Nick Strong was scheduled to square off against a veteran heel known as The Hangman. Both were known for their incredible stamina, and had met countless times in the past in bouts memorable for their constant action. Frank estimated the main event to run roughly thirty minutes, and had worked out a series of signals with referee Al Sawyer beforehand.
Because there were no score boards that displayed running time at wrestling events, the timekeeper used subtle hand signals to alert the referee as to the amount of time that had elapsed once a bout was underway. Throughout the course of every match there were various points where one combatant put the other in a hold and remained there long enough for both wrestlers to catch their breath. While this was happening, the referee glanced down at the timekeeper for instruction, who casually scratched the side of his nose with a single finger if five minutes had elapsed, two fingers if ten minutes had elapsed, and so on. The referee would then turn back to the wrestlers, position himself as closely to them as possible, and while pretending to check the hold, relay the appropriate information. If a match was running long and the timekeeper wanted it to end, he nonchalantly gave his earlobe a tug. The referee would then tell the wrestlers to take it home.
Many headliners in the independent circuit, particularly veterans, had a habit of working light, which meant their walk to the ring often lasted longer than the actual match. But, since this was Nick Strong's first appearance in the ECPWL, and because he had been paid nearly three times what most independent headliners earned, everyone at the ringside table settled in for a match they expected would be a lengthy but exciting finale to what had already been an action-packed evening.
The Hangman entered to a chorus of jeers, stepped into the ring and began pointing and hurling insults at various people in the crowd.
Charlie announced Nick Strong and Strong jumped from the golf cart and sprinted down the aisle dressed in red, white and blue trunks and a T-shirt with the Olympic games logo on the front. The crowd was deafening as he climbed through the ropes, gave his opponent a nasty scowl, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it to a young fan at ringside.
Just as the crowd began to die down, Strong clapped his hands, stomped his foot and screamed, "U-S-A! U-S-A!" In seconds, thousands of fans were doing the same.
Frank leaned over as Charlie took his seat at the table. "Is this guy ever gonna wrestle?"
"He's a pro, Frank. Look at the marks. They're wetting their pants."
Once Strong had milked his entrance for everything it was worth, Al Sawyer quickly checked his boots and trunks for any foreign objects, then looked down at Frank and asked for the opening bell.
The first five minutes of the match were spectacular, but to the crowd's dismay, the Hangman had had the upper hand from the start. He scooped Strong up, slammed him to the canvas, and then joined him on the mat so he could apply a headlock and get a quick rest. Al got down next to them on one knee, asked Strong if he wanted to submit, then turned and looked at Frank. "He says, no!" he shouted above the crowd. "Don't ring that bell!"
Frank nodded, scratched his nose with the tip of his finger, and Al whirled back around to face the wrestlers. "You sure you're okay, Strong?" he shouted, then quietly, "Five minutes, boys."
Strong suddenly reversed the move and threw the Hangman into the ropes, dropping him with a flying clothesline. His opponent crashed to the mat and Strong quickly covered him. Al slid over next to them and began the count, calling out the numbers and slamming his hand on the mat. "One…! Two…!" and, realizing that the Hangman had no intention of kicking out of the pin, "Three!"
The crowd, violently upset with the main event they had waited all night to see, began booing and throwing things at the ring.
Frank looked to Charlie. "What's going on?"
"I don't know." Charlie stood up, grabbed the microphone. "Maybe one of them are really hurt. What's the time?"
Frank glared at him. "Five minutes, twenty seconds."
Before the announcement could be made, Benny and the other security people surrounded the ring and hurried the wrestlers and ringside personnel back down the aisle and into the golf carts.
Nick Strong was standing by his locker toweling off what little sweat he'd worked up when Charlie and Vincent finally made it back to the relative safety of the dressing room. The other wrestlers gave them a wide berth.
"Nick," Charlie said, still out of breath. "What happened, everything all right?"
Strong shrugged. "What do you mean?"
"We were expecting a few more minutes out of you," Vincent told him in a guarded tone.
The door burst open, and Frank charged into the room. "You sonofabitch! What the fuck was that?"
"Frank," Charlie said, giving him the eye, "take it easy."
Strong laughed lightly. "Hey, the marks paid to see Nick Strong wrestle and that's exactly what they got."
"You worked five fucking minutes," Frank snapped. "Do you hear that crowd out there? It'll be a miracle if we don't end up with a riot on our hands."
"You're the boss," Strong grinned. "Sounds like your problem to me."
"You motherfucker." Frank rushed him but Vincent quickly stepped in and restrained him.
"Let him go. Come on, asshole, you want some of me? I'm standing right here, brother, bring it. I'll kick your ass six ways to fucking Sunday, moron. I'm right here."
Frank struggled to break free but Vincent's grip was far too powerful. "Get him out," Charlie said. "For Christ's sake, Vin, get him out!"
Vincent dragged Frank back out through the locker room door and pushed him into a small but deep alley between two of the buildings. "Goddamn it, take it easy!" He brushed some sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and took a deep breath. "Christ, what the hell's the matter with you?"
"That sonofabitch fucked us."
"No shit." Vincent sighed. "But that's not the way you handle things. Jesus, have you lost your fucking mind?"
Despite the violence with which his hands were shaking, Frank managed to light a cigarette, then nearly gagged on the initial drag. "He made us all look like assholes."
Vincent unhooked the button holding his double-breasted suit jacket closed and put his hands on his hips. "This was a one-time shot. We weren't planning on coming back anyway."
"That's not the point."
"We put some serious coin in our pocket tonight whether Nick Strong works five minutes or three hours," Vincent said evenly. "That's the fucking point."
Frank glared at him. "It's not always about the money."
"Oh, yes it is." Vincent spat on the pavement. "Do you have any idea what you just did back there could cost us?"
"Fuck him."
"You're acting like a mark, Frank. Do you realize how many people Nick Strong knows? Almost every major headliner in the business is a personal friend with the guy. If he puts the word out that we're a bunch of assholes to work for we'll be running shots with people nobody's ever heard of. You've seen how these pricks all stick together." Vincent loosened his tie with an angry tug. "As it is, Strong will never work for us again."
Frank flicked his cigarette away and stepped closer. "You're goddamn right he won't."
"Did I miss something?" Vincent asked him. "I mean, is it just me or did you go fucking psychotic all of a sudden?"
Frank stared at the ground. "You don't understand."
"Maybe you're just drunk."
"Drunk? What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"I wasn't gonna say nothing, but you've been drinking like a fish lately – and not just during off time like most of the guys. You showed up tonight smelling like a package store."