“Oh yeah, everyone knew he liked to screw around, but never for more than a couple of days, and he’d usually give some bullshit story to his wife.”
“Robin?”
He smiled. “She’s a piece of art, ain’t she?”
I felt myself nodding and said, “So how long have you known Mr. Gabelli, and what’s the nature of your relationship?”
Vespo told me he’d met Phil at the dog track in Bonita about seven or eight years ago through one Antonio Depas, who was a mutual friend. Vespo said Phil came to the track regularly, a lot of times with a different gal on his arm.
This was a side of Gabelli I hadn’t heard. I dug in a bit. “What size wagers did Gabelli place?”
He shrugged. “No more than everyone else we hung with.”
“What’s a normal bet for your crowd?”
“I donno, about a hundred a race.”
“That’s a lot from where I come from. A guy could lose a grand in a day.”
“Nah, you gotta hit something out of twelve races. Besides, we’re pretty good at this.”
Yeah, so good at gambling your couch is older than my grandmother, I thought.
“How often did Phil go to the track?”
“A couple of times a week.”
“Sounds like a lot for a guy with a regular job.”
Vespo shrugged. “He wouldn’t be there all day. He would pop in, lay down some bets, and take off.”
“He didn’t watch?”
“Just one or maybe two.”
“Sounds like he should’ve just called it in to his bookie.”
Vespo’s eyes narrowed but he remained silent. There was something there. I said, “Look, the last thing I wanna get involved with is chasing some bookie down. So, did Phil have a bookie?”
“He did, and a year maybe two years ago he got in a jam with him.”
“Jam?”
“He had a bad streak of luck, that’s all.”
“Phil was making bets on the side and got in over his head?”
Vespo nodded.
“How did he climb out of the jam?”
“What do you think? His wife’s loaded.”
“Is there anything Phil’s done that’s unusual, you know, anything, like odd behavior or something secretive?”
“Nah, not really, he’s pretty straight.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, the only thing that was weird, was like over a year ago. You see, when us guys are at the track we always check the racing form and we decide on how much we’re betting and on what puppy. Then one of us goes to the window and buys all the tickets for everybody.”
I nodded.
“Well, this one day, it was a Saturday, I remember because he was there the whole time. Anyway, he kept saying he had to go to the bathroom like almost before every race. So, we were ragging on him about his prostrate. Anyway, before one race he said he was going to take a leak and left. But when I went to get a brew, I saw him at one of the windows laying down more bets.”
“Did you confront him?”
“It ain’t my place. I’m not his father.”
We talked some more but there was nothing else that stood out aside from Phil looking like he’d been bitten by the gambling bug. I got the name of the bookie these guys used, it was one I knew, along with the contact info for Antonio Depas before I got back in the car.
Chapter 6
Stewart
“Achievement results from work realizing ambition. – Adam Ant
Three long, exhausting days of combing Collier and parts of Lee County helped to drain the emotion out of Robin. It was sad, and I kinda felt bad she was so desperate, but she needed the reality check. In another positive development, her sister was finally getting out of Dodge. I knew getting things back to normal, as quickly as possible, was the answer.
Two days later, the sheriff’s office told Robin they were following leads but offered zero evidence there was anything strong. Though initially depressing for her, I thought it helped. Things continued to settle down until Robin and her preacher friend, who I think had eyes on her, organized a night vigil.
I wasn’t too happy about it, as she had moved from distraught to regaining her footing somewhat. My concern, besides the preacher man, was she’d get all emotional again and take a step back. How could things ever get back to normal if she was always a basket case?
It took me a good half hour before deciding on dark gray slacks and an off-white shirt. No rain was in the forecast, so it seemed safe to wear my new Gucci loafers. They were a splurge I couldn’t afford, but they looked sweet.
The vigil was being held in Cambier Park, and it was way more crowded than I’d expected. Between the hundred or so candle holders and scores of curious tourists, the park was more than half full. Two weeks had zipped by since Phil had gone missing, so maybe people thought it was some kinda funeral.
The place looked spooky. The bandstand where Robin and preacher boy stood wasn’t fully lit up. I skipped up the stairs to the stage as the pastor led the call for God’s intervention and Phil’s safe return. Good luck with all that. I stood off to the side and surveyed the crowd. All sorts of people were out there.
Scanning faces, I could only pick out a handful of familiar ones. I looked over at some morons who brought lawn chairs, like it was a concert or something, and spied Detective Luca leaning against a giant banyan tree.
What was he doing here? He had a cup of something in his hand and was staring at the stage as the praying dragged on. I’d bet the snake was probably trying to get close to Robin.
When the prayer was over, a singer I didn’t know stepped up to the mic and begin leading the crowd through “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”
I sang along and studied Luca, who wasn’t singing. When his gaze began to move my way, I started crying. It wasn’t a sobfest or nothing, just all of a sudden, I felt everything welling up. I moved toward Robin—I needed her, we needed each other.
A circle of people surrounded Robin, all of them in serious need of tissues. I couldn’t get anywhere near her. Suddenly, preacher boy took the mic and led everyone in the Lord’s Prayer. I’m no Holy Roller, but I can tell you the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I looked by the banyan tree for Luca, but he wasn’t there.
It must’ve been at least another fifteen minutes of singing and praying before Robin took the mic and thanked everyone for coming. Finally, it was over; that was something to thank God for. I was starving and hoped I could catch a bite alone with Robin. A ton of people surrounded her constantly. She needed some down time. We both needed it.
I broke into the huddle and pecked her cheek. I tried to fish for her hand but she pulled it away and said to the preacher, “Paul, this is Dom Stewart. He and Phil were, uh, are good friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Reverend. What church are you with?”
He had real small hands, and I had to suppress a laugh as he blabbed about his church on Bonita Beach Road.
I tapped Robin on the shoulder. “What do you say we go out for some sushi? Just the two of us.”
“Sushi sounds great, but what about everyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t just leave them. They came out for me, for Phil.”
“Why not?”
She glared at me and I said, “Just kidding, lighten up.”
To my chagrin, preacher boy suggested we go to Mel’s Diner. I had no interest in going, other than to keep an eye on the preacher, but I went along, along with about ten more of us.
As I walked to the parking lot behind Fifth Avenue, I saw Luca hanging around the back entrance to the Hob Nob. I didn’t know what to do. Did he see me? It would look bad if I turned around, so I decided to keep walking. Just as I was crossing the street, a short-skirted blonde poked her head out of a door, and the detective followed her inside.
Chapter 7
Stewart
�
�The best way to predict the future is to invent it.” – Alan Kay
On the way back home, no matter how many times I changed the radio station, I kept thinking of Phil. After spending time with Robin, I was usually floating, but now I felt like crying again. No amount of blinking would erase the image of his face that was burned in my mind. I was turning into a frigging basket case, sucking my inhaler like a damn lollipop. I bemoaned the fact that if only Phil would’ve taken my advice we wouldn’t be dealing with all this.
It was still vivid, after all this time. It wasn’t an easy subject to broach, but I’d set it up nicely, spending a lot of energy debating the details of how, where, and when.
Phil, for all his faults, did a lot of volunteer work with kids. Who knows why? Probably it was the guilt from screwing around on Robin. Phil helped with the Boy Scouts, with Big Brother, and went every Tuesday afternoon to the Immokalee Child Care Center. The plan was to meet up at the center, grab some dinner, and then we’d head over to the casino for a little blackjack and ladies action.
The smell of cumin and garlic was in the air as we settled into a green leather booth at Mi Ranchito. Knowing the menu, we ordered quickly. The waitress put down a bowl of chips and salsa and Phil started to go on about a new girl he’d met at work. And just like that I had my opening.
“Look, Philly, I don’t want to talk out of school or anything, but what are you doing, man?”
Phil reached for a tortilla chip. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, man, you’re always screwing around.”
He smiled. “Yeah, and what about it?”
“You got to stop it. It’s not right, man. You’re gonna get in trouble, I’m telling you.”
He waved me off and dug a chip into the salsa. “I’m just having some fun, man. Nothing wrong with that. You always say you gotta seize the opportunities.”
“But it’s not fair to Robin.”
“Don’t you worry, I’ve got it handled all right with her.”
“Yeah? You’re treating her like a rag.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “She deserves better, man. Instead of running her through the mill, why don’t you just leave her?”
Phil’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell you think you are? Stay the hell out of my business.”
I froze. He’d never gotten pissed at me like that in the all the years we knew each other.
“I, uh, I’m just saying, it’d be best for all of us if, you know, if you just ended the marriage.”
He put his hands on his hips. “All of us? Just what the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing, Philly, it doesn’t mean anything. Look, just forget it, man. Sorry, I butted in.”
Phil wagged his head and slid out of the booth.
“Where you going, Philly?”
It was a disaster, and our friendship never really recovered. I couldn’t see where I’d gone wrong. It made sense to me. He was a terrible husband and was always playing with other women, even though they couldn’t shine a light on Robin. It didn’t make sense, and things got worse.
Not only was he pissed, but he piled on by telling Robin, setting her on a warpath with me. I didn’t understand why Robin couldn’t see that I was looking out for her. She was angry as all hell and accused me of trying to break up her marriage. Here I thought I had a grand plan to make everyone happy, and it blew up in my face.
After that episode, even though she caught him screwing around a bunch of times, it never seemed as good as it once was between us. I was baffled.
Lately we hadn’t seen each other as much, and I thought that would get a lot better with Phil gone, but it didn’t. A void separated us, which I’d have to work on. Things were messy now, but I knew it would work out. I pulled up to my house, reminding myself to call Detective Luca in the morning. There was something I wanted to tell him.
Chapter 8
Luca
Stewart was either smarter than he seemed, or he thought he was smarter than he was. Things were just off. Whether they were off by a smidge or a country mile was the question.
When I asked him why he never mentioned that Phil liked to gamble, he said he didn’t think it was important. Then when I said he could’ve gotten in over his head and in deep trouble, Stewart said no way. They had plenty of money, and if he lost big it was no big deal.
He seemed to be covering up his friend’s gambling escapades. According to Vespo, his buddy Phil was at the track a couple of times a week, and Stewart never mentions it? Stewart just said every now and then they’d go to the Immokalee casino, but he said Phil never laid any big bets and was more interested in the cocktail waitresses than the gaming tables.
It didn’t add up, and now the question was if this meant something or not. If Phil got in trouble by gambling I didn’t see why Stewart would cover it up. Was I missing something?
Or was Stewart being cute? Hiding an important fact he knew we’d be interested in, would serve him how? It just didn’t make sense.
I was hoping Phil’s bookie would provide some clarity to the mud bowl on my desk as I picked up a criminal record.
Looking through Butch Turnberry’s file, it seemed like he was nothing more than a bully whose best days were back in high school. A jock who excelled at football, Turnberry had bounced from job to job after graduating and picked up a handful of assaults along the way.
Stewart had given me his name, but I couldn’t see a small-time thug crossing over to something more sinister. With Vargas on vacation, I had to prioritize. Could I put Turnberry on ice? I was on the fence because one of the assaults involved a bat. It wasn’t considered a deadly weapon, but I’d seen my share of bashed skulls up in New Jersey.
Staring at Turnberry’s mug shot, I begged it to talk to me. Nothing.
Grabbing a bottle of Tums out of my drawer, I spilled three out and chewed the chalky tablets as I thought. Gabelli’s place of work still needed a visit, but looking at the thug’s picture again, I decided that would have to wait until I saw this thug.
***
Turnberry lived in an area known as Naples Park. To me, the area was the ultimate real estate enigma. Nestled off Vanderbilt Beach Road, west of 41, Naples Park had a salad bowl of homes. The location was a ten, but there was an epidemic of bungalows with so many cars parked in front they looked like used car lots.
There were stretches of streets where homes had been totally redone, but they could be next to an unkempt shack. I’d always thought the area had promise and wanted to invest in it. I thought it could be the next Park Shore but was cautioned by a realtor friend to stay away.
As I suspected, Turnberry lived in a putrid-blue shelter with eight cars scattered on the grass. Two of them were on blocks, and another had a tarp over it. Pitying the people living in the manicured house to the left, I walked to the door.
A shirtless teenager came to the door and sneered when I flashed my credentials asking for Turnberry. He turned his back on me and shouted for my target as he disappeared.
Six foot and broad shouldered, Turnberry was a V-shaped slab of granite with just a hint of a beer belly. I held up my badge as he approached. He eyed me suspiciously and didn’t open the screen door.
“What do you want?”
“You know a guy named Phil Gabelli?”
“Who?”
I’d been doing this so long I knew the first questions always resulted in denials. I held a picture to the screen. “Be easier to see without the screen in the way.”
The door creaked open, revealing a pair of sneakers that had their own zip code and a squiggly scar on a knee. He leaned toward the picture and shook his head.
“No idea who you’re talking about.”
That was denial two. There’s usually three or four before the, oh yeah, I remember.
“How about Dom Stewart? You know him?”
I could see the calculation he was making. He’d been around the block. It was a bit of a dance sometime
s.
“Name sounds a little familiar, but what’s this all about?”
“Dom and Phil are best friends.”
“Congratulations.”
“Stewart said you knew Gabelli.”
“Who the hell can remember everybody they’ve met?”
Right on schedule, a criminal clam began to open.
“Stewart said he played football with you. Was on your team.”
“Bullshit. He never played. You see, on a field you never know what’s gonna happen after the coin flip. Stewart couldn’t handle stuff like that, he had to have an angle.”
I knew he didn’t play with Turnberry, but the angle thing was new.
“What do you mean about looking for an angle?”
“Come on, man, you know what I mean. Those guys that don’t like to play fair and square.”
An ethics lesson from a thug? This was a first for me. I tucked the data away and got back to the business at hand.
“I know what you’re saying about Stewart. Anyway, he said you knew Gabelli.” I offered the picture again and the amnesia receded.
“Yeah, I’ve seen him around with Stewart.”
“Where?”
“Down at the casino.”
“You gamble much?”
He shook his head. “Only suckers gamble.”
You had to admire this guy. Been in jail, lived in a rat hole, but he was a fountain of wisdom. Maybe the philosophy department at Gulf Coast University could use him.
“They were gambling then?”
“Some gambling, drinking, and checking the ladies out. Just a guys’ night out.”
“Either one of them ever ask for a loan?”
He laughed. “You’re coming to the wrong place if you’re looking for money. I never lend money out. It always gets you in trouble, trust me.”
Another piece of advice from the sage of life.
“I hear you didn’t get along with Gabelli. What was the beef about?”
“Beef? Who said that?”
“Your buddy Stewart.”
Vanished: A Luca Mystery - Book 2 Page 3