'Maybe we can grab something to eat once we get into Connecticut?' Larry said.
Charlie shook his head. 'Are you kidding? They roll up the sidewalks at seven.'
'Another night, another vending machine,' Luther sighed.
Still under the control of an adrenaline rush, Vincent took several deep breaths and did his best to calm down. 'I knew those guys were pussies,' he said, looking around for further vindication. 'You wanna bet that fat fuck walks with a limp even after the doctors patch him up?'
Vincent's eyes found Frank in the relative darkness. He met his gaze with a quick wink but said nothing.
Charlie pushed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. 'I'm way too old for this shit.'
'You're never too old to run for the car,' Luther laughed. 'You guys see him haul ass back there? Not bad for an old white man.'
'Eat shit.'
Exhausted, Frank closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the seat. He heard someone say, 'It's a glamorous life, ain't it?' amidst laughter and moans as Luther began reciting one of his epic stories from tours past.
The following morning, Gus joined the troupe in New London. He and Frank had breakfast in a cheap restaurant across the street from the motel and then returned to Frank's room for a scheduled meeting with Vincent and Charlie. Instead of going directly to bed, as he should have the night before, Frank had stayed up swapping stories and drinking vodka with Benny Dunn until dawn, and was already feeling the effects of three hours of fitful sleep.
Charlie staggered in first, sipping a cup of fizzing water he swore cured even the most debilitating symptoms caused by excessive drinking, and collapsed into a chair in the corner. Through eyes that more closely resembled slits, he managed to find Gus sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette.
'You look like shit,' Gus told him. 'Only worse.'
Charlie nonchalantly raised a buttock and squeezed out a thunderous fart. 'That's for you.'
'Lovely.' Frank frowned and fanned the air with his hand.
'My classic breeding is only exceeded by my boyish good looks,' Charlie cracked. What began as a hearty laugh soon became an uncontrollable cough emanating from deep within his chest.
Gus held out his pack of cigarettes. 'Have a smoke, you wheezing bastard.'
He hawked a ball of phlegm into a small plastic wastebasket next to the desk and to everyone's surprise, actually took one of the cigarettes and lit it. 'Nothing a little nicotine can't fix.'
Vincent knocked and entered the room looking rather drawn but none the worse for wear. 'Good morning.'
'That's debatable,' Frank said.
'What's up?'
'We've got a problem.'
'So what else is new?'
'A serious problem,' Gus announced.
Vincent made it a point to look directly at Frank. 'I'm listening.'
'I just found out over breakfast,' Frank said. 'Go ahead and fill them in, Gus.'
Gus crossed his legs and attempted a relaxed posture. 'This week I started contacting former clients from last year in the hopes of organizing the first leg of our New England tour for September,' he began uncomfortably, 'and I found a disturbing pattern. The GCWA has already signed three of them away from us for shots this fall.'
'Global Championship Wrestling Alliance,' Charlie groaned. 'That's John Turano's group. I knew this was coming.'
'They're following the exact route of our tour from last season,' Gus told them. 'They've already contacted six of our clients in the last month or so, and from what I can tell they don't plan on stopping any time soon.'
'Which ones did we lose?'
'Fall River, Dedham, and Lowell.'
Vincent drew a slow, deep breath. 'Sonofabitch.'
'The GCWA is basically a three-man operation,' Charlie said. 'Turano, his brother Marvin, and his cousin Joey Loomis.'
'But everybody knows Turano's a piece of shit,' Vincent said. 'Most marks outside the business who talk to him or his people directly are turned off in the first five minutes.'
Charlie nodded. 'All three of them are buffoons. They've got a few independent bookers scattered around from here to Florida, but nobody major. They write all of their business on cost. They're established – been in the business for almost twenty years. The only reason they never became major players is because they're hit-and-run artists. They used to work a lot of dates in New York and Jersey, but they ripped off so many people it got to the point that their reputation made it impossible for them to conduct business. That's why they relocated to Philadelphia and tried to monopolize that state. They still do shots up and down the East Coast when they can get them, but they're mainly a TV federation now. Granted, the only thing worse than their live shots is that TV show – and it only runs on the smaller cable outlets – but it generates a shit-load of house shows for the pricks. It's Turano's bread and butter. He packages thirteen-week runs, sells advertising, produces the show, and gives it to the goddamn stations. He makes his coin on the shots generated by the TV show and from the advertisers and sponsors directly. He's been running TV shots for more than ten years from here to Pennsylvania, and it pays off. He just sits there in Philly and takes the shots as they come to him. It's the only way they could survive once the business cleaned itself up and started involving real sales pros. Turano knew he and his boys couldn't compete with competent, articulate salespeople, so he went the TV route instead.'
Vincent turned to Gus. 'Specifically, how is he stealing our dates?'
'He's offering them TV tapings,' Gus explained. 'He comes to their school with a TV crew, his regular under- card workers, and as many stars on the independent circuit he can get his hands on. They start the shot about noon, and it runs until nine or ten o'clock at night. Fans come and go throughout the course of the day, but they manage to keep it packed because they sell the tickets real cheap – two, three dollars for a ringside seat and a buck for everything else. The fans not only get to see a ton of matches they get to see a lot of the boys wrestle over and over again. The stars come out and do two or three squash matches – where they beat the shit out of some no-name – to top-of-the-card main event bouts. By the time they wrap up a shot, Turano's got thirteen weeks in the can.'
Frank was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He moved to the window and opened the blinds enough to let in a bit of light. 'And because he's already got all of his advertising sold he can deliver the show to the client for free.'
Gus looked to Vincent for support. 'And just how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? I asked our client in Fall River if they were happy with us last season – they made money, we delivered everything we promised – and the client says if they sign with Turano there's no risk. Zero. If he lets the Turano's use his gym for a day, he lets him sell as many tickets as he wants and he gets to keep the whole nut. Bottom line, fellas, I'm stuck trying to sell a product this motherfucker's giving away.'
'Why risk five or six thousand to make ten or twelve,' Charlie sighed, 'when Turano can offer you three-to- five with no chance of losing dime one?'
Vincent began to pace. 'Why fuck with us?'
'I've never seen him make a move like this,' Charlie said. 'He's always kept pretty much to himself.'
'With all due respect, Charlie,' Frank said, stepping forward, 'until we entered the picture the ECPWL wasn't much of a threat to somebody like Turano. With the number of shows we're doing now, particularly those in and around his home base state, we must be hurting him worse than we thought.'
Everyone in the room was familiar with the six independent promoters conducting business from Maine to Florida, but it was also common knowledge that only three could be considered federations capable of wielding any significant power. The ECPWL was one; a promotion based in Miami (and considered at that point to be friendly), was another. The third and arguably strongest of the lot belonged to John Turano. In a little more than a year the
