The problem was that Fat Tony was as elusive as our client. He could be anywhere you find a racetrack on the East Coast. My only hope was that, with the exception of Ramon Garcia, who apparently had an inside source, word of the impending indictment of Victor was still the district attorney’s dirty little secret. That left open the possibility that Fat Tony might have stayed in the neighborhood to repeat his performance.
According to my figuring, the only two horses other than those ridden by Roberto and Victor that had to be neutralized in that race to insure a victory for Cat’s Tale were the one-horse, Mark’s Delight, and the seven-horse, High Justice. The two jockeys involved were Manny Santiago and Juan Colon.
A quick check of the Boston Globe told me that they were both riding in the first race at Suffolk—post time: twelve noon. Since neither had mounts in the second, I got to the track in time to wait outside the jockeys’ dressing room for the other jockeys to come out for the second race. I figured that would leave Manny and Juan resting or exercising on the mechanical horse in the jockey’s room.
I knew that not even the Secretary-General of the United Nations is permitted in the jockeys’ room during a racing afternoon. I caught Ed Goodavage, the valet for several jockeys including Manny, coming back from delivering the saddle and numbered cloth to the paddock for another jockey for the second race. I knew him casually from a bar that people from the track favor after the races.
Since the valets have access to the jockeys’ room, I asked Ed to deliver a message to both Manny and Juan. The message was that their agent had word about adding a mount for each of them that afternoon, and that he needed to see them outside. Whatever might have seemed unlikely to Ed about my delivering the message was smoothed over by my most ingratiating smile and a twenty dollar bill. The smile was probably superfluous.
As I figured, once the “jockeys up” call was given and the horses left the paddock for the second race, the crowd of spectators went with them, either to the stands or the betting windows. I was standing alone when Manny and Juan, both in their silks for the third race, came to the side of the building looking for their agent.
“Hello, gentlemen. I’m the messenger.”
The lure of getting another mount that afternoon brought them both over with smiles and a handshake. I hated to have to disappoint them.
“Actually, I’m not from your agent. I’m sorry. I need a word with both of you. I take it you’re both familiar with the name Fat Tony Cannucci?”
The facial changes could not have been more abrupt or stark. Manny came about up to my collarbone, but he grabbed me by a fistful of my suit coat in the vise-grip of his powerful jockey’s hand. He erupted in a torrent of Spanish curses. It began, roughly, “Listen you—You can tell that . . . slimeball for me and every other jockey—”
He punctuated the last words by storming back into the jockeys’ room. That left me standing with Juan, who had a look somewhere between fear and panic.
“Manny’s very brave, Mister. I wish I could say the same things he did. If I didn’t have a family . . .”
“Whoa! Juan! Listen to me. I’m not from Fat Tony. I have nothing to do with him. I just need information. Can you settle down just for one question?”
The look softened, but not by a lot.
“Thank you, Juan. This’ll just take a minute. And I promise you, no one will know.”
Another slight degree of softening.
“I take it Mr. Cannucci’s not high on your list.”
Juan looked at the ground. He took a few seconds, I think to decide whether to speak or take the safe ground. When he looked up, he had a look that took my complete attention.
“Listen, Mister . . . What do I call you anyway?”
“My name’s Michael Knight.”
“All right, Michael Knight. Think about this. I got a deal for you. You want to take my ride in the third race? You want to ride that race? The horse is Sweet Charlie. He’s a two year old. He’s put two exercise riders in the hospital. He don’t give no warning. He just explodes and you can’t see it coming.”
“I don’t think—”
“Just listen. That’s only part of it. I have the one post position. I got two speed horses outside of me. If I don’t break on top, they’ll be driving me into the rail. That’s okay. I’d do the same. But if we come too close and click hooves . . . last year that put me in the hospital with three broken bones.”
“Juan, I know—”
“Like hell you know. Nobody knows who hasn’t hit forty miles an hour on the neck of an animal that could break a leg at every step. And there’s not a jockey out there that hasn’t taken that flying ambulance ride to the hospital.”
“I know what you’re saying, Juan.”
“I’m not through. So why do we do it? What do you think, Mr. Michael Knight?”
“I guess . . .”
“We do it five, six times every day because we love it. Because we love the competition, the sport. We love the horses. It’s a gift from God that we can be on the back of a horse that flies like the wind to beat every other horse. In spite of everything I said, we’d never give up this thing we love. Never. You hear that?”
“I do.”
“Then hear this. Along comes this piece of crap. This Cannucci. He tells us that if we don’t make this thing we love meaningless, a joke, he’ll do things to our family, our children. If we don’t do things so no matter how many chances we take, no matter how much heart our horse gives us, he can’t win the race. This beautiful thing we love becomes dirty, it’s an obscenity, so that gangster piece of garbage can pad his pockets.”
I let him run his course. For as little as I could do about it, it might have released some pressure for him just to get it out.
“Juan, I agree with everything you said. I need to talk with that particular piece of garbage. I’m a lawyer. I represent Victor Mendosa. He lost more than a race the other day. He lost his brother. He could lose even more if I don’t find the fat man fast. I need information. He may have it. Have you heard from him again?”
Juan was grinding the dirt on the ground with his shoe. “Maybe. What do you want to know?”
“Is he still in this area? Is he setting up another fix?”
“He came to see a few of us last night. Him and a couple of his goons. I think this is a big one.”
“When?”
He looked around. “How do I know you’re not from him?”
I showed him my bar membership card. “We’ve never met, but you must have seen me at the backstretch a few mornings every week. More importantly, Juan, I’m cousin to Roberto and Victor Mendosa. I can only swear to God I’m on your side.”
He shook his head. “What the hell. I gotta trust someone. I can’t live in the back pocket of that slimeball. What do you want?”
“When is the next fix?”
“It’s not set yet. They just said it’s coming. Sometime next week maybe. He’ll tell us which race and who wins when the time comes.”
“Thank you, Juan. Manny’s not the only brave one. That took courage. I need to find Cannucci this afternoon. Is there anything he said that can give me a clue?”
He was silent for a few seconds. “Not this time, but last time. He was bragging about playing in a big twenty-four-hour poker game. He goes there in the afternoons when he’s in town.”
“Where?”
“It’s in East Boston. That’s all I know.”
“That may be enough. Be careful, Juan. Maybe someday I can return the favor big-time.”
* * *
While I drove my rental car in the direction of East Boston, I called Tom Burns, our personal source of information, licit and illicit.
“Tommy, I need some information. And you are like the Library of Congress in certain areas.”
“What do you mean, ‘in certain areas’?”
“Let me rephrase. You are the Encyclopedia Britannica. Period.”
“That’s a fair representation. What do
you need, Mike?”
“There’s a high-stakes twenty-four-hour poker game somewhere in East Boston. Do you know it?”
“Of course.”
“Who do I have to know to get in?”
“Benjamin Franklin, ten times over.”
“In English.”
“You need ten hundred-dollar bills. A thousand dollars. Cash, no checks, money orders, or stamps. And definitely no credit cards with names on them.”
“You mean I just knock on the door, hand over a thousand dollars, and I’m in?”
“A customer in good standing.”
“If it’s that easy, aren’t they afraid of being raided? Closed down?”
“By whom? The mayors and police chiefs of most of the cities around there are customers. Throw in half the big-shot politicians in the State House. Who’s going to close them down?”
“How about Boston’s crusading District Attorney Lamb?”
“Are you kidding? She needs all the political clout she can get to hoist her ambitious, if incompetent, hind-quarters into the governor’s seat. She’s not going to rattle that hornets’ nest.”
“How about the feds?”
“It’s a tight operation, Mike. No organized crime involvement. At all. The big wise guys come to play, but they have no ownership. That means the feds have no interest.”
“Dare I ask if you’re a member, Tom?”
“Dare on. No. Of course I’m not. It’s a sucker’s game.”
“You mean it’s rigged?”
“Not a bit. One slight whiff of a crooked table and they’d be out of business. No, look around if you go there. It’s more plush than anything Donald Trump ever put together. Who do you suppose pays for all that fru-fru?”
“The suckers.”
“You’re a quick lad. The games are straight. The customers play against each other. The house takes 10 percent of every pot. And the pots can be astronomical. What do you suppose that cut for the house does to the suckers’ chances of winning in the long run?”
“I hear you.”
“So why do you want into a poker game there? It’s a shark tank. The players in those games would eat you alive. You might as well just drop off your losings in an envelope and save the time.”
“I need to connect with Fat Tony Cannucci. I hear he’s there in the afternoon.”
“Holy crap, Mike. You do lead an interesting life. Would it do any good to tell you to stay as far away from that round mound of feces as possible?”
“It’d do me more good if you tell me how to find this place.”
“I doubt that. But it’s your show. Just walk softly. There’s more power in that room than in the whole State House.”
When Tom hung up, I had a call waiting. It was the golden voice of Bob Herman. He said the words that gladdened my heart—“I have a brand new, identical replacement for your Corvette on the way to the showroom. It’ll be waiting when you get here.”
In terms of priorities, that trumped almost everything. I was there within twenty minutes. I dropped off my rental for pickup, and slipped behind the wheel of an absolute clone of the car that had been bombed out of my life. It was like slipping into a perfectly fitting velvet glove. In the words of an old singing cowboy, Gene Autry, I was back in the saddle again—and on my way to East Boston.
SEVENTEEN
ARMED WITH AN address and five thousand dollars in hundreds that I drew out of my checking account, I found the building in East Boston. I had always assumed it was a warehouse for one of the Boston department stores. It was totally unprepossessing on the outside. On Tom’s word, I parked in the lot behind the building and rang the bell.
I couldn’t believe that it was that simple, but when I knocked, a neatly turned-out tuxedo opened the door. I handed over ten crisp new hundred-dollar bills. He seemed to know just by the heft that it was all there. The door opened wide, and I stepped into Wonderland, Oz, and Disneyland for the well-heeled.
Every inch of what surrounded me spoke of plush luxuriance in the extreme, from the carpeting and wallpaper that had to run in the hundreds by the foot, to the movie-star quality of the staff in formal wear and gowns that were, even to my untrained eyes, not knock-offs from Marshalls. The comforting soft music came not through a wire in the wall, but from a live string ensemble. Each of the discreetly small rooms housed a velvet clad poker table and well-padded chairs. Each had a bar that, at a glance, showed no whiskey less than twelve years old.
I felt as underdressed in my conservative blue suit and understated striped tie as a well-digger at a coming-out ball. And yet, when I converted the other four thousand dollars into forty chips, I was made to feel as welcome as the flowers in May by the liveried escort who asked if he might see to my needs.
Contrary to my expectations, there was not a hint of expensive prostitution, drugs, or any vice other than inoffensive gambling. These entrepreneurs were truly the soul of restraint. I began to understand how they survived the occasional wave of anti-corruption politicians.
At my request, he escorted me to an unoccupied room with a table and five chairs that undoubtedly went for more than all of the furniture in my four-room apartment.
I asked my escort if he would do me the kindness to deliver a note to Mr. Anthony Cannucci. He took the note while I took a seat. Within a few minutes, Mr. Cannucci walked through the door. I found myself sitting in front of the most massive block of corpulence I had experienced since my tour of the Patriots’ dressing room. The term, “Fat Tony,” applied to every inch of his six-foot, five-inch frame. I doubt that the set of scales has been created that could measure his bulk in poundage.
He had the confident smile of one who towers over most of the world’s inhabitants. I introduced myself, and we shook hands. He waved my note in front of me.
“Intriguing. And how do you happen to favor me with this invitation?”
In the note, I had invited him to a single hand of showdown five-card poker, no draw, for a thousand dollars.
“I’ve heard you’re a sporting man, Mr. Cannucci.”
“Yes. I bet you have. And yet?”
I invited him to take one of the seats.
Before sitting, he repeated the question. “As I say, Mr. Knight, and yet?”
“Let me explain the terms of the bet more fully. I thought you might be interested in one hand of thousand-dollar showdown poker. If I win, you pay me the thousand. If you win, I pay you the thousand . . . on condition that you accommodate me with certain information.”
The smile was turning into an amused grin. “And what would that information be?”
“Nothing that will ever compromise you. I’ll assure you of that. You’ll understand more fully if you accept the wager. You’re a sporting man. Think of it as part of the gamble.”
“Ah, but the odds seem unequal, Mr. Knight. What do you add to the pot to balance the addition of information on my part?”
“Quite simply this. We use your deck of cards.”
The grin held, but I noticed his eyes narrowing a bit. “Are you suggesting something?”
“Nothing untoward, Mr. Cannucci. Merely setting the rules of our game. Shall we play?”
He never took his eyes off of me while he slowly sat in the chair opposite me.
“I assume you have a deck with you.”
He reached into a vest pocket and took out what appeared to be a fresh unopened deck of Bicycle cards. His eyes still remained on me as he shuffled the cards with hands far more nimble than their size would suggest.
He handed the deck across to me. “Shuffle if you wish, Mr. Knight.”
I merely tapped the top of the deck.
“Then cut the cards?”
Again I merely tapped the deck. He had the hesitation of one who is invited to fire competitively at a quarry that is staked to a post. It seemed far too easy. And yet I could read it in his eyes. When a sucker places himself so willingly on one’s plate, it would be almost immoral not to feast.
He dea
lt each of us five cards in turn. He picked up his cards and examined them close to his chest. True to the code, his facial expression remained frozen as he looked at me to do the same.
I nodded to him without moving toward my cards. Since it was showdown poker, he simply spread his hand on the table face up. He had three queens.
My eyes were locked on his as I gathered my cards. I stacked them together without looking at them and tossed them to the center of the table.
“You win, Mr. Cannucci.”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen your cards.”
“Do I need to?”
His expression stiffened. Again with my eyes on his, I reached for my cards and spread them in front of him, face up. I had two pair. I merely shrugged. I took ten hundred-dollar chips out of my pocket and set them in front of him. He merely looked at them.
“And now, Mr. Cannucci, the information.”
That brought his eyes up.
“Let’s assume for the moment that there was a fixed race at Suffolk Downs last week.”
“Astonishing, Mr. Knight. A fixed race at Suffolk Downs?”
“I know. Unimaginable, isn’t it? And yet, let’s just suppose the fix happened to result in the death of a jockey. I’m a lawyer, Mr. Cannucci. Michael Knight of Devlin & Knight.”
“And that would be Alexis Devlin?”
“It would. We represent one of the jockeys in that race who may be facing a charge of felony murder.”
I could see in his eyes that he was making the leap to a possible spillover of the charge to include himself.
“There’s one piece of critical information we need for his defense. Was Victor Mendosa a knowing party to the fix?”
“And why in your wildest dreams would you imagine that I’d give you that information, if in fact, I had it?”
“Because you’re a clever man. It would be to your distinct advantage for us to get a court ruling that the entire incident was something that should be out of the criminal courts and handled by the track stewards. The stewards have jurisdiction to suspend the jockey, but they can’t touch you. That would make it worth your while to give me the benefit of an answer.”
Fatal Odds Page 13