The team from the State Athletic Commission arrived a few hours before the scheduled starting time. Dressed in identical blue blazers with state patches over the breast pockets, they appeared on the scene and took over the locker room immediately. Charlie, Frank and Vincent knew most of them as it was always one of a few regular crews that worked all of the wrestling and boxing shows in the state. For the most part, everyone got along well. They allowed Frank, who had registered with the state, to work as timekeeper, and generally assigned the referees Charlie requested when he registered the shows with the state office. Mainly, they were in attendance to collect a five-percent tax on the gross ticket sales, but they also assigned judges for the bouts, made sure all licenses, insurance, and workmen's compensation forms were up to date, and even oversaw the doctor, who was responsible for conducting physicals on the wrestlers before they were allowed to complete.
As was always the case, an hour or so before the show, the locker room was crowded and chaotic. Charlie and Vincent were busy filling out forms and paperwork with the state officials. Luther was working out angles and finishes for the matches involving under-card wrestlers. The two main event headliners were off in a corner, playing cards with one of the referees, and the doctor was slowly making his way through the long list of physicals. Meanwhile, Frank spoke with the midgets, Little Cowboy Pete, and Kid Ka-bang. "Vincent spoke to you guys, right?"
Pete smiled, struggling into a pair of small leather chaps. "Yeah. Sorry about the room, boss. We got a little loaded last night."
"Next time it comes out of your pay," Frank said firmly.
Kid Ka-bang, a black midget who wrestled in a tiger-skin loincloth, nodded woefully. "It ain't gonna happen again."
"Nobody else uses you guys as much as I do, right?"
"That's right," Cowboy Pete agreed. "And we appreciate it, boss."
Frank lit a cigarette. "You want to go back to doing house shows for the big federations?"
"Fuck that," Kid Ka-bang laughed. "You get big money but you gotta smoke too much pole for it."
Pete nodded, slapped his partner on the back. "I heard that, brother."
Frank smiled. "You know, you'd be just about the right height."
Little Cowboy Pete shook his head. "Gee, never heard that one before."
Frank laughed and moved through the room. One of the state commissioners stepped in front of him with a clipboard and a pen. "You doing time tonight?"
"Yeah."
He thrust the clipboard at him. "Sign line six and initial lines ten and twelve. Is Charlie doing the ticket count?"
"No," Frank said, handing the clipboard back to him. "Vin's handling it tonight. Charlie's announcing."
"Okay," the man nodded. "The doc wants to see you."
"What's wrong?"
"No idea. Ask him." The man began conversing with one of the other officials, and Frank quickly made his way across the room to the corner where Dr. Richard Pendleton was hovering over Dean Tate, a wrestler who worked as The Mongolian Crusher.
"Doc," Frank said with the biggest smile he could muster, "how've you been?"
Pendelton glanced at Frank without offering any discernable reaction. He was a thin man in his late sixties who seemed perpetually slumped over. His face was creased with wrinkles, his hands covered with liver spots, and his demeanor always cautious and guarded. "Hello, Frank."
"What's up?"
"This man can't go tonight."
Frank looked at Tate, who offered a timid shrug. "Why not? Are you sick?"
"I feel fine," Tate answered softly.
"What's the problem, Doc?"
Pendelton continued filling out a form without bothering to look up from it. "His blood pressure is through the roof. It's no wonder, look at him. He's not an inch over five foot ten and he weighs nearly four hundred pounds."
"I've been trying to watch my weight," Tate sighed.
"Hold on," Frank said, mind racing. "Dean, didn't you tell me you just went to your doctor a couple of weeks ago?"
"Uh-huh."
"And I thought you said everything was fine."
"It was."
Frank turned back to the doctor. "Then there must be some mistake, Doc."
"There's no mistake. I can't pass this man."
"I think it might've been the snack food," Tate suddenly said.
Pendelton looked up from his clipboard. "Snack food?"
"I slept late this morning," he explained, "and I didn't stop for lunch, so I ate a box of cupcakes I had with me."
"You ate an entire box of cupcakes?" the doctor asked.
Tate blushed. "Yes, sir."
"Just the same, in all good conscience, I can't let you wrestle, son."
"This'll screw up the whole card," Frank told him.
Pendelton buried his nose in his paperwork again. "I'm sorry. My decision is final."
"Doc, I don't have an extra man." Frank looked at his watch. "And it's too late to get somebody down here to replace him."
"I feel fine," Tate said again.
Frank waved at him to be quiet. "The guy's zooming on a sugar high, Doc, that's all. He's fine."
The doctor flashed an angry look. "If this man goes out there and drops dead of a heart attack, do you know who'll be to blame? Do you know who everyone will crucify?"
Frank knew he was up against the wall; he'd been there before. "Did I mention the ladies are working this card?"
"I saw the roster earlier."
"Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk."
Pendelton's eyes brightened. "Yes, that's… that's good."
"Tell you what I'm gonna do," Frank said quietly. "Right now they're down in the other locker room getting ready. I'll go let them know you're working as state doctor tonight; make sure they're expecting you. All I ask is one small favor, Doc. Can you do me one small favor?"
Pendelton shrugged. "Depends."
"Wrap that thing around Dean's arm again and give it just one more shot for me. In about two minutes, meet me out in front of the girls' locker room and let me know the results. Whatever you decide we'll live with. Fair enough?"
"Five minutes," Pendelton grunted without altering his expression. "See that the girls are ready for me."
Frank left the locker room and headed down the hallway toward the women's dressing area. He'd not yet reached the door when David Delvecchio intercepted him. "Hey, boss, I wanted to apologize about last night, I – "
"Not now," Frank snapped, continuing past him.
Delvecchio leaned his emaciated frame against the wall and shook his head dejectedly. He had long stringy hair that he kept pulled back into a ponytail, several colorful tattoos on his forearms and shoulders, a nose ring, and a constant look of confusion and fatigue. He and a crew of two other men were responsible for transporting and constructing the ring at all ECPWL shows. Delvecchio was only in his late thirties but had been in the wrestling business for more than two decades, and was well known as both a reliable ring rat, and a helpless heroin addict.
One of Benny Dunn's security guards stood poised in front of the women's locker room dressed in a company-issue, bright yellow "security" T-shirt. "They in there?" Frank asked; knocking and entering before the guard even had time to respond. "Incoming, ladies!"
Delta Diamond and Tammy Hawk were sitting on one of the benches talking above the strains of an enormous boom box. "Frankie," Tammy said, eyes bright. "What's up?"
He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "You know how it is, Tam. It's never easy being me. We got a bit of a problem."
Delta smiled, revealing a beautiful set of teeth, and sauntered over to him. She combed her blonde hair behind her ears with a finger and let her eyes wander seductively down Frank's body. "Tell Mommy all about it."