Night Work

By Greg F. Gifune

In the secret worlds of organized crime and the independent professional wrestling circuit of the 1990s, no one is immune to the con, the violence, the hunger for power and respect, the lust and the darkness.

How far would you go for money and supremacy? Who would you betray? What could you tolerate? How much would you sacrifice?

Frank Ponte is about to find out...

Night Work, originally published in 2003, is Greg F. Gifune’s first published novel. Hailed as a strong debut from a promising author by both critics and readers alike, it offers a fictional glimpse behind the veil of secrecy that existed in the independent professional wrestling world at the time, and chronicles the descent of a young couple into the depths of darkness and depravity.

Part crime novel, part Greek tragedy, Night Work has been out of print for several years, but is once again available in an all-new author’s preferred edition, which includes a new introduction from author/artist Sandy DeLuca, and offers a unique look at the early work of Greg F. Gifune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Oct 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463968123

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Sandy DeLuca

Greg F. Gifune is someone I met decades ago, and a person I never thought would play an important role in my career as an author. They say everything is connected, that most don’t realize events and people come into our lives for a reason, and that serendipity exists.

Well, it is, and I do.

My story begins back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when I was freelancing for a string of pro-wrestling magazines. I owned an old Minolta camera—which was a permanent fixture in my hands—and I carried a vintage tape recorder in my bag. It’s the craziest thing, because today I can say I interviewed names that will be familiar to wrestling fans from that era, stars like Greg The Hammer Valentine, Owen Hart and Nikolai Volkoff. Mick Foley (who worked as Cactus Jack at the time) once chased me around a wrestling ring in Philadelphia. I traveled the Jersey Turnpike in the dead of night and crossed the George Washington Bridge as a young wrestler chatted to me nonstop to keep me awake.

Over the years, I dismissed that odd time in my life, and today I spend my days and nights painting and writing rather than pursuing photographs of muscle-bound idols. Today, after re-reading Greg’s first novel, Night Work, I realize that time, those experiences, should not be dismissed, because they were part of a thread of fate. They were important. I obtained a lot of great imagery for my present-day art, and pro-wrestling introduced me to Greg. And, as I look back, I fondly remember that strange world, that subculture where acting, sports and art merged.

How did I get there? I remember a small spark emerging, simmering slowly, watching pro-wrestling on TV with my dad on Saturday afternoons when I was a child, and then it followed me to college, because my favorite painting professor told me tales about an uncle shooting photos of Bruno Sammartino and Killer Kowalski at the Rhode Island auditorium back in the 1950s. More connections, intertwining…

From there, I realized that the men (and women) who preened around the ring were perfect studies for life drawing, for paintings. So I began to attend the shows, began to photograph the wrestlers, and one thing led to another. I followed the WWF to Boston, Hartford and New York City. I got to speak to a few of the stars in a bar in Upper Manhattan, a place where they went for drinks after performing at Madison Square Garden. Regular guys who’d sign a ticket stub then return to the booze and music. It was tough to get shots of them outside the ring, the WWF frowned upon freelancers, and most of the photos I obtained were during performances. Soon, I had a collection of cool shots—Hulk Hogan, Jesse Ventura and Mr. Wonderful, just to name a few.

I remember writing a letter to a pro-wrestling magazine editor. He published a string of international wrestling magazines, so I asked if he could use my photos. Everything was done through snail-mail at that time and original photos were sent in manila envelopes. Back then, they were mostly images I’d captured at the Providence Civic Center when the WWF came to town.

To my surprise, I heard back from that editor, my work was published and he encouraged me to write articles about my experiences, about the crowds, the arena. Later, he suggested I check out the independent circuits, telling me that’s where I’d get better shots and possible interviews.

So, I began following several New England wrestling promotions up and down the east coast. It was tough at first, because not many women were allowed to get close enough to the action to get the shots I needed and wanted, much less the stories they told. Eventually a few doors opened, and I met Greg at a show at a state fair in rural Connecticut. It was a small stopover event on a tour in late summer 1989, and though the crowd was modest, I got some great material.

At that, and subsequent shows, whenever the promotion Greg owned with two other partners toured nearby states, I noticed him watching everything and everyone intently, as though recording everybody’s movements, their words. He was a somewhat aloof and serious young man in those days, a guy on the inside who knew the business well. He wore sleek suits, had a cool aura of authority and was always polite to me. Today, we sometimes chat about the old days and the people we knew, and I now understand why he was so watchful, and why he had to conduct himself as he did. It was all about survival in what could, in those days, often be a dangerous business. Now we laugh a lot about some of the things that went down behind the scenes, and when we reminisce, it’s mostly positive. Still, there are certain aspects of his life and business in those days that he’s never discussed with me, and knowing him as well as I do now, I’m sure it’s for good reason.

It was a time when everything moved fast, when road trips to Philadelphia, Boston and New York City were normal occurrences. Milli Vanilli, Paula Abdul and Madonna were all the rage. A gallon of gas was less than a dollar. I saw Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure in a New York City theater before attending a WWF event at Madison Square Garden. I once went to Memphis, but not for Elvis. I went to Washington D.C., but not to catch a peek at George H.W. Bush. Everything was for photographs of larger-than-life guys, svelte ladies who packed lethal punches, and the little people (non-politically correctly referred to in the business in those days as midgets), and almost every time I brought back a good tale or two with me. At a small show up in New Hampshire, I befriended a female wrestler who introduced me to Chief Jay Strongbow and Killer Kowalski. She was a delightful woman who lived in a small flat in Fall River, Massachusetts, a single mother who grew up in the business. Her brother was a referee and her boyfriend performed for an independent league in Massachusetts. I often traveled with her to events, gaining invitations to conduct interviews with stars, later sharing coffee and early morning breakfasts with those luminaries, listening to their stories about working the circuit, about families they often left behind, and how they continued to do back-to-back shows, existing as eternal vagabonds, because, they said, It’s in our blood.

Greg touches on this in Night Work, the way the business got into a person’s blood, and in this case, his tormented main character Frank Ponte’s. Like much of this novel, it rings true to anyone who was associated with that culture in those days. There was the show, and there were those things behind the veil that few ever saw or experienced. Greg did. The effect, the remnants, of both the good and the bad, are evident in him, not only as a person, but as an artist.

And it shows in Night Work.

It seems strange now, but for a short time I was part of that colorful, circus-like atmosphere, surrounded by those unique characters and personalities. I didn’t know as much about the inner workings of the business as Greg did, I merely recorded images and events. But I got close to some who were in deep, getting an occasional glimpse into their dark sides, their struggles. Hearts got broken, even my own. I witnessed promoter friends lose everything, because sometimes circumstances weren’t fair, and it could often be a cutthroat business. After that, I realized pro-wrestling wasn’t a place I wanted to stay permanently. It was a flash in my life, a chapter forged with intense energy and youthful dreams.

I left around 1992.

It might have been because the independent leagues were feeling the heat from the larger guys. Or maybe I just got burned out.

I remember a diehard guy, an older man who’d been around the sport for decades, a true believer in the independent leagues. He told me, It’s coming back around. The independents will have their day again. I can feel it. Can’t you?

They come back to life vividly in the novel you are about to read.

I felt as though my time around the business was done, there were other goals, other things to experience, so I moved on, doing a short stint as a witch, writing and making art for a few small-press spiritual magazines and befriending mystical people like Leo Martello and Silver RavenWolf. Then, I ran into Greg once again in the late 1990s, when numerous small and independent press magazines were being published, a great time for new fiction writers to hone their craft. In those days, some editors took the time to give advice on how to make a piece of fiction stronger, even if they sent me a rejection. They encouraged me to keep writing, to send more work.

So, I began to vigorously market my work, forming a friendship with an editor named Nellie Naibert, a sweet lady who published an array of zines—horror, fantasy, science fiction, art, poetry, and stories. Oddly enough, Greg was a mutual friend, and I learned he had left the wrestling and promotion world to embark on his writing and editing career a few years before.

Almost seamlessly, we were back in touch.

By then, he was already light years ahead of most others in the small press, as both a writer and editor. He ran several magazines, still managing to be a prolific writer, and one who was willing to lend a helping hand to other authors.

Initially, he published one of my poems in a magazine he edited, The Edge: Tales of Suspense. Later, he encouraged me to write stories for Burning Sky, another magazine he ran, and to pen a story for an all-female anthology he published called Divas of Darkness (which I believe was back in 2001). That work, called Hell’s Door, was expanded into a novella in 2014 and published by DarkFuse, because of Greg’s encouragement.

Back in the day, I became enthralled with his short stories, realizing that the long-ago young man in the sleek suits had become not only far more approachable and accessible, but a phenomenal writer as well.

Years ago, when I first read Night Work (which is his first novel), I was reminded of those days, those crazy nights, backstage conversations, real-life rivalries, occasional cons, and the sheer excitement of the wrestling world. He captured the exhilaration, the darkness, the characters and the era perfectly.

In the same place once more, thanks to his mentoring and patience, Greg also helped with my own humble beginnings as a novelist. If it were not for him I would have never written my first few books, or the short stories that began my writing career.

For the first time in several years, I just re-read Night Work, this new Author’s Preferred Edition, and it blew me away. Stronger than the initial release, it remains just as fierce and beautifully done as the original edition. I am honored that Greg asked me to write the introduction for its re-release. I’m not sure if what I’ve said is worthy of his work, if it’s enough, but I’ve told the story of how he and I came to be here, together in this new edition, as best I can.

It’s been an honor to know this brilliant writer, from his beginnings decades ago, to his present success as a renowned artist. I have come to know Greg as not only a mentor, but a friend. And the watchful, steely eyed young man who once wore sleek suits while overseeing a world of colorful characters, I remember him too.

Now I know that everything is connected. I also know why.

And it leads us here, to this novel. You’ve bought a front-row ticket to the dark world of Night Work. Unlike the characters in The Wizard of Oz, do pay attention to the man behind the curtain. He has much to tell you.

Enjoy the show.

Sandy DeLuca

June 11, 2018

Rhode Island

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Many years ago, prior to becoming a professional author and editor, I worked in the professional wrestling business. It was a very different business when I was involved, as it was still behind the veil, so to speak, and something very few were allowed to participate in or even get close to. A time when professional wrestling was still run in a highly secretive and cloistered fashion; the structure of the business was different then, as it was still very much a regional and territory-based business, a spectacle that was still relegated mostly to smoke-filled arenas, the state fair and carnival circuit, and the occasional high school or college gymnasium. Though it was largely self-regulated (and policed, for lack of a better term), it still fell under the banner of professional sports, and included the involvement of state athletic commissions and many of the same regulations other sporting events did. There was a culture in the business that no longer truly exists in the exact manner in which it did then, a bond between many of us that ran very deep, and an understanding that was tradition and a way of life within the business that went back generations. It was its own world in many ways, with its own rules and terms of conduct, and all of it was something to be respected and protected without question and regardless of the consequence. It was more than a business you worked in. It was a way of life. My few years in the business is something I wouldn’t trade, and though it ultimately was not how I wanted to spend the rest of my life and I was ready to walk away from it when I did, I’ll always be glad I was there, and a part of something that will never again exist in that way, and something few can or will ever truly understand. However, it is important to stress that despite my real-life experiences, this novel is entirely a work of fiction. It is in no way intended to be a real portrayal of anyone who has ever taken part in any facet of the business. All characters, incidents, organizations, establishments, events and locales you read about in this novel are either products of my imagination or are used fictitiously for the purposes of entertainment, and any resemblance to any actual persons, organizations, events, locales or business establishments is entirely coincidental. Prior to the original release of this book, I did have some work published, but Night Work (originally written back in 1996) was actually my first novel. Originally slated for release on two separate occasions, once in the late 1990s and once in 2001, due to contractual problems, creative differences and other unforeseen difficulties with the publishers, Night Work remained unpublished and came close to never being released. When it finally sold to another publisher and was released, it was in an edition that differed from my original vision. So, several years ago, when the contract expired, the rights were returned to me, and Night Work went out of print, I chose to let it remain that way. Now, with the release of this new edition you are about to read (which is the Author’s Preferred Edition, and is presented here in its final version by Down & Out Books), the book is just the way I had always hoped it would be. I want to thank one of my oldest and dearest friends, John Roux, for all his patience, expertise, and unwavering belief in me while helping me edit this manuscript all those years ago. I’d also like to thank Eric Campbell, owner and publisher of Down & Out Books, for his continued belief in my work, and for wanting to see this edition of Night Work finally see the light of day (no pun intended) as much as I did, and, of course, for making it happen. And to you, the reader, thank you as always for your continued support. Though it’s a first novel, I think Night Work is a fairly self-assured one, and while I believe I’m a much better writer now than I was when this was written, it remains a piece of work I’m proud to call my first novel. I hope you agree and enjoy experiencing Night Work as much I enjoy seeing it back in print. Hold on tight, here comes the night. Time to go to work.

Greg F. Gifune

Summer 2018

New England

Night

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For John Roux. He knows why.

"These violent delights have violent ends."

—William Shakespeare

Chapter 1

VERMONT, 1991

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 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’s 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, unevenly 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, sorry, he said, didn’t know anybody was in 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, pal?

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. I know you?

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

What do you want?

These gloves look familiar?

Frank’s 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. 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 backward 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 but the office was too small and Artie was too big, too 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? Is it money you—you want money? 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. What is this?

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 crept 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.

Chapter 2

MASSACHUSETTS, 1989

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