A Scourge of Vipers

by Bruce DeSilva

“Yeah,” he said. “The Professional and Amateur Sports Protection Act. Been the law since 1992. Four states including Nevada, where sports betting was already legal, were grandfathered in, but it’s against federal law everywhere else.”

  Zerilli couldn’t have named the chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, but he knew more about gambling laws than the Harvard Law School faculty.

  “The NCAA, the pro leagues, and the Vegas casinos all lobbied to get it passed. Between you and me, a few heavies from my side of the tracks lent a hand by twisting arms and spreading goodies around on Capitol Hill.”

  “Like who?”

  “Between us?”

  “Sure.”

  “The Outfit in Chicago and the Gambino family in New York did the grunt work, but Kansas City, New Orleans, St. Louis, Detroit, Philly, and the rest of the New York families all chipped in. Once it passed, we figured that was the end of it. Now it’s comin’ up again all over the fuckin’ country.”

  “Because so many states are in financial trouble?”

  “Yeah. That fat fuck Chris Christie got the ball rolling down in Jersey. In 2012, he signed a bill giving Atlantic City casinos the green light to take sports bets so he can tax the action. Ever since, he’s been bullying the New Jersey congressional delegation into tryin’ to get the federal law repealed so the money can start flowing. The NCAA, the NBA, the NHL, the NFL, and Major League Baseball are all working to head him off. The NCAA is fuckin’ pissed. The Prudential Center in Newark will never get another March Madness regional if the cocksucker don’t back down.”

  Zerilli slipped a soft pack from his shirt pocket and shook out an unfiltered Lucky. I reached over to give him a light.

  “This is bad for us, Mulligan. Guys like me ain’t got much turf left as it is. Payday loan companies have put most of the loan sharks out of business. The Indian casinos in Connecticut have wiped out our poker rooms. State lotteries control the numbers game, which was our biggest cash cow back in my day. Colorado just legalized marijuana, for fuck sake. The way things are goin’, every vice you can think up is gonna be legal. You got a stake in this, too, Mulligan. My offer stands, but if Attila the Nun gets her way, there ain’t gonna be shit left for you to run.”

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  “Look, I know she’s a friend of yours. Can’t you talk some fuckin’ sense into her?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then appeal to her self-interest.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked.

  “Tell her some friends of yours got a six-figure campaign contribution for her if she backs off. If she don’t, we’re gonna bankroll her Republican opponent, whatever gun-worshipin’, union-hatin’ dickhead that turns out to be. And that’s just my crowd. She’s declaring war on the NCAA, the major sports leagues, and the Vegas casinos, and they’ve got way deeper pockets than we got, believe you fuckin’ me. Make sure she understands that.”

  “I’m sure she already does.”

  Whoosh stubbed out his Lucky and stuck a fresh one in his mouth. I lit it for him and got a cigar going.

  “So,” he said. “Got any personal business to conduct before you go?”

  “What are the odds on the Celtics stumbling into the playoffs?”

  “Even.”

  “Put me down for fifty on them washing out.”

  “You got it,” he said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.”

  He rose, shambled to his storeroom door, rummaged around inside, and came back out with a box of illegal Cuban cigars—his gift to me every time I paid him a visit.

  “Could I maybe have two boxes this time?”

  “Jesus, Mulligan. How many sticks a day are you suckin’ down now?”

  “It’s not for me,” I said. “I got a palm that needs greasing.”

  7

  First thing Tuesday morning, Chuckie–boy strutted over to my cubicle and said, “Good of you to finally join us.”

  “Good for you, maybe.”

  “I need you to cover a ten A.M. press conference off the TV,” he said. “Some preacher is going to announce his candidacy for the Republican nomination for governor.”

  “Got a name?”

  He checked his notes and said, “Lucas Crenson.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “Aren’t many people in our little state that I don’t know, Chuck.”

  “Mister Twisdale to you.”

  “We gonna go another round on that?”

  “So who is he?” he asked.

  “He’s the founder of the Sword of God Church in Foster.”

  “Where the hell is Foster?”

  “It’s a little town in the rural, northwest corner of the state. Rhode Island’s only got thirty-nine cities and towns, Chuck. Maybe it’s time you learned their names.”

  “Sword of God? What kind of church is that?”

  “A congregation of fundamentalist whack-jobs.”

  “Mulligan, you eastern media-elite snobs are all alike. You think anybody who believes in God is a lunatic.”

  “Last time I joined Reverend Crenson and his flock for a Sunday service,” I said, “all the members of the congregation, even the kids, brought firearms to church for the annual blessing of the guns. And Crenson offered a prayer for the death of President Obama.”

  “Okay, but keep your personal opinion out of the copy.”

  “No problem. If I wanted to be a blowhard, I’d be writing editorials.”

  “So does this Crenson guy have a shot at the nomination?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Rhode Island Republicans aren’t like the ones you were used to in Oklahoma. Here, they’re mostly moderates. Besides, I hear the party brass is getting in line behind Devereaux.”

  “Devereaux? He’s the mayor of Woonsocket, right?”

  “She is the mayor of Cranston,” I said. “You might want to bone up on mayors, too.”

  Chuckie-boy tried out his glower again. It still needed work.

  “After you cover the press conference,” he said, “I need you to get cracking on these press releases.”

  With that, he dropped a four-inch stack of mail on my desk.

  “No can do, Chuck. I’ll handle the press conference, but you’ll have to find somebody else for the rest of this crap.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’ve got a one o’clock sit-down with the governor.”

  “You do? What for?”

  “Background about some big announcement she’s making next week.”

  “What about?”

  “Don’t know yet,” I lied.

  “Well, okay, but try to bring back something we can print tomorrow. I got a daily paper to put out.”

  * * *

  Attila the Nun kept me stewing in a statehouse waiting room for twenty minutes before her administrative assistant ushered me into the inner sanctum. I found her sitting primly behind an antique mahogany desk flanked by American and Rhode Island state flags. She rose, waved me toward a plush velvet couch, and joined me there.

  “I’m disappointed,” she said. “I was hoping you were going to stroll in wearing those black-and-yellow Bruins boxers.”

  “I could drop my pants if you want to have a look at them.”

  “I better lock the door first,” she said. “It wouldn’t do to have anyone walk in on us.”

  “Do it,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to fool around in the governor’s office, but until now, the opportunity never came up.”

  “How come?”

  “Because we never had a girl governor before.”

  “Keep teasing me,” she said, “I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.”

  “Liar.”

  “Hey, I’m a politician now. What did you expect?”

  “Considering what you’re up to, I was expecting to find you in a slinky, low-cut party dress. The sort of thing the croupiers at Foxwoods wear to distract the players.”

  “Oh, hell. You al
ready know.”

  “Rhode Island is a small state, Fiona. Makes it hard to keep a secret.”

  “Who leaked it?”

  “I don’t know. I heard it from a member of our criminal class who got it from his boss who got it from a mole at the statehouse.”

  “Muthafucka!”

  “Such language from a nun.”

  “Former nun. I can curse all I want now, and His Holiness can’t lay a finger on me.”

  “So what’s your thinking on this?”

  “Whatever I tell you is embargoed until after my announcement,” she said.

  “I understand that.”

  “I’m thinking that if I don’t do something drastic, my legacy is going to be a bankrupt state pension system, more aid cuts to our failing public schools, tuition hikes at the state colleges, thousands of people thrown off Medicaid and Head Start, and the biggest budget deficit in Rhode Island history. We need revenue, Mulligan, and there’s no way I could get another tax hike through the General Assembly if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  “And the answer is to legalize sports betting?”

  “Do you know how much money Americans piss away on that every year, Mulligan?”

  “No idea.”

  “Las Vegas casinos rake in three billion annually on March Madness and the Super Bowl alone. Which is pennies compared to the three hundred and eighty billion that’s bet illegally every year. Double that figure and you could fund the Pentagon for twelve months with enough left over to start another small war. That kind of money makes a governor salivate.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “At least eighty-five percent of us gamble on sports at least once in a while,” she said. “That’s darned near everybody. You should know that better than anyone. Why shouldn’t the state get a piece of the action?”

  “How do you see this working?” I asked.

  “In New Jersey, Christie wants the casinos to take sports bets so he can tax the profits,” she said. “But we don’t have any big casinos—just that little one in Lincoln and the slots-only operation in Newport. I can’t see handing anything this big over to them. Besides, why just tax the profits when we can have all of it?”

  “You want the state Lottery Commission to take sports bets?”

  “I do.”

  “And turn the state into a bookmaker?”

  “Hell’s bells, Mulligan. It already is. Wouldn’t you rather see people have a little fun betting on their favorite teams than stand in lines to buy lottery tickets?”

  “You know those desperate people who blow their paychecks on fistfuls of scratch tickets?” I asked. “The ones you see furiously scraping Jokers Wild and Lucky Diamonds stubs with nickels in convenience store parking lots?”

  “Yeah. It’s so sad.”

  “Well, those people will do both.”

  “My plan addresses that,” she said. “We’re going to direct lottery outlets to limit scratch-ticket sales to ten per customer.”

  “Won’t work,” I said. “Compulsive gamblers will buy the limit and then mosey on down to the next 7-Eleven for more.”

  “I know, but it’s the best I can do.”

  I reached out and took my friend’s hand.

  “I’m worried about you, Fiona. You’re going to make a lot of enemies with this.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  “People with something to lose are already gearing up,” I said. “I was asked to let you know that there’s a six-figure campaign contribution in it for you if you back off—and that it will go to your next opponent if you don’t.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me any,” she said. “You’re not going to tell me where the offer came from, are you?”

  “No.”

  “But I can guess,” she said.

  “And you’d be right.”

  “Zerilli and Arena aren’t the ones I’m worried about,” she said. “Compared to the NCAA, they’re a bunch of pussies.”

  * * *

  “Sorry,” I told Chuckie-boy. “Everything the governor told me is embargoed at least until next week.”

  “You’ve been gone for ninety minutes, and you don’t have anything I can print?”

  “Not today, no.”

  “That is unacceptable.”

  I shrugged and dropped into one of the leather visitor’s chairs across from his desk.

  “So what’s this big announcement going to be about?” he asked.

  “Governor McNerney thinks she can fix the state budget mess by legalizing sports gambling.”

  “A former nun wants to legalize sports gambling?”

  “Ever been to a casino-night fund-raiser at a Roman Catholic church?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. If you had, you wouldn’t look so mystified.”

  “How much revenue does she think this will raise?”

  “She estimates two hundred million a year for starters. Maybe more with an advertising campaign to suck in gamblers from Massachusetts and Connecticut.”

  “Sounds inflated.”

  “I doubt it. Lottery-ticket sales generated three hundred and seventy-seven million for the general fund last year. The governor figures sports gambling could eventually top that, and she’s probably right.”

  “Who’s going to take the bets?”

  “The Lottery Commission.”

  “The state? Is she serious? Government can’t do anything right. She ought to solicit bids from experienced casino operators, turn this thing over to private enterprise. God, I hate these damned big-government Democrats.”

  “Keep your personal opinion to yourself when you edit the story next week,” I said.

  Chuckie-boy smirked, rolled his massive shoulders, and fussed with some papers on his desk.

  “I can’t see waiting for the governor’s announcement,” he said. “This is a huge story. I don’t want to risk getting scooped on it.”

  “Okay. I’ll make some calls this afternoon, see what I can do.”

  “Why don’t we just pretend you did that?” he said. “Write up what you got from the governor, attribute it to an anonymous statehouse source, and I’ll lead tomorrow’s paper with it.”

  “You want me to betray my source?”

  “Jesus, Mulligan. You’re such a dinosaur. Ethics are overrated. Journalism isn’t a calling anymore. It’s a business. Or haven’t you heard?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard, all right.”

  “So get cracking.”

  “No.”

  “No? Are you refusing this assignment?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “That’s a firing offense.”

  “So fire me.”

  He didn’t have anything to say to that.

  “Before I go,” I said, “can I get a hit from your Purell bottle? I feel an urgent need for disinfectant.”

  I stomped back to my cubicle and made a round of calls. Nobody was talking. My best statehouse sources pleaded ignorance. Michael DeSimone, the Lottery Commission director, hung up on me, then called back on his personal cell phone.

  “Attila’s on a rampage,” he said. “She’s gonna crucify anyone who spills to the press about this.”

  I gave it up as a lost cause and turned to the day’s stack of press releases. The Vipers, Providence’s new entry in the D-League, was inviting local playground legends and former college hoopsters to open tryouts at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center, the city’s 12,993-seat sports arena, a week from Saturday. To me, it sounded like a gimmick to stir up fan interest. The rosters of the D-League, developmental teams for ballplayers not yet ready for prime time, were filled with prospects already signed by NBA teams after being scouted to death during their high school and college careers. A walk-on had as much chance of making the Vipers as I’d have if I walked into the Kennedy Space Center smoking crack and volunteered to become an astronaut.

  After I wrote it up, I made a few more calls.

  * * *

  “State Medical Examiner’s Office. Ferguson speaki
ng.”

  “Hi, Glenna. It’s Mulligan. Got a cause of death on the Blackstone River floater yet?”

  “Like I figured, he bled out from the bullet wound.”

  “Determine the caliber?”

  “Most likely a forty-four or forty-five.”

  “Find anything else worth mentioning?”

  “The body took a battering, most of it after he went into the water. But some of it was premortem. Somebody gave this poor bastard a hell of a beating.”

  “With what?”

  “I’m guessing a blackjack.”

  “ID him yet?”

  “No.”

  I’d figured that because Dude hadn’t called.

  “What’s the holdup?”

  “I couldn’t pull any prints. Too much scavenger damage.”

  “Dental?”

  “I took x-rays, but until someone reports this guy missing, I’ve got nothing to compare them with.”

  I thanked her, clicked off, checked my e-mail, and discovered that Chief Hernandez had delivered on his promise. I opened the attachment and stared at the gray, frowning visage of Lucan Alfano. His hooded eyes, broad nose, dimpled chin, thin upper lip, and receding hairline reminded me of Tony Sirico, the Brooklyn tough-turned-actor who’d played the role of Paulie Walnuts on The Sopranos.

  I forwarded the image to my personal e-mail address so I’d have it handy on my cell phone. That’s when a stray thought popped into my head. I hadn’t gotten a single new threat from Mario since the night he came at me with a gun.

  8

  “Oscar? It’s Mulligan.”

  “Got something for me?” he asked.

  “I don’t. I just wanted to thank you for the photo.”

  “You’re working late.”

  “So are you,” I said. “Actually, I’m on my own time. I rewrite press releases for a living now. Real journalism is my fucking hobby.”

  “Well, I’m glad you called. I’ve got something new to share.”

  “So give.”

  “Better if we do this in person.”

  So, twenty minutes later, I walked into the chief’s office in Warwick with a box of Cohibas under my arm.

  “As promised,” I said, and placed it on his desk.

  He picked it up and studied the printing on the Spanish cedar.

  “Cuban?” he said.

  “So it would appear.”