Night Work Read Free

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