Night Work

    

    In the secret worlds of organized crime and the independent professional wrestling circuit, no one is immune to the con, the violence, the lust and the darkness. How far would you go for money and power? Who would you betray? How much would you sacrifice? Frank Ponte is about to find out…

    
Night Work
is a journey into a dark underworld, a world with its own set of secret rules and ethics. A world where brutal violence and depraved sex is the norm, and where in order to succeed, moral beliefs and literal identities must be forfeited. A story of betrayal - of others and of oneself - of friendship, marriage, family, love, sex, and violence,
Night Work
is the American Dream gone bad. A noir-style thriller where nothing is what it seems and where no one gets out clean.

    

    

    

    

    Whenever Frank closed his eyes it was the blade he saw first. Piercing the skin, slowly tearing the flesh deep enough to draw a steady flow of blood, the razor always kept hidden, concealed discreetly in the user's hand. Funny, he thought, what a man would do for money.

    Snow had just begun to fall, blowing in from the north, and the forecast called for nearly a foot of it before the end of the day.

    "Hurry it up. Snow leaves tracks."

    The only words Frank had spoken in more than an hour jolted Benny back into reality. He switched on the windshield wipers, pushed the scan button on the stereo and refocused his attention on the road. "There it is."

    Artie's Used Tires came into view a few miles down the road, a weather-beaten, solitary building with a small office and one-bay garage. An array of tires and inexpensive rims were displayed in front, and but for a small convenience store across the street, this was a desolate part of town.

    "One car," Benny said, studying a large Pontiac parked on the side of the building. "It's his."

    Frank checked his watch. "He alone by now?"

    "The girl who keeps his books leaves at two o'clock. The only other employee is a high school kid who helps out on weekends. Unless some pain in the ass customer interrupts things, he's all by his lonesome."

    Frank reached under the seat and removed a small canvas bag from which he retrieved a pair of black leather gloves. Thick and heavy, the portion covering the knuckles had been modified to accommodate lead fillings. "Pull over."

    "Last chance to change your mind." Benny, already cognizant of Frank's anger, gave an ineffectual grin. "If I didn't offer, I don't know if I'd be able to sleep tonight, you know?"

    A slight smile creased Frank's otherwise stoic face, and under the circumstances it was more than Benny could have hoped for. "Just pull over."

    

    

    Frank thrust both hands into the deep pockets of his coat and moved quickly along the driveway to the office. Once he'd disappeared inside, Benny switched off the radio and watched the street, alternating his gaze from the rearview mirror to the windshield, trying to cover as much area as possible without actually changing positions.

    Years before Benny had learned the importance of distracting himself from certain unpleasantries, but silence had always given him the creeps. He hated the country for that specific reason: Too goddamn quiet. The longest nights of his life had been spent trying to fall asleep in small towns where, without the constant pulse and buzz the city provides, peace and quiet can get downright deafening.

    Although he stood just five foot seven and weighed more than two hundred pounds, Benny Dunn only looked soft. Battles with acne as a teenager had left his cheeks a bit pockmarked, and his teeth seemed too large for his small, thin-lipped mouth, yet he still managed a vulnerable aura somewhere beneath his rugged, weather-beaten, somewhat menacing exterior. His hair, parted on the side, seemed in constant need of a trim, and his clothes had a perpetually slept-in look, but Benny was a professional who knew how to do his job and keep his mouth shut, and that was a quality Frank favored.

    Nothing moved but the flakes of snow, as if time itself had frozen solid.

    

    

    Frank glanced quickly around the office, a cramped and cluttered space that smelled like motor oil, rubber and cigarettes. Directly in front of him was a large desk and chair. Behind it a door marked Gents stood closed. A black telephone with a built-in answering machine sat on the front corner of the desk amidst mountains of paperwork and an overflowing ashtray.

    One quick tug ripped the phone cord from the wall.

    Seconds later the toilet flushed and the door opened to reveal a balding, heavyset man in overalls. He stood at a small sink wiping his hands with a paper towel, initially unaware of Frank's presence. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, blushing as he nearly tripped his way back into the office. "I didn't know anybody was here. Got a bell on the front door that's supposed to jingle whenever anybody comes or goes but you can't hear it in the crapper, so what's the point, right?" The man closed the bathroom door behind him and smiled. "What can I do for you?"

    Frank stared at him.

    "Something wrong, mister?"

    "Are you Arthur Bertalia?"

    The man's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I'm Artie Bertalia. I don't see as good as I used to." He fished a pair of eyeglasses from his pocket and slipped them on. "Do I know you?"

    Frank slowly removed his hands from his pockets; let them dangle at his side. He watched as Artie noticed the gloves, recognizing them immediately for what they were.

    "What do you want?"

    "These gloves look familiar?"

    His eyes darted toward the door but the fat man stood his ground and forced a nervous smile. "Should they?"

    "You used to own a pair," Frank said. "Maybe you still do."

    Artie folded his arms across his grease-stained overalls and feigned indifference. "I don't know what you're talking about, pal. If you need used tires or rims, I can help you out. If not, hit the road or I'll call the cops."

    Frank reached across the desk, grabbed the front of Artie's overalls with one hand and smashed him full in the face with the other. His nose shattered with a loud snap, spraying blood from his nostrils as he toppled over backwards onto the floor.

    Calmly, Frank moved around the side of the desk and kicked him repeatedly in the mouth, chest and stomach. Artie cried out and did his best to squirm away from his attacker but the office was too small and Artie was too big, slow, and already badly hurt.

    Frank stepped back, watched the fallen man struggle into a sitting position and spit out a bloody tooth. It clicked against the wooden floor, bounced under the desk. Artie looked up at him with pleading eyes, a steady stream of blood dripping from his nose and mouth. "Why are you doing this?"

    Frank carefully removed the gloves and slid them into his coat pocket. His hands felt light, the tips of his fingers numb. He cracked his knuckles, reached into his coat and produced a revolver.

    "Oh, Jesus," Artie groaned, pushing himself against the wall as if hoping to dissolve through it. "What the hell are you doing? If it's money you want, there's a safe in - "

    "I don't want your money."

    His chin, slick with blood and spittle, quivered like a scolded child's. "I don't - I don't understand."

    Crouching next to him, Frank noticed the eyeglasses on the floor between them. "Put them on," he said. "I want you to see me clearly."

    "Please, I - "

    "Put them on."

    "I-I got a wife and a daughter, I - "

    "Now."

    Artie did as he was told and began to cry. "I've got grandkids. Please - I - just tell me what this is all about."

    Still not certain he could go through with it Frank pressed the barrel against the man's lips. The steadiness of his hand worried him, and he suddenly felt lightheaded. The world had become sluggish and dreamy as reality altered to make sense of what he was about to do. "Are you afraid?"

    Artie nodded, his body bucking as he cried.

    As Frank increased the pressure on the barrel, a dark circular stain seeped through the crotch of Artie's overalls, the urine dripping onto the floor and forming a small puddle between them. "I'm sorry!"

    Frank glanced at the mess. "Do you remember Connie?"

    "Connie?"

    "Connie."

    "I don't - no - I don't know nobody named Connie."

    "Think back."

    He pawed at the tears in his eyes. "Connie… Russo?" A look of recognition slowly dawned across Artie's face. "Jesus," he whispered. "Who are you?"

    "Her son," Frank told him. Their eyes met, locked. "I'm her son."

    Artie opened his mouth as if to say something, and Frank pulled the trigger.

    

    

    

    Gus stared at the ceiling; the unattended whistle grating on his already frayed nerves. The water had been boiling for several minutes, how in the name of Christ could his old man sit right there in the kitchen and not hear the kettle?

    "One day off a week," he mumbled, swinging his legs over onto the floor as he forced himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, "and I gotta put up with this crap." He grabbed a cigarette from the crumpled pack on his nightstand, stepped into the same pair of gray slacks he'd worn all week and staggered out of his room, following a narrow hallway to the kitchen.

    Gus was getting too old too fast to spend twelve hours a day on his feet. Everything from his neck to the tips of his toes ached. Things had to change soon; his body couldn't take much more.

    The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, was filthy. Dishes were piled so high in the sink that the window above it was no longer visible. The floors needed to be swept and a greasy film covered nearly everything else.

    Gus leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. His father, dressed in a lightweight robe and worn slippers sat huddled at the table. He looked so fragile sitting there alone. "Dad?" Gus said. "Dad!"

    The old man had his nose buried in a crossword puzzle book. Gus had never once seen the bastard write so much as a single letter in one of those boxes. "What's a four letter word for outcome?"

    "Fate. Are you deaf?"

    "Huh?"

    Gus walked to the stove and removed the kettle from the burner. "Christ, Dad, are your ears that far gone?"

    His father struggled to his feet, shuffled over to the counter. "Thought I'd have a mug of hot chocolate."

    "We better get your ears checked."

    "I like hot chocolate."

    "Did you hear what I just said?"

    "You want some, Gus?"

    "Deaf bastard."

    His father began rummaging through one of the cupboards. "Did you get hot chocolate the last time you went to the store? I told you to get the ones with the little marshmallows. Did you get the ones with the little marshmallows, Gus?"

    The phone rang, and Gus couldn't answer it fast enough.

    "Gus?"

    "Hey, what's up, Frank?"

    "Not much. How's it going?"

    Gus took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. "Same shit, different day. The old man's driving me nuts. If he don't die soon, I swear to God I'm gonna kill him myself."

    Frank laughed. "We're all set for tonight, right?"

    "Absolutely."

    "Pick me up at five."

    "I'll be there with balls on."

    

    

    Fifteen minutes west of New Bedford, in the quiet town of Angel Bay, Frank Ponte hung up the kitchen phone and hesitantly returned to the bedroom where his wife was getting dressed. Their three-room apartment was relatively new and tastefully decorated, but it was so small their friends often joked that you couldn't get from one end to the other without first turning sideways.

    Sandy stood frowning at her reflection in the mirror over the bureau, a wide-toothed brush in one hand and a bottle of hairspray in the other. "I don't know about this new girl," she said through a sigh. "I think I like the way Darren does my hair better."

    "Then go back to him." Frank shrugged. As far as he was concerned she had too much hair for such a petite woman regardless of how she styled it, but he'd learned long ago that when it came to certain matters his wife was not someone with whom he could reason.