PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “I work out, too, Duds. You should try it.”

  “Never run when you can walk, never walk when you can stand, never stand when you can sit and never sit when you can lie down. That’s my motto.”

  “Which you stole from Satchel Paige,” Amira said.

  “Great man,” Mack said. “How the hell do you know who he was?”

  “Not all Ph.D’s are ignorant,” she countered.

  Scarne laughed. He knew that while Mack was a little heavier than when he was in college, he was still in great shape, thanks to the long hours he spent with workers who revamped his many bar and restaurant properties. It was something he loved to do.

  “About dinner,” Scarne said, “I’m sorry, Amira, but I’m leaving town tomorrow and want to get an early start.”

  Her martini came.

  “Jake has an appointment to get shot at,” Dudley said.

  Amira raised her glass.

  “I hope they miss,” she said.

  ***

  Scarne was up at dawn the next morning and after downing a glass of orange juice headed to the small, musty gym in his building at 2 Fifth Avenue. After a vigorous hour-long workout he went back to his eighth-floor apartment, picking up the Times on his doorstep. He had purchased the one-bedroom with most of his inheritance from his grandfather. The flats in the venerable 18-story building were much larger than those in newer buildings. Scarne had almost 1,600 square feet of living space, and that didn’t include two walk-in closets.

  He put on a pot of coffee and poached two eggs in boiling water, swirling it with a slotted spoon to create a vortex that kept the egg whites from separating. He toasted and buttered an English muffin and then used the slotted spoon to ladle the eggs onto one of the muffin halves. He slathered some Dickinson’s pure fancy sweet orange marmalade on the other. The marmalade, obscenely expensive, was his favorite, made from the peel and pulp of the fruit. He took his breakfast and paper out onto his small deck and ate as the city came alive below him.

  When Scarne finished, he went inside to make travel arrangements on his computer, only to discover to his annoyance that there was no easy way to get to Atlantic City from Manhattan.

  Other than $2,000 helicopter charters, there were no direct flights from local airports. He’d be damned if he’d fly commercial via Chicago or Cleveland. A train was out; Amtrak went to Philadelphia. The thought of going to Atlantic City on a bus filled with blue-haired ladies destined for slot-machine heaven sent a shiver up his spine. He decided to drive. Hell, it would be good to put his new car through its paces. And his annoyance with his lack of transportation options was somewhat salved when he leaned that a discount carrier called SunPeople Air offered nonstop service from Atlantic City to Fort Myers. He could leave his car at the airport.

  Scarne rarely drove in or around New York City. Many of his friends chided him at the extravagance of keeping a car in Manhattan, pointing out that for infrequent long road trips outside the city renting made much more economic sense. But he was a “car person” and felt naked without one of his own handy. Besides, he told himself, the garage rates in Greenwich Village were among the most reasonable in the city. He told himself that all the time.

  The underground garage Scarne used was on 8th Street, adjacent to his building. He paid a $100 premium over the regular $400 monthly flat “courtesy” rate the garage offered to his building’s residents. The premium got him a sheltered spot on the ground floor next to the cashier’s booth, where it was unlikely to be scratched or dented. He also tipped the attendants generously and supplied them with a steady stream bagels, cookies, cakes and wine. As a result, his car was treated as one of their own.

  When he got down to the garage, his favorite attendant, Emmanuel Moliere, had already removed the tarp from his Ford Fusion hybrid and had started it up.

  “Ready to go, Mr. Scarne.”

  Scarne had long ago given up trying to get Moliere to call him by his first name. Moliere was Haitian and would never forget that Scarne had used his influence to get some of his family off the island after a devastating earthquake. Moliere, who in his spare time washed the car and even polished it on occasion, refused even to take tips and holiday gifts from Scarne until he threatened to move his car to another garage unless he did.

  “Thanks, Manny,” Scarne said, throwing his bag in the back seat. “Looks great.”

  “It’s a nice car,” the parking attendant said. “Sure do miss the MGB, though.”

  “Don’t rub it in. Broke my heart to get rid of it.”

  Prior to the Fusion, Scarne had garaged two cars with Moliere, a classic 1974 MGB Roadster, and before that, a 2009 Mazda MX-5 Grand Touring hardtop, both convertibles. The MGB had been a dream to drive, but finding parts had become tiresome even for a car enthusiast like Scarne. At least that was how he rationalized selling the car. Dudley Mack, as usual, had punctured the rationale when he first saw Scarne’s Fusion.

  “It’s about time, Cochise,” he’d intoned. “Women should know when to wear their hair short and men should know when they’ve outgrown two-seat sports cars.”

  CHAPTER 22 - SPIT TOON

  Scarne pulled up to the entrance of the 33-story Nero’s Palace and handed his keys to a valet. The two-hour ride from New York had been uneventful and, Scarne grudgingly admitted to himself, much more comfortable than it would have been in the MGB.

  “How are you, sir?” the valet asked automatically.

  “Comfortable,” Scarne answered, a bit morosely.

  The valet looked at him and shrugged. He’d seen all types.

  Once inside the glittering casino/hotel, Scarne stopped by the concierge.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Toon. I’m expected. The name is Scarne.”

  “Just a moment, sir.”

  A phone call was made and the concierge handed Scarne an electronic key.

  “You will need this to access the penthouse floor, Mr. Scarne. Use that elevator over there.” He pointed. “Someone will greet you when you get off.”

  That “someone” turned out to be a diminutive Asian girl dressed in a severe black pants suit.

  “Mr. Scarne, my name is Kumiko Loo,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Mr. Toon’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”

  She turned and led Scarne down a short hall through the largest penthouse he’d ever been in. They arrived at the living area, which had a wide view of the Atlantic Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. In the middle of the room, sitting at a huge L-shaped white leather couch was an enormous man wearing shorts and what appeared to be a particularly ugly Hawaiian shirt. As Scarne got closer, he realized that not all of the shirt’s colors and splotches came from the manufacturer. Many appeared to be recent, or not so recent, additions. And from the way the man on the couch was shoveling food into his mouth, it was obvious that the shirt was a work in progress.

  “Mr. Scarne, sir,” the woman announced and hurried away.

  “How’s it hangin’, Scarne,” Toon said. “Mack said you need some information. Grab a seat. Want an oyster?”

  There was a platter of at least three dozen of the largest oysters Scarne had ever seen on the table in front of Toon. About half the shells were empty, and half of those had cigarette butts squashed in them.

  “No, thanks,” Scarne said. “I ate something on the way here.”

  That wasn’t true, but Scarne would rather have been waterboarded than eat with Toon, who tilted his head back as another oyster slurped into his mouth.

  “Well, how about a drink?”

  That, Scarne now needed.

  “Sure.”

  “Roscoe!”

  A man wearing a white apron appeared and stood silently.

  “What’s your poison?”

  Scarne wanted to say “hemlock” but instead asked for vodka on the rocks.

  “I’ll have one, too,” Toon said. “Goes better with these things than milk.”

  Scarne looked at Toon’s glass. He had indeed been drin
king milk with his oysters.

  “Make mine a double,” Scarne said.

  Toon continued downing oysters and smoking while they waited for their drinks. Scarne took the time to study him. He had to weigh at least 400 pounds. He was bald. A broad, bulbous nose dominated an incongruous cupid’s-bow mouth that when it wasn’t inhaling oysters looked ridiculously small for the face. But his sky-blue eyes radiated energy and intelligence. Scarne had been prepared for odor, but the overlying smell in the room was a combination of cigarette smoke and seafood. Perhaps Toon had recently been through a car wash. Their drinks came and they clinked glasses. Scarne took a long pull.

  “You any relation to John Scarne, the card sharp?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “What am I talking about? Scarne’s not his real name, anyway. He was born Orlando Carmelo Scarnecchia in Ohio. Changed it later. Started out as a magician. Was a wizard with cards. The Army sent him around visiting bases during the Second World War warning the troops about card and dice cheats. Remember that movie, The Sting? Well, those weren’t Paul Newman’s hands doing the card switches. They were John Scarne’s. He wrote a couple dozen books on gambling. I have them all.”

  “I have his book on poker.”

  “Ah, you are obviously a civilized man. He’s been dead for years, of course. Met him once, when he was old. But even then he was one sharp Dago. You Italian?”

  “Part.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Lots, including some Cheyenne.”

  Toon laughed and ran his hand over his bald pate.

  “Man, you’re outta luck. Nothing for you to scalp. Bet your family has some stories to tell.”

  “Sure, And maybe I’ll tell you a couple someday. Meanwhile, what can you tell me about the Stupachis.”

  Toon downed his vodka.

  “Now, they are a hunnert percent guinea, and a thousand percent scumbag. And, hey, don’t get frazzled by my English. I don’t have any prejudices. Far as I’m concerned, everybody sucks. Guineas, Micks, Spics, Wasps, Towel Heads, Hebes, Gooks, you name them.”

  “Seems you already have.”

  “Don’t use the “N” word, though. I draw the line there. Can’t even stand it when the spooks use it themselves.”

  Scarne was dying to ask what gene pool Toon had crawled out of, but suspected that would open up a can of worms, so he instead he prompted, “The Stupachis”?

  Toon lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He started coughing. A deep rasping, wheezing, endless series of coughs. He looked like he was gagging. Scarne became alarmed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Be O.K. in a second. This is about the only exercise I get.”

  Toon reached into his shorts and pulled out a soiled, yellow-stained handkerchief. He hacked something into the cloth and then looked at it.

  “Damn thing looks like an oyster,” he said, and put the handkerchief back in his pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge. “Now, where was I?”

  “The Stupachis,” Scarne said in a strangled voice.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, Cosimo Stupachi, the head of the family, has been a mucky-muck in Vegas for years. His sports book is one of the biggest in town and he runs illegal bookmaking and loansharking operations in most of the states west of the Mississippi. Recently he has shown some interest in moving some of his operations east, namely to Atlantic City.”

  “Why? I thought the bloom is off the rose here.”

  “Yes, things have changed since 1976,” Toon said. The man, Scarne realized, was now talking like a college professor. “That’s when Jersey legalized casinos. Atlantic City had the East Coast monopoly on gambling. It was going to be Vegas on the ocean. Now New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, you name them, all have casinos. You got some Indian blood in you, right? Grease the right palms and you can probably build your own casino.”

  Toon blew his nose on a napkin, which he added to the detritus on the oyster platter.

  “There’s only so much sucker money to go around, what with lotteries also picking people’s pockets. The goddamn politicians have no conscience. They sell voters with a bill of goods. All that money they rake in from gambling is supposed to go to education. Right! You watch any reality TV shows, Scarne? Watch the fucking news? Does it look like the population is getting better educated?”

  One of the four cell phones on the table started playing “My Old Kentucky Home” and Toon picked it up. He listened for a moment.

  “Nah. I don’t deal with guys like him,” he said into the phone. “He gives his nags more dope than the NFL gives linemen. Pass on it.”

  When he hung up he looked at Scarne.

  “I used to love the races. Sport of kings and all that. Even owned a couple of thoroughbreds. But they are killin’ the horses with all the chemicals. Still crazy about the Kentucky Derby, though. Cry every time I hear that song. Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “You should go. I missed it this year. Kidney stones. If I was a horse, they’d shoot me. Anyway, this town is toast. We’re down to seven casinos, from 12. Half the pit bosses are on food stamps. Casino revenues are less than $3 billion, down 46% in two years. Meanwhile, property taxes are up 50%. Old man Stupachi may be a scumbag, but he’s a smart scumbag. He knows that the politicians will have to approve sports betting here, and will be so desperate to make it succeed they will overlook a lot of things. Look at this place.” Toon waved a hand. “This is the only smoking floor in the building. I told them to change the law for me or I’d go elsewhere. I bring a lot of money to this casino. They can’t afford to lose another one. Yeah, A.C. will be perfect for Cosimo Stupachi.”

  “Where will that leave you?”

  Toon waved a hand at the man called Roscoe, who had been standing off to the side. A minute later, their drinks had been refilled. Toon ground out his cigarette, lit another, drank half his vodka and ate two oysters, all in the time it took Scarne to sip his own drink. For a big man with fat, stubby hands, he was amazingly dexterous. He was probably a hell of a poker player.

  “I’m gonna retire. I’m getting old. Falling apart. You know it’s time to pack it in when you take a dump and your balls hit the toilet water. I don’t want to wait until I’m a blithering idiot. I know a guy who brushes his teeth with Preparation H and puts toothpaste on his hemorrhoids. Sometimes puts his underwear on backwards, with the dick slit in the back. When he tries to take a piss he can't find his pecker. You should see him. He’d win first prize on Dancing With the Stars. No, I own a spread in Napa Valley. Got a lot of grandkids. I don’t like them visiting here, but they love it out there.”

  Toon saw the surprise on Scarne’s face.

  “What? You think I always looked like Jabba the Hutt? I played college basketball and was a hell of a small forward before I got expelled for gambling. Not on basketball, mind you. Been married three times. My ex-wives love the ranch, too. They all get along. Sometimes stay there together. My money smooths over a lot of ruffled feathers. Hell, broads run the world. They have half the money and all the pussy. But it was worth it. Kids love their grandparents no matter what they look or act like. I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving with all of them. They call me Pop Pop. Yeah, Cosimo can have this town.”

  He lit another cigarette. Scarne had lost count. The oyster shells were filled with butts.

  “Why are you so interested in the Stupachis? They kill one of your clients?”

  “They tried to kill me.”

  That got Toon’s attention.

  “Wanna tell me about it?”

  Scarne did. When he finished, Toon looked thoughtful.

  “The old guinea son of a bitch,” he said. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Roscoe! Come here.”

  “Yeah, Spit.”

  “Go set up the Collier game video.”

  “You are into some deep shit, my friend,” Toon said as the other man walked away. “You are lucky to be alive
, and doubly lucky that guy in Paris clued you in. Old man Stupachi likes to act like he is past his prime but he'd kill you just as soon as look at you. You’d better watch your back. He ain’t gonna give up with so much at stake.”

  “With what at stake?”

  “Come with me.”

  Toon rumbled out of his couch and led Scarne into another room, which turned out to be a home theater, complete with reclining leather seats that had cup holders and fold-out tables. A huge television screen dominated the room. They sat and Toon picked up a remote. A video of a football game appeared on the screen.

  “I won’t touch Collier football,” Toon said. “I got suspicious. They usually won, but had trouble covering the spread, so I started studying all their games. I got plenty of time. I don’t get out much. At first, I concentrated on the defense. It’s real easy for a safety or cornerback to miss an assignment, or fall down. Give the receiver an extra step. Let a sure interception go through your hands. Botch a tackle. But everything looked copacetic. The Collier kids played hard. So, then I watched the offense. Who fumbled on the goal line, or after a crucial first down. Who was slow turning the corner. Again, nothing. I’m a cynical bastard, but in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine the fucking Touchdown Twins going in the tank. They lit up the scoreboard at will, it seemed. Until I looked real close. Now watch this video. I spliced together all the offensive plays that Weatherly and Landon were involved in together, in the five games when they should have covered the spread, but didn’t. Watch real closely.”

  The truncated video lasted just under 20 minutes. Toon didn’t say a word, other than to order some coffee and pastries from Roscoe. Scarne skipped the pastries but accepted the coffee. When the video ended, Scarne asked to see it again. After the second run through, he turned to Toon.

  “I counted seven plays where they should have scored, and they didn’t. Either Landon overthrew Weatherly or Weatherly dropped a pass. They were no big deal. Collier was well ahead and in no real danger of losing.”

  “Not bad. You must be a good detective. Most people wouldn’t pick up any suspicious plays, let alone seven. But I count 16. Let’s watch it again.”