, yeah. I been watching you on TV since I was a kid.' The man chuckled, then looked over his shoulder at his friends. 'What are you, sixty-freakin-years-old by now?'
'Not quite, brother, not quite.'
The man wiped his hands on his shirt. 'That show tonight was mostly young guys I never heard of and old farts that used to be big names. How come you ain't on TV no more? Haven't seen you on any of them big shows in years.'
'I wrestle for the ECPWL now.'
'But who the fuck's ever heard of that? I watch wrestling whenever it's on TV and I ain't never heard of no ECPWL.'
Vincent leaned forward, elbows on the table. 'We're not on television yet, but we will be soon. Keep an eye out for us.'
The man glanced at Vincent then turned his attention back to Luther. 'That guy you wrestled tonight, The Lariat, you kicked his ass good, huh?'
'I got the better of him tonight,' Luther told him. 'But he's a tough man.'
'Looked like a pussy to me.'
The middle-aged couple got up, quickly paid for their meal and left. The waitress remained perched behind the register, watching to see what might happen next.
'Take my word for it,' Luther smiled. 'He's pretty tough.'
The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his friends. 'Those guys say I'm pretty tough.'
'Look,' Vincent said, 'we just want to get something to eat and get the hell out of here, all right?'
He looked at Jose. 'And who are you supposed to be? Super Spic?'
'We're not looking for trouble,' Vincent told him.
'I ain't talking to you, dago-boy.'
Vincent's face showed no reaction. 'But I'm talking to you.'
The man turned to Larry O'Leary. 'Then we got this one. The American Hero, huh? Looks to me like you couldn't be more than a year out of high school. What war did you fight in, boy?'
Larry lowered his eyes. 'Why don't you go sit down?'
He leaned closer. 'Matter of fact, you sorta look like a queer to me. They oughta call you The American Fag.'
The other men began to laugh, and Frank shot Vincent a quick look. Hands held beneath the table, he slowly slid his pinkie ring from his finger and dropped it into his pocket. Charlie sighed and shook his head. 'We're only a minute or two from the highway,' he said softly.
'Tell the truth, pretty boy,' the man said. 'You a faggot, ain't you?'
'Actually,' Larry said, slowly lifting his eyes. 'I am.'
The speed with which Larry stood up, grabbed the man by the throat, and pinned him to the table, startled everyone. He held him there easily, his face so close that their noses actually touched. 'Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't break your neck.'
'Get him off of me!' the man screamed.
Vincent had rounded the table before any of the man's cohorts could reach them. The first to make an approach was a tall man with an enormous gut. Vincent launched a thrust-kick that easily snapped the man's knee. He collapsed to the floor, howling like a wounded animal, and the others stopped dead in their tracks, realizing that this would be no simple brawl, but a conflict where people were seriously injured.
'Come on, you fucking rednecks,' Luther growled. 'Bring it.'
'Call the police,' one of the men shouted to the waitress. 'And get an ambulance. Randy's knee is busted up real bad.'
Vincent motioned to the door and everyone but Larry slowly filed out to the parking lot. 'Okay, kid, let him go.'
Larry grabbed the man by the back of his neck and pushed him toward his friends. He staggered across the floor but was caught by one of the others before he fell.
'Anybody else?' Vincent asked, watching the other men, an arrogant smile spreading across his face. 'How about you? You wanna hang out with your buddy down there on the floor?'
'Just get the hell out of here!' one of the men shouted.
Very slowly, Vincent backed out of the diner. In minutes, he and the others were all piled into their rented Nissan Pathfinder, barreling down the state highway, headed for the relative safety of a motel in Connecticut.
Jose high-fived Vincent. 'Jesus, that dude's knee was wrecked. You don't play, brother.'
'He was a big guy,' Vincent laughed. 'I wasn't taking any chances.'
'I hope they didn't get our plate,' Charlie sighed from behind the driver's wheel.
Al Sawyer, a referee in his middle forties, sat quietly in the back seat staring out the window. He was a tall, lanky man with a comb-over that began just above his right ear and ended somewhere on the other side of his balding head. He still lived at home with his mother in New Hampshire, and in addition to his career as a referee, worked full-time as an assistant supermarket manager.
'You all right, Al?' Frank asked.
'Yeah,' he said, face pale. 'I guess so.'
