The Hurting Circus Page 2

  “Yes, the man who did this to me didn’t wear a mask, or a hood, or anything to conceal his face. He was sent to intimidate me. He looked me in the eye and told me to stay out of ‘business that wasn’t mine.’” The senator took a drink of water to steady himself; he was clearly emotional.

  “Mr. Tenenbaum, I hope you’re doing better, sir,” Joe Lapine said over the connected phone line. Senator Tenenbaum shook his head in disgust at Joe’s phony concern.

  “What do you think when you hear a story like this, Mr. Lapine?” Ant asked, opening the conversation to Joe. “And, by the way, thank you for calling in,” Ant quickly added. “We find it hard to get people from your line of work to come on the record.”

  The lights in the studio looked hot and a little oppressive. Joe, however, was sitting back at his hotel desk in London. He was coming to the end of his forty-eight-hour visit, and this was one of the last things he had to do before he left to return home. “Thank you for taking my call,” Joe said. “Just to say, I personally have no dog in this fight. I know New York is having huge crime trouble in general, but I just run a small circuit back home in Memphis.”

  “What do you mean by saying you have ‘no dog in this fight’?” Senator Tenenbaum asked. “Aren’t you the chairman over the whole cartel?”

  Joe snapped back, “Cartel? Listen, Senator, with all due respect to you, I’ve had to listen to you go on every show on TV and radio, dragging our great sport through the mud. I’ve had enough. We’re a business, just the same as boxing is. I don’t know what exactly you think I’m the chairman of, sir. I hold my own promoter’s license and I pay my share to the athletic commission—like I’m told to do—and that’s about the size of it.”

  The senator jumped back in. “A few days ago, the wrestling promoter here in New York, Danno Garland, was shot dead.”

  “That case is ongoing,” Joe replied. “And it was of a personal nature, nothing to do with the sport of wrestling.”

  “So you’re saying this isn’t all connected?” the senator asked.

  Joe replied, “First, when I heard about Danno Garland’s passing I was saddened, but not surprised. His dear wife was the victim of a robbery that caused her death. Mr. Garland seemed intent on dishing out his own form of retribution—and from what I know, his driver allegedly—”

  The producer off-camera was nodding his head to the anchor. Ant interrupted. “Like you said, Mr. Lapine, the investigation is ongoing. I suggest that we stick to tonight’s issue so as not to prejudice any case against Mr. Long.”

  The senator couldn’t wait to get back in. For years, he had been trying to get something on these wrestling guys, and now he smelled the faintest whiff of blood. “This is all connected. All of a sudden, the wrestling business is responsible for a lot of criminality and bloodshed—”

  Joe pretended not to hear and cut back in. “I’m sorry to hear that anyone got so brutally assaulted. It must be a confusing time for the senator.”

  “No, no, no,” Senator Tenenbaum replied with frustration. “I’m not confused in the slightest.”

  “Did you guys have anything to do with the senator’s assault and brutal stabbing on the streets of New York, Mr. Lapine? Yes or no?” Ant asked.

  And that was the question Joe needed to be asked, the question he needed to set up the answer he had prepared. “Well, Mr. Stevens, some lunatic attacks Senator Tenenbaum on the streets of a city already racked with violence,” Joe said in a considered tone. “Now, this attacker didn’t even cover his face, according to the good senator. It sounds to me like Mr. Tenenbaum could identify this man easily if he was ever apprehended.”

  Ant Stevens held up a police sketch for his camera. To anyone who knew, it looked an awful lot like Mickey Jack Crisp. “This is him, folks,” Ant said to the camera.

  “Do you know this man?” the senator asked Joe, right on camera.

  “No,” Joe replied. “I do not.”

  That was true.

  “You’ve never seen him before?” Ant asked.

  “Only in the media—the same as everyone else,” Joe answered.

  That was a lie.

  “Can you come on here, Mr. Lapine, and say that this man isn’t one of yours?” Senator Tenenbaum asked.

  Joe took his time in response. “No, I can’t say that.”

  Joe’s reply caught both Ant and the senator off guard. “Sorry, sir?” Ant asked. “You can’t say that?”

  Joe continued, “I know that man has nothing to do with my wrestling business here in Memphis, but I have no idea if he’s connected to any other business out there. How could I?”

  Both the anchor and the politician appeared momentarily stumped.

  “The sport of professional wrestling is huge,” Joe said. “There are thousands of wrestlers and promoters and ring crew, etcetera. I can’t vouch for them all, sitting here tonight in London. No more than the senator can vouch for all the people who work in his area.”

  The senator thought that he was finally seeing one of the wrestling bosses mess up and drop their guard for once, and he was itching to get back into the conversation. “So you’re saying that—”

  Joe wasn’t about to give the floor back now, though. “What I’m saying for sure is this, sir,” he said. “If that man is found to be connected in any way to our sport, I will personally join the senator in making sure that the professional wrestling business as a whole is investigated from top to bottom, inside and out.”

  For the second time in a short segment, Joe had totally baffled the anchor and the senator.

  “Even if he’s found to not be from your neck of the woods?” Ant asked.

  “I don’t care,” Joe said. “If my sport, which I love dearly, has caused this kind of hurt and distress to anyone—much less an elected representative of the people—then I’ll shut myself down. Is that fair enough, Senator?”

  Camera Two zoomed in good and tight to Senator Tenenbaum’s face, waiting for his reply. The senator’s political wiring was sparking enough to know how this was coming across to the ordinary American at home. “I welcome Mr. Lapine’s offer and intentions,” was all the senator could mumble. He knew that Joe had boxed him in with his faux kindness and concern. Anything other than thanks would have been ill advised.

  “And to finish, sir,” Joe said, “I sure would be grateful if you offered me the same courtesy. If this man is caught and if there’s no hint that he is from our sport, would you consider informing the American people of that? All the accusations are needlessly hurting a proud hundred-year-old American staple. Professional wrestling doesn’t deserve this. The families that work in this great tradition don’t deserve to lose their livelihoods, their way of feeding their families.”

  Ant’s producer was wrapping him up off screen.

  “What do you say, Senator?” Ant asked. “Are you willing to telling the American people you’re wrong if it comes to that?”

  Senator Tenenbaum could only nod his head. “It won’t come to that. These people have a habit of making sure nothing comes to the surface.”

  Ant Stevens once again held up the police drawing of a man that the senator knew as his attacker and the wrestling bosses knew as Mickey Jack Crisp. “Okay, I want to thank Senator Tenenbaum from New York, and Mr. Joe Lapine, who I understand is on vacation right now.”

  “That’s right, Ant,” Joe answered with a fake laugh. “But I’m looking forward to coming right on home.”

  Fucking right he was.

  The next day.

  Florida.

  Florida was the noisiest quiet place on earth. Things moved in the bushes, grass, trees, and skies, and spending a coal-black night down there took some getting used to if you were just visiting. Mickey Jack Crisp thought that it was the greatest place on earth—especially since he had gotten his hands on some money. For the first time in his life he had a small place with air conditioning and a car that was reliable enough to get him from coast to coast. All thanks to the wrestling business.


  Mickey wasn’t an insider, or someone who had grown up in wrestling. He didn’t even much like to watch it on TV. But he sure did like the money that the wrestling bosses gave him to do the things that they didn’t want to do themselves. Most of the time they’d pay him and they’d end up doing the dirty deed themselves anyway.

  But really, whether he liked the business or not didn’t matter one tiny bit to him while he spent wrestling dollars at the bar, watching a blonde standing by the door. He smiled as the barman took her a drink that Mickey had paid for. She smiled at Mickey as the barman pointed him out. The bar was packed, but they seemed to home in on each other. Mickey had done much better with the ladies since he came back from New York. Money made him confident and generous, and the tourist ladies didn’t seem to mind either trait. He left his stool at the bar and walked over to her.

  A couple of hours later they both burst through the door into Mickey’s place. She was wrapped around his waist, and Mickey was doing his best not to stumble over something, being both drunk and in the dark. Both of their breaths were strong with liquor. They stumbled their way to his couch and collapsed with her on top. Mickey broke away from her lips to see if she was like he pictured her in his head. She was—she was definitely as beautiful as he’d thought. He watched her arch her back and reach inside her purse for a condom.

  “What’s that for?” Mickey asked. She hushed him, and pushed him flat onto his back. “You see what’s happening out there,” she said.

  Mickey tried to bluster and fumble his way through but she was insistent. No protection, no sex. And Mickey wasn’t going to waste too much time arguing either way; his room was beginning to spin a little and he wanted to start while he knew he still could.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her. She wasn’t a big talker. Mickey kicked off his shoes and shimmied his jeans to the floor. He tried to kiss her, but she wasn’t interested in that anymore. No connection. No glances. No wandering hands. She just rolled on his condom, held his wrists, and fucked him until he came. No small talk. No finishing embrace.

  She slid down and while Mickey thought a blow job might be on the cards, she was only interested in carefully removing the condom.

  “Hey, while you’re down there—” Mickey said as he lit a cigarette. His heart was pounding and the sticky Florida night made him feel even more like he was about to pass out.

  “You want some water?” she asked as she stood and walked across his floor, naked. Mickey nodded. “Come get it,” she said, leaning over suggestively to turn on the tap.

  Mickey quickly stubbed out his smoke and tried to stand. He was disoriented. Dizzy. He immediately knew it was more than the effects of alcohol. His legs buckled; his breathing slowed down dramatically. The walls moved closer and his vision blurred. Mickey didn’t even hear Donta enter his house and walk up behind him.

  The blonde woman knew her part of the job was done when she saw Donta creep up behind Mickey and place the noose around his neck. Before Mickey could even attempt to fight back, Donta turned quickly and yanked on the rope, bringing himself and Mickey back to back. Donta arched forward, which lifted Mickey’s feet off the ground, choking him. Mickey kicked a little and tried to breathe, but Donta tightened his grip and waited for a helpless Mickey to hang.

  The last thing Mickey saw before he died was the blonde stranger picking up her clothes and leaving. She had spiked Mickey with such a large dose that by the time he realized he was being hanged, he could do nothing but accept it.

  With Mickey Jack Crisp—the only physical link between wrestling and the senator’s assault—dead, it was now time for Donta to lay out the bread crumbs for the authorities to follow. The letter he had mailed to Senator Tenenbaum earlier had a bullet and a letter inside it. That would be enough to lead the investigation in Mickey’s direction. All that was left for Donta to arrange was all the pieces around him—to get the wrestling business off the hook completely.

  Donta left Mickey hanging from his own bathroom door. He removed Mickey’s few remaining articles of clothing and threw them into the hallway. Donta lined the floors, filled the bath, and covered the kitchen with magazine and paper clippings of Senator Tenenbaum’s face. Every picture had Tenenbaum’s mouth cut out and his eyes x’ed in red pen. Donta planted an untraceable gun—minus the single bullet that was on its way to Washington—under Mickey’s mattress. He placed the typewriter that had been used on the envelope on the kitchen table.

  Donta then took the contents of Mickey’s condom and carefully emptied it on the clipping-covered floor, just under Mickey’s body. Donta covered the walls with stab holes and angry gashes before he left.

  Tenenbaum was everywhere and Mickey’s cool little pad in the middle of nowhere looked like the lair of a madman.

  A dead madman.

  A dead madman who had had nothing to do with the wrestling business.

  The next night.

  New York.

  After too long on his feet, Edgar Long sat in a daze on his couch. A hundred or more people had been through his house in the previous few days—but now all was quiet. His wife couldn’t do it: she couldn’t come back home after what had happened there. She never wanted to see that sitting room again. But Edgar wanted to clean it—and he did. He was a man of routine, and all of this change was playing with his nerves. His grandchildren made it out alive, but his son was in critical condition and despite all the scrubbing, Danno Garland’s blood was still visible on his walls. Edgar washed and cleaned the room until his arms wouldn’t wipe anymore. He got sick at the thought of his family in so much pain—so broken now.

  He cried alone on his floor.

  As he sat there, the light of day long gone, Edgar wanted his routine back. He wanted his grandkids back, and he wanted his son to live. He wanted to know what had happened. Nobody was saying anything, except that Lenny had shot Danno dead. This didn’t sound at all right to Edgar; he knew his son, and he knew that he didn’t have cold-blooded murder in him. Something else must have happened—something more.

  Edgar sat in a daze on his couch and watched his TV. The Nightly View had been advertising all evening about how it was going to shed light on what was happening in New York. Edgar knew that his son was mixed up in the wrestling business. He just wanted to know what was going on.

  Ant Stevens welcomed his viewers with his usual slickness and promised them an immediate update. It was the first time that Edgar was hearing the full story. A senator had been stabbed, and Danno’s own wife had been murdered just days before Danno, himself, was shot to death. They showed a picture of Lenny on screen. Edgar couldn’t help but fall apart again. What was his boy doing in the middle of all of this?

  “We now know,” said the anchor, “that the man who attacked Senator Tenenbaum was found dead in his own home today, of an apparent suicide. Just so our viewers know, the senator is down in Florida now, where he identified the man as the one who viciously attacked him. The man’s motives aren’t yet known, but we’re getting word that the attacker’s house was covered in disturbing images of Senator Tenenbaum, and that his fixation on the senator continued up to yesterday, when it’s alleged that Mr. Tenenbaum received a bullet mailed—”

  Edgar switched his TV off. His wife was right: this would be the last time that he’d ever set foot in his living room. No amount of scrubbing was going to get rid of what happened here.

  1973.

  Five months after Lenny was shot.

  California.

  Choosing Masquers Club in Hollywood had probably been a mistake.

  “Y’all are going to have to move it to a bigger venue for next year,” Minnie Blackwell told her husband as they waved and saluted their way through the crowd.

  “Shut up,” Tanner replied.

  Even though the venue had the touch of prestige and history, it wasn’t big enough to hold the owners, promoters, and athletes from both the wrestling and boxing worlds. On this night, the wrestling business itself needed to give i
ts best performance. It was time to begin the process of moving on—of starting again.

  Since the fifties, the Four Corners Social Club was a weekly coming together of boxing and wrestling personalities, which over time had turned into a fraternity. The club honored the greatest achievers and remembered the forgotten. It prided itself on not getting involved in the politics of the day.

  The room was stuffed full of black ties, sparkly ball gowns, bald heads, and cigar smoke. Tanner pulled out his wife’s seat and made sure that she was settled without incident. “Why are we sitting over here?” Minnie asked Tanner.

  “Shut up,” Tanner replied evenly and calmly. He walked around the other side of the table and sat opposite her. All the other tables seated six people, but Tanner’s table was just for him and Minnie.

  “Why did they put us up against the wall?” Minnie asked.

  Tanner knew Minnie’s patter well: she was asking just the right questions to get him annoyed. There was something about her that didn’t like his mind to be too far away from her. “You said you didn’t want to share a table with anyone,” Tanner replied.

  “A middle table would have been nice is all.”

  “If I had booked you a middle table, you’d want a fucking table on the ceiling.” Tanner could feel his leg begin to bounce with anxiety, or anger—he never knew which when it came to spending time with his wife. “Would you like to move, then?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” she replied. There were a few seconds of silence, while Minnie and Tanner both scanned the room to see if anyone noticed them. “It’s just—it’s disrespectful, isn’t it?” Minnie said. “You’re put over here in the dark. I mean, what do they think is wrong with you?”

  “I asked for this specific table in this specific spot because you specifically said you wanted a table in the corner on your own,” Tanner replied.

  “Even the bread is hard,” Minnie said.

  “What do you mean it’s hard?” Tanner snatched the bread out of his wife’s hand and squashed it in his hand until it crumbled. “Feels soft to me.”