Old School: Ring Squared, #1

By L.A. Taylor

Go inside the world of pro-wrestling from its earliest days in 1947 to 1968. Mafia connections. Fixed matches. Urban legends. Raw and riveting, here's a novel that asks the question, "Did wrestling make TV or did TV make wrestling?"

 

Jack Fitzpatrick learned from the best, his pops, Charlie Fitzpatrick, a mob-connected prize fighter. But Jack doesn't want to follow in his father's footsteps. He wants to go his own way into a new form of ringside sport—wrestling. With a boost from the mob, Jack moves forward in his quest to bring wrestling to the masses. Running the east coast territory and sitting as the commissioner of the United Wrestling League, Jack, AKA Caesar, dominates all aspects of professional wrestling. By the late 1960s, Jack decides it's time to shake things up with the Belgian Behemoth, a 7' 6" giant, chosen as the next UWL champ. If his scheme, backed by the other promoters across the country, fails then Jack's reign will be over.

 

Deceptions and subterfuge lurk around every arena as Jack makes empty promises while Gizzi pulls the strings. The other promoters distrust each other as fathers groom sons to wrestle, win, and wrangle their way to the top. Jack's son, Jackie, and, Val, the son he never knew he had until it was too late, vie for the top role in Jack's legacy. As a media mogul in Atlanta begins taking over, wrestling may have found a way to the mainstream. It's a crap shoot as to who will succeed and who will be pushed out of the sport or off the cliff.

 

From New York to Toronto to Detroit to Atlanta to Florida and to the west, the promoters—many of whom are former wrestling champs—make up the territories for the sport. None of them know exactly who to trust. Is it Jack? Gizzi? Both or neither? Failure will seal fates and the death toll hovers. Nothing is sacred and nothing is guaranteed in the smoky backrooms of a sport on either the brink of success via television or the edge of the abyss by its own shady and illegal activities.

With a cast of unforgettable characters—Frank the Weasel, the Great Amir, Large Marge, Lou Appollo, Black Jack to name a few—L.A. Taylor draws the reader into the story and action with outrageous acts both inside the ring and out. Old School allows the reader a rare glimpse behind the curtain and into Madison Square Garden and the backrooms of the Copacabana where the likes of Ed Sullivan and Jackie Gleason make appearances. Even Jack Dempsey plays a role as a guest referee as a favor to Jack.

 

Buy Old School, Ring Squared, Book 1, for an intimate look inside the world of pro-wrestling from its beginning through the explosion of the sport into the world of television. Neither would ever be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A.Taylor
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393495635

Book preview

Old School, Ring Squared, Book 1

Copyright ©2020 L.A. Taylor

All rights reserved.

Cover Design: Michelle Ganeles, WIDE SKY STUDIO

Editor and Formatter: Patricia Zick, The Manuscript Doctor

This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and dialogues portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission by the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

LIST OF CHARACTERS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTYY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

DEDICATION

To the Gladiators who dare to enter the Ring...Past, Present, and Future. They entertained and thrilled us and made us forget our ordinary lives, if only for a night...

LIST OF CHARACTERS

JACK FITZPATRICK, aka CAESAR, runs his East Coast territory, Coastal Coalition, spanning from Maine to North Carolina. He is commissioner of Unified Wrestling League (UWL) and promotes Madison Square Garden (MSG) and monopolizes wrestling.

CHARLIE, Jack’s father, was once a mob-connected prize-fighter

VIOLET, Jack’s wife, resides in Delaware

JACKIE, Jack’s son with Violet, is a wrestler

VAL HORNE, Jack’s bastard son with AUDREY 

Other UWL members

JAMES E. BARNES (aka James or Jim), once ran Chicago/Detroit territory, now manages Atlanta

OWEN DUDLEY, promotes Pacific Northwest

OTTO SCHMIDT, promotes Arizona and New Mexico

ROY CASSIDY, promotes Texas and states north of him

GERRY GALLAGHER, promotes Florida and Southern States

GINO BOO-BOO BELATONI, mob-connected promoter runs boxing and wrestling in L.A. and Vegas

GREAT AMIR, kaffiyeh wearing heel, now operates James E.’s Chicago/Detroit

SALLY, Great Amir’s valet wife

Famous People

CHARLIE LUCKY LUCIANO, mobster who aids in formation of UWL

ED SULLIVAN, TV personality and Jack’s childhood friend

JACKIE GLEASON, comedian and TV star and Jack’s friend

JACK DEMPSEY, ex-boxer who sometimes guest referees for his friend, Jack

HARRY SMITH, ex-wrestler/bodybuilder and gym owner in Florida

Mafia

GIZZI (FANTOZZI), mafia capo, is Jack’s secret partner

SALVATORE (aka Sally Lips), Gizzi trusted soldier

FRANKIE the WEASEL, Gizzi trusted soldier

KATHERINE (aka Kitty), a secretary for feds who is also working for Gizzi

Canadian Promoters

MICHAEL MIGHTY MORRISON, Boston Irish thug who once ran Jack’s secret Canadian territory

FRANCIS DUFFY, once an assistant, he now takes Morrison’s place in Canada

Jack’s territory

PADDY O’CONNER, Jack’s trusted assistant

COACH O’BRIEN, Olympic wrestling coach hired to train Jackie

JOHNNY ANTONELLI, MSG announcer

RED SHOES DUGGAN, MSG referee

ED PARKER, sportswriter on the graft

RON MURRAY, D.C. commentator who quits on Jack last minute

James E.’s territory

DON PARIS, rat fink, renegade promoter who was exiled alongside James E. after dropping a dime to feds

LEE, full-time limo driver, part-time paramour to James E. 

CHAD WALKER, WMWA-TV (Watch me Whoop Ass) owner

RICKY ROYAL, 6’9" drummer who wants to break into the wrestling business

Gerry’s territory

MIKE, Gerry’s son and wrestler

LOUIE, assistant booker

ROB and MARY GUNTHER, couple policing Gerry’s remote towns

MARLA, Mike’s ex-cutie, who has a thing for Jackie

LARGE MARGE, part of Jackie’s initiation

MISS POPPY, hitchhiker Mike passes around

BORIS, toll booth old-timer Mike ribs

HOLLYWOOD BLONDES (J.R. and Luke) give Mike and Jackie a hard time

MR. GUY SMIRNOFF, announcer always three sheets to the wind

Feds

SPECIAL AGENT COOPER, spearheaded Sherman Anti-Trust Investigation against UWL

SPECIAL AGENT CASHMAN, rookie

Wrestlers

HANS STEINER/TONY ROSSA/DR. BRAUN/ DICK the CRIPPLER, all took part in November 1957 riot at MSG

BLACK JACK/ DUKE of DORSET/ BOBO

LOU APOLLO, aka THE GREEK, UWL World Heavyweight Champion who loses to Amir

LUC de VOS aka BELGIAN BEHEMOTH, 7’6" future UWL champ

PRINCE MOLOKAI/ BARON VON MALTA, tag-team to get Behemoth over

HAYSTACKS, over-sized special attraction

KILLER KARL, sweetest heel

BUDDY ROBINS aka NATURE BOY, notorious double-crosser

BIG BAD JOHN aka GENERAL, James E.’s patsy who contacts feds

CHAPTER ONE

You can do this for me, right? Jack Fitzpatrick asked his father, Charlie. 

I don’t know, lad. We aren’t in the same sport. You’re in that other sport.

Pops, you’re addicted to the clash of antlers, head on, frontal attack, Jack said. Some folks like watching two mountain gorillas, chest-beating, in a mock combat. Fact is, the action, whatever its form, takes place in the same ring. Same ring––double the revenue. You do get that, right?

Son, I do understand money and how it flows from the ring. They do, too. I’ll make the call.

Jack, nearly twenty-eight, stood behind his father, who was arched over his desk replacing laces in two brown leather gloves. On the wooden desktop, to the right of a Wheeldex, was another worn-out pair. Shelves across the room held many more boxing gloves, plus several two-toned leather speed bags in need of air. Behind them a flag of Ireland was spread across the wall, its colors of orange, white, and green added snap to Charlie’s dingy, cramped office. Jack looked through the blinds out into the gym and could see two young boys in baggy shorts going at it in one of the rings.

Pops, you’ve done a lot for me, and I appreciate it, Jack said. Make sure you tell them how good I am at this promoting stuff. I already have twelve locations under my belt. Arenas, armories, fields, and stadiums––and every one a sellout. You can tell them you helped me in New York, but I branched out on my own, now running shows in New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, even D.C. Plus, tell them––if they get me into the Garden––I’ll make sure the heavyweight wrestling champion is Italian.

∞∞∞

One morning, middle of October, Jack raced up the block in Hell’s Kitchen, turning the corner onto Ninth, aiming for the oversized navy-blue sign up ahead. In large, plain white lettering, it read, FITZY’S GYM—TRAINING HERE DAILY—BOXING INSTRUCTION, and across the lower part, much smaller, *See Charlie*.

Dashing through the heavy double doors of the two-story building, Jack’s footsteps echoed up the flight of worn wooden steps. He entered the gym, a smelly sweatbox where filth and grime covered the ceiling-to-floor windows and three adjacent walls. Jack anticipated the usual thumping, fist-popping, and bell-ringing frenzy; instead, stillness.

Ah, Pops must be holding court.

Jack was dressed in a tan, cabled V-neck vest, button-down collar and tie, and baggy trousers. He walked past heavy bags, speed bags, medicine balls, and ropes strewn along the wall.

Sure enough, on the far side of the boxing rings, training regimens had halted because the guys were gathered around Charlie, the Champ. Jack knew his father was excited from the lilting Irish brogue.

It was hard times for us folks, but through those squalid conditions and by the grace of a Hail Mary, I found a way to feed my family using the tools God gifted me––my own two fists.

Jack had listened to his father’s bareknuckle narration a hundred times. He still recoiled when he heard the words No Irish need apply or No dogs or Irish allowed. He recognized Charlie was just warming up.

I’d started out in alleys and the back streets of ghettos, rapidly working my way to exhibitions. Some say I was a natural at Irish Stand Down, what we’d call toe-to-toe. At the time, I challenged more than a few in public, plenty spectators paying to watch. As crowds grew, the purse set up by the neighborhood for the winner became larger, too. Sprinklin’ by extra bets placed on the side was icing. Once I earned a reputation as a scrappy competitor, I was able to demand two-fifty a pop. Of course, being ambidextrous, carrying two stiff punches instead of one, always helped. The retired boxer held up his left fist. Meet me thunder, then the right, and me lightning. Charlie watched his son slide in among the group of men who were laughing. I was in my prime, difficult to beat, with quick, accurate jabs, always keeping my cool under pressure. Charlie again held up both paws, a grin across his shiny, round red face.

Jack watched the passionate storyteller, his rhetoric simmering, impressed by the respect his father’s life commanded. That’s what floored him more than anything––Charlie, his pops, was the real deal.

A question came from the crowd. So, how’d you get that nickname, White Lightning?

Charlie chuckled. That nickname stuck when I’d entered the exhibition over on Coney Island in 1908. I’d pummeled through eight of ’em, knocking ’em all out with me thunder and lightning, and bejesus, that led to my longest running match, lasting over six hours. From then on, people believed I could actually beat Johnson, the Galveston Giant, the man invincible at the time.

That long exhibition had been the beginning of Charlie’s rise within the sport. There had been suspicions about the exhibition, where spectators had lost count of the rounds. It had to be fixed, Jack always thought. Someone had paid young Charlie handsomely to perform. So handsomely, in fact, that after such a display, Charlie had enough money to open his own boxing gym in Hell’s Kitchen.

Charlie, midtale, focused his gaze on a particular face and signaled to his son.

Jack got the message. He scanned the crowd. Someone stood out.

After months of prodding and pestering him for a certain introduction, Charlie had made good.

Charlie rang the bell. Court was over. The crowd scrambled and guys went back to where they’d left off: first come, first served as they jumped into the two roped rings; speed bags resumed spinning and heavy bags were pounded; ropes continued being skipped without missing a beat while bystanders shadowboxed, waiting for the ring, watching in the mirrors.

Charlie, in dark slacks and a blue short-sleeved shirt, walked over to the special guest. Whomever this man answered to was a big part of what made him special. Charlie beckoned his son. Tony, this is my son, Jack. 

The men shook hands, Charlie with that boxer’s grace and brawn, then Jack, who noticed that Tony was packing a gun. Go in my office for privacy, Charlie offered.

Jack searched for the damn coin in his pocket to calm his nerves.

Now in the office with the door and blinds closed, Tony, holding his hat, had a message to deliver. It was simple. Your presence is requested tonight at the Copa. Be there eleven p.m. sharp—

Jack opened his mouth but a hand was held up.

Don’t be late.

Tony, about to leave, his face shadowed by the fedora back on his head, turned to Jack. Kid, your dad is still the champ. You owe him for this favor, big-time.

Jack stood behind the desk in front of the tricolor Irish flag. His mind flooded with possibilities, craving prestige and power and the luxuries that came with success. Set on becoming the quintessential promoter, it was his turn to make his mark.

Twelve hours later, Jack started his journey to the big meeting: paying ten cents, he caught the IRT at Twenty-eighth Street Station, transferred at Times Square and jumped on the BMT to Lexington and Fifty-ninth. From there, he walked two blocks to gather his wits.

The invite to the Copa kept him distracted all day. Never before inside the illustrious nightclub, Jack was unsure of the dress code; so, not wanting to stand out, he stuck with the best-fitting suit he owned, the brown one from Gimbel’s, a hand-me-down.

Not sure who’d be at the meeting, Jack was determined to look accomplished. Strolling to the Copa’s front entrance, he tried blending, mingling among the nightlife underneath a burgundy canopy with fancy gold fringe hanging down. Some man in a uniform complete with matching hat called him out.

You have a reservation? he asked

Not knowing how to answer, Jack said, Yes, sir. I believe I do.

He was escorted downstairs, passed a cocktail lounge off to the side and taken to a man who resembled a penguin guarding Copa’s pearly gates.

The short maître d’, expecting him, said, Follow me.

Jack followed, weaving past wall-to-wall tables and big white palms to the far wall of the crammed nightclub. The place had an animated ambiance with an element of mystique eclipsed by Brazilian décor and Art Deco flourishes. Gesturing over the loud music, the maître d’ extended his arm, suggesting he slide across the crushed velvet seat of the private banquette. It was reserved by a small sign along the edge of the white linen tablecloth.

Jack glanced around, wondering if anyone famous was in the crowd.

He ordered a whiskey to steady his nerves.

Would you like anything else, sir? a man in a white jacket asked as he placed the cocktail down.

No, thank you, I’m fine.

Jack sipped, taking a moment to relax while looking around the joint. He liked the feel of it:  the mood, lively loud music, and prestige of such a booth in the back, high-up, untouchable. Glancing past fake fronds, blue and pink lighting them up, he noticed waiters sporting white jackets with crimson collars. Being against the wall isn’t the most desirable place for watching those sexy Samba Sirens, he thought, realizing the booth had a purpose.

Before he could empty his whiskey, a silver bucket filled with ice, a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne glasses arrived.

Compliments, from your host.

Jack, rubbernecking, quickly learned by use of mirrors adorning the walls that he was able to see most everything. He sensed a sinister aura.

Sipping effervescence, he knew he could get used to this lifestyle.

The music changed tempo, its crescendo announcing excitement about to happen. That hearty swell from the brass section introduced scantily clad showgirls hired for looks over talent. With bowls of fruit atop their heads, they were dancing to a Latin beat—a salsa or mambo. Dressed in those little outfits covered in sequins, their tight bodies pulsated across the floor. 

Yeah, I could get used to this for sure.

Sitting there, drinking bubbly, nuts over glamorous broads, Jack hadn’t noticed who had slipped in beside him.

A smell of cigarettes masked by aftershave filled his nostrils. Jack turned.

Are you enjoying the show? Charles Luciano asked, settling in alongside Jack in the roomy half-round banquette. He unbuttoned his satin-lapeled dinner jacket.

Startled, Jack replied, Yes, yes, very much, sir, Mr. Luciano, sir. Jack recognized the man by his scar and extended his hand for a traditional firm handshake.

Not so formal, kid. My friends call me Lucky. He removed his fedora, exposing jet-black wavy hair. With photos splashed across the papers for months officially reporting this man deported for heinous crimes, it now was obvious why seating arrangements were in the rear. A strictly enforced No Photography policy throughout the nightclub ensured his safety; the sharply dressed mobster took every measure to make sure his presence went undetected. 

You like champagne, Jack? Or you want something else? Luciano waved the penguin over with a hand holding a lit cigarette.

Jack responded with a simple nod. Luciano waved the man away, topping off both flutes.

Conversation lingered on small talk as the two men leaned in closer, to better hear over the room’s commotion.

Enterprise time.

Luciano spoke low, clear and steady. I know your father quite well. He’s told me all about you and your endeavors. Over the years, he’s done a lot for me in the neighborhood––one of the reasons we see him as one of the boys. The mobster chuckled, leaving out the part about Charlie making them a lot of dough by betting on his fights. I’ve been following what you’ve accomplished in such a short time. You’ve built a hell of a circuit with arenas, buildings and whatnot, and your list, it continues to grow. Taking a moment before getting to the point, he inhaled one last drag of his cigarette before snubbing it out in the ceramic ashtray.

I’m twenty years older than you, Jack, but I think we have this common thread. You and me—we come from same neighborhoods; I once provided protection to kids on the street, just like you. We understand each other, right? Two neighborhood boys, rising from those streets, overcoming obstacles. Luciano paused and picked up his crystal flute. I have a proposal. The two of us working together to create a network, a partnership doing successful business together, just like me and Charlie. You follow?

Jack listened up. There it was. A simple offer based on a successful proven scheme.

Jack understood the organization well. They’d join operations––quietly. Jack would divide the country into designated individual territories. Form an organization, a commission. Next, he would select only men he trusted to promote and protect the interests of the territories.

His job? Commissioner over each of them.

Luciano continued. One thing I’ve learned over time––no matter what business––every organization needs strict rules and a strong upper hand to achieve desired results.

I know––like house rules everyone follows, right?

Exactly. Jack, you’ll establish house rules, and I’ll supply muscle to help maintain control and influence in each given area, along with maybe, say, delivery of necessary contracts to buildings and arenas guaranteeing exclusivity.

After a brief ask and answer, and a second bottle of Dom, they sketched out a rough plan. Each territory would have the freedom of their own talent pool to run shows in major sporting venues within their own territories, meeting when needed to resolve conflict, manage disputes, or answer questions.

Before I forget, Luciano added, I may need a favor.

Here’s the clincher.

Your guys––they move easily across borders, eh?

Yeah, Jack said, there’s a lot of traveling. He watched the notorious drug trafficker light another cigarette.

Jack pictured it. Smuggling shit could easily get out of control.

"Someone will be in touch with you. One who runs some shows in Cuba. We bring in girls––to dance––host wrestling events as entertainment for casinos. Our guy, Gizzi, he’ll watch your back and be available every time, get the job done. Capisce?"

Jack nodded, admiring the nice silk stripe tie and floral silk peeking out the breast pocket. He wiped his palms across the itchy wool of his pants in case of a handshake.

Luciano changed the subject, a cloud of blue smoke lingering on his lips. You know Jack, television is here to stay, and you’ll fit right in with your wrestling—so get ready.

Television? Jack asked. Before he could get an answer, two thugs made their way to the table and whispered in Luciano’s ear. After a mumbled response, the hulks stepped back, waiting within the folds of tropical drapes strung along the back walls. 

Oh, one more thing, Luciano said, buttoning his black dinner jacket before sliding out of the booth. "Remember this, Jack—no coppers––never––no matter what. We take care of our own problems. Capisce?" Not asking but telling, the deal now sealed with a strong nod from Jack and another firm handshake.

The compact Sicilian stood beside the booth and pulled out a wad of cash. Peeling away large bills, he left them on the table. Jack, captivated, watched the dark shadow slip away and weave through the action, disappearing, as before, virtually unnoticed, sneaking back off to Cuba.

Just like that, done deal. In the back of Jack’s mind, a question lingered. What am I missing?

CHAPTER TWO

In less than six months, the Coastal Coalition was taking form—and as instructed, by his capo—his Mafia go-to—Jack set up shop at the prestigious Commodore Hotel for legitimacy.

He beefed up his game during this time:  ordering made-to-measure suits, making connections across the country, building a growing reputation while making stars along the way.

His plan was coming to fruition. Most importantly, he was scrutinizing promoters operating in various towns.

Process simple:  contact them or cross them off the list. 

He watched their failures, studied their successes. 

By mid-summer, he’d inched closer toward that final step––dividing the pie.

With geographic plotting complete, his choice of men fell into place; and now, at summer’s end, nearly a year had passed. Jack, back to where the scheme unfolded, stood in front of the same private banquette—it was the only table empty. He looked around the place lit by tacky pink and blue lights under fabricated palm fronds and fake coconuts. Slim hips gyrated to a Latin beat, cha-cha-chá moves without tipping those bowls of fruit. Something caught his eye; he made his move, closer to the stage. There she was, off to the side. All full of himself, he ogled at the beauty, her eyes surprising him––violet, rimmed by long, raven eyelashes. She was cool and relaxed, sure of herself, ready to strut on stage, knockers jutting from satiny, purple fabric. 

He winked at her––she smiled back.

God, I love it here.

It was quarter to ten, the place packed with more than five hundred. He careened past tables, brushing shoulders of those sitting, heading to the rear of the Copa. He entered through a private door used by kitchen staff. Down the narrow hallway was a space used mostly by mobsters, otherwise unknown to patrons whooping it up. Jack entered the private room and checked that everything was perfect.

Showtime.

First to arrive was the animated, fleshy promoter with spectacles, James E. Barnes. He had established himself in Atlanta, but mostly ran Chicago and Detroit. He brought more than enough to the table. Feigning old money provenance, the class-act promoter was educated, knew how to book talent, and more importantly, had that knack for putting a deal together.

Next up, Owen Dudley, the man in a drab suit, more traveling salesman than cocksure wrestling aficionado. Regardless, the tall nondescript man took over the family business, running both boxing and wrestling promotions in the Pacific Northwest, thriving in a vast, isolated territory no one wanted to inhabit. With the recent acquisition of a newspaper company, the gaunt, prematurely balding Dudley was rapidly learning the art of fabricating a good story.

The next group, dubbed Three Misters, a motley crew from the South, strolled in together. Jack pictured the three straight out of a Western, with low-slung six-shooters swinging from their hips, spurs jingling and hats cocked over eyes. 

Already Jack recognized who their leader would be.

Those Three Misters—Otto Schmidt, Roy Cassidy, and Gerry Gallagher—had one thing in common:  All had been, at one time or another, wrestlers.

Otto Schmidt, secretly pining to be leader of the pack, was six-four and packed a solid 260 of muscle. He stood out with his buzz cut, hand-tooled belt with ornate silver buckle and tapered-leg trousers. His flattop, a far cry from the slicked back undercut variety worn by Nazi freaks, didn’t comply with his character in the ring. An all-around athlete, he excelled in both track and football before becoming a wrestler. He gradually dabbled from inside the ropes to outside, starting his own promotions. He ran shows with his sidekick Roy in Tucson, Phoenix, El Paso, Lubbock, and Amarillo. 

Roy Cassidy, a colorful dresser in his patterned western shirt and Wranglers, seemed to have an innovative style—a real cowboy—amid the Three Misters. Not quite as tall as Otto, he had a similar impressive build, with an extensive amateur wrestling background. Extremely clever at creating fresh angles, this one was determined in safeguarding the sport. He’d put a handle on anyone in the ring who wasn’t willing to follow suit. 

The youngest of the crew was Gerry Gallagher. Somewhat new to the wrestling business, Gerry made a name for himself wrestling in the other two’s shows in Texas. Slightly on the smaller side in a beefy man’s business, he made up for it by rising to the top with blade jobs––where he took a Gillette Blue Blade, broke it in half, cut it at an angle to make a fin, then taped it to the back of his wrist to get juice. While the industrial-strength man with larceny running through his veins may have been the shortest, Jack decided from the get-go that the handsome blonde was perfect for that tough Florida territory.

Jack made casual introductions to each of those who did not know one another, but the group still waited on one.

There’s tons of food here, guys, Jack said. Not wanting any interruption once the meeting started, he prearranged everything. Green pepper steak, chicken fried rice, sweet and sour pork, eggrolls... Jack pulled steamer covers off, naming them. A full bar here, too. He pointed to the booze set up along the counter. Gerry, what can I get you? Jack broke the ice, lending a hand in delivering each a drink.

The door swung open. Music from the nightclub followed the man in, slick in his charcoal, well-tailored suit.

Everyone, Jack announced, this is Gino ‘Boo-Boo’ Belatoni.

Jack could tell by the way the guys stared that they picked up something different about this wise guy, cigarette dangling from his lips, equipped with his own prominent territory, a hand-me-down from his father, Sal Belatoni, who along with his wife, Marta, had been running West Coast boxing and wrestling since the thirties. No one filled an arena quicker, hitting record ticket sales in both Los Angeles and Las Vegas. With deep mob connections, the man nicknamed Boo-Boo could not be refused.

After more drinks, chitchat, and chowing down Copa specialties, the lucky seven relaxed around the cleared table. Brandy and cigars were passed around. 

While some of you may or may not know why you’re here, I’m proud to announce youse were personally selected to become a part of my new commission––a new organization. Jack rested his cigar in the ashtray, owning it, speaking carefully with a well-modulated voice. It was not an easy task, but I’m happy with the fact I’ve chosen the most capable for each given territory. Each listened without interruption.

He continued. I’ve designated areas––what we’ll call terr-i-tories. Within these territories, each one of us will conduct our own business and be responsible for inking contracts with local TV stations. And while we are operating separately, we will still be acting as a sole enterprise. I will explain later, but first let me show you the map. He got up, went over to a folder resting on a small table in the corner, returned to the group and sat down. He pulled a map from the thick file, placed it in the middle of the round table, unfolded it and tapped the paper, capturing each man’s attention. Seven territories were fleshed out by dark lines.

Starting with the West Coast, Jack looked at Owen Dudley. He traced his finger around what was soon to become Owen’s territory. Owen, you’ll control the markets in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. I trust owning your own newspaper will make it easy to turn Seattle’s attitude around on the matter of the wrestler who died in the dressing room after he hit his head on the ring’s corner post. Owen put his knuckles under his chin and nodded. In addition to those four states, you’ll help Gino oversee Northern California. He has his hands full with Southern California and Nevada. 

What Jack meant was, Gino had his slice worked out with a capo or someone, and Fresno and San Francisco were being run by a promoter who was well-established and already paying in to exist within their organization. That said, Jack nodded toward Gino, who had the snifter up to his lips. Of course, you’re keeping your moneymakers, Gino. The others were alert, silently waiting to hear what territories they were about to inherit.

Now guys, I know at a glance these territories appear to be vast––but there are well-established local promoters running towns within them. It will be your responsibility, using any means necessary, to convince these vested promoters to continue running––for a hefty fee. And if they don’t pay, they don’t get to play. That’s where our secured TV contracts come in. With a TV deal under your belt, you’ll be able to squash local promotions and blackball their talent––run ’em right outta business.

Silence. Jack looked around the table and scrutinized them, imagining how each would persuade, maybe strong-arm, shaking down the deep-rooted old-timers for the kick up.

Jack tapped the map again, showing next up, his four states. Otto, you’ll stay in Arizona and continue to build New Mexico. These states will be year-round. You’ll also sit on top of Denver, Colorado Springs, Casper, and Cheyenne; they are currently summer draws; you’ll turn them into year-rounders.

Good enough, Otto Schmidt replied. 

Roy, you’ll continue managing Texas. Jack traced Roy’s vast slice.

Wheew-ee, Roy said, leaning forward.

It’s your decision if you want to continue running those West Texas towns with Otto. You’ll also chaperone New Orleans, Little Rock, Tulsa, Kansas City, Omaha, and Sioux Falls, and like Otto, manage those draws with chosen promoters.

Thank you, Roy Cassidy said, perking up in his chair.

Jack looked at James E. Barnes, who was smiling, fingers woven together in front of him. James E. looked delighted because Jack had shown him his territory earlier. Jim, you’ll continue your shows in Chicago and Detroit. Jack pointed to James E.’s slice of pie. You know the drill––take over Ohio, Minneapolis, Des Moines, St. Louis, Milwaukee. And hopefully work some magic with your big-time studio friends.

James E. removed his round spectacles and placed them on the table. With a twinkle in his eye and a slight finger clap, he said, Oh boooy, no one is more excited than I.

Jack studied Gerry Gallagher and smiled. Gerry, you’ll be running mostly Florida but also call the shots on already established towns in Louisville, Knoxville, Nashville, Greenville, and Birmingham. Jim has agreed to turn Atlanta over to you and assist with whatever you need.

No problem, Gerry Gallagher said, his face aglow as he got a load of the area on the map with his name all over it.

Jack waited for each of the six men to look at him. He was relaxed