I always wanted to give someone an 'offer they couldn't refuse', while the Immigrant Song pumped on my iPod. It just so happens that I get to do that... to Pierre. The most famous Frenchie since straight fries. I had started my pitch earlier, but Pierre had insisted that lunch, the one that I was paying for, and through the nose at that, shouldn’t be about business. And by “I”, I of course mean “we”, and by “we”, I mean Legion.

But what was another hour wait? After seven hours in the air, another three at JFK before that, and nearly an hour with a Moroccan taxi driver as we careened through traffic toward the restaurant. Not that I was impatient, merely anxious. I’d never been asked to close a deal, any deal, and here I was an ocean away from home, trying to land a hand-to-God legend in our camp.

Lunch was fantastic, sitting at a window, watching painters peddling their wares and actual mimes on the street. I’d wondered why Pierre had insisted on dining here, rather than at any location nearer Charles De Gaulle, but sitting here now, I knew what he was thinking. Artists in the street, and an artist at the table. Got it.

Pierre kept the talk small. Stories about his family, a few dirty jokes, but the closest we got to business was reminiscing about some of the after show bar crawls from our days together in The Squared Circle. I’d been a ref there, not an announcer, and while we’d never had too many in depth conversations, we certainly knew each other better than anyone else the office could have sent. That’s how Garrett Frampton ended up in the Latin Quarter, across the table from The Flying Frenchie.

I sat there and listened, because that’s what you do when Pierre talks. Guys have come and gone who were much easier to understand, but they couldn’t make you pay attention the way he does. Sitting there waiting for food to be served, I was captivated. It’s hard not to be charmed by The Frenchie.

When the check came, I dutifully picked up the tab, even for the obscenely expensive bottle of wine that Pierre had barely touched. I’m almost positive he was testing me, seeing if the bill would make me flinch, judging our ability to pay him. C’mon, man, you think they would have sent me across the Atlantic if we couldn’t afford to buy lunch?

Pierre took us back to his apartment in the city to talk business, beaming in pride at his BMW Z4, modified at the factory to accommodate his height. Only when he was done with that would he let me tell him about Legion. Sixteen wrestlers, four teams, one Dunn cup. He listened, interrupting only with requests for more details. I couldn’t tell which way he was leaning, but he hadn’t kicked me out yet. I took that as a good sign.

When we got to his apartment, I half expected a Letterman-style love nest, but it looked nothing like that. Sparsely decorated, but what was there absolutely looked like it belonged. Pierre walked me through the front room and into his office, where we got down to brass tacks, sitting amidst some mementos of a storied career. On his desk, beside a large framed picture of his wife and son was an action figure of himself when he still wore a mask, and behind him, on the wall, were stills of some of his greatest moments in the ring. Only when we were situated, did he let me deliver the offer, and I delivered the hell out of it.

I told him I had no authority to negotiate, but could only present him with what The Four had already agreed to. A hefty, guaranteed payday each week, wired to the account of his choosing before he climbed aboard a plane to come over. First class, round trip tickets to New York each week, plus a night at the hotel of his choosing for the evening before the show. Thirty five percent of the gross of merchandise bearing his likeness, and two percent of the sale of any DVDs he was on, even if he was only a red shirt that week. No additional percentage of the gate, no autograph table during the shows, and no long term conditions. The deal was for one season, eight weeks, and it would automatically renew at the end of the season unless he or Legion chose to sever it.

Pierre took it all in, not allowing his famously expressive face to give away his feelings. He asked about the venues, and I told him about the Church of Fight. He wanted capacities, and I let him know that if the fire marshall ever showed up, we’d need to have under seven hundred thirty six people, but that the layouts we were planning on, including seats and standing room only, would allow a few dozen more. He did the math in his head, trying to figure out how the finances worked, but I assured him that our silent partner was taking care of that until we got our feet beneath us. Skeptically, he asked me who else we’d signed. I told him we’d approached Randalls, Hornet and a few others when he cut me off.

“Not approached,” he said, “who have you actually signed?” If I blushed, I wouldn’t admit to it, but I had a few solid names. Alias. K-Wolf. Spaes. Sharc. Those were the workers I thought he’d know, so I didn’t mention the local talent, the guys looking for an opportunity to make their names. He’d know their names soon enough, if he took the plunge.

Frenchie tilted his head and inquired, why him? Why fly a quarter of the way around the world to have him, when there were dozens of unsigned workers in the States, many of them living in the greater New York area?

And I told him. I reminded him of how the season worked, about how a great singles wrestler might be good for three weeks, but an albatross to his team come the tag and six-man weeks. We aren’t looking for just talented people, but flexible people. Here he was, a former cruiserweight champion before he bulked up, he’d hung around with the hardcore folks. Oh, for laughs, to be sure, but you still get tossed around. But even for a man who’d held several World Titles, he’d always been defined by his ability to work with others. The French Foundation, The Underground, 3vil, and Wrestling 101 were disparate groups, but Pierre had been a key factor working with all of them. If there was such a thing as a perfect fit within Legion, he had a very strong case of being that man.

These are all the cards I’ve got, I told him. Legion wants you, and this is far as we’re willing to go to get you. He only had one question after that.

“When do we start?”