This time, Toon provided a running commentary and pointed out the anomalies. They weren’t all passing miscues. Toon spotted things with an almost uncanny precision. He rattled off a succession of plays that Scarne had missed:
“See that. Landon held on to the ball too long and was sacked by the defensive end. He had to see the guy coming and could have sidestepped him. It’s obvious he expected the hit and folded up early so he wouldn’t get hurt.”
“There! Weatherly ran out of bounds just short of the first down marker. They had to punt.”
“Look there! Weatherly is in the open but he lets the safety catch up to him, who he could easily outrun, by taking an angle that gave the guy a shot at him.”
When he finished, he slapped a massive thigh.
“Sheer brilliance. And the video doesn’t show the half of it. On many of the drives they still scored. But only a field goal. Three points instead of seven. Weatherly and Landon had such control of the games they could massage the point spread any number of ways. Want me to run it again?”
“No,” Scarne said, quietly. “I’m convinced.”
Toon sighed.
“You know, I’m not exactly what you’d call a paragon of virtue. I’ve made a lot of dough gambling on just about anything that moves. And I sure as hell don’t mind when the fix is in, as long as I know about it, or at least have my suspicions. I ain’t condoning killing anyone, especially those girls or the cop, but I tip my hat to that asshole Stupachi for coming up with this scam. I could care less if he screws up the NFL. That’s a business, not that much different from Rome and the gladiators when you think about it. And I could argue that it’s his job – hell, maybe even mine – to win our bets, no matter what it takes.”
The big man actually looked sad.
“But this fucking country is really going down the tubes when the NCAA and the big college conferences make it so easy to corrupt the sport. Do you know that some NFL coaches are leaving the pros because they can make more money coaching in college? Top college coaches get paid $5 million, $7 million, even $10 million a year, and earn more on the side from endorsements, TV shows and other crap. And they all have incentive bonuses if they win a conference title, a bowl game, a playoff game or a national championship. Jesus, there are more bowl games now than I have liver spots. You think a coach who will earn a couple of hundred extra grand to win post-season games won’t cut corners in recruiting, or by playing kids with concussions or other injuries? It’s getting so that maybe the only real college football is in the Ivies or maybe Army-Navy.”
Toon was warming to his subject.
“And the so-called ‘educators’ who run the colleges may even be worse. They look the other way and will do anything to protect their franchises, which is what big-time college football programs really are. A winning football team that can pack a 100,000-seat stadium and be part of a conference with a billion-dollar TV deal can earn a shitpot of moolah for a university, some of which will somehow wind up in the salaries of school administrators. Look at Texas; the Longhorns will pull in over $100 million this year from football alone.”
“Some of that money goes to other things,” Scarne said, “research and the like.”
“Sure, sure,” Toon said, “but that don’t make it right. And I’m not giving a slide to the adoring American public, which puts these athletes on a pedestal and makes gods out of them. Bread and circuses, that’s what it is. And when a few of them get knocked off the pedestal, they put someone else up there quicker than I can fart.”
As if emphasizing his point, that’s exactly what Toon did.
“Well, enough sappy moralizing. It’s bad for my cholesterol. I knew Weatherly and Landon were in someone’s pocket. Not everyone is as sharp as me and has doped it out. I knew someone was cleaning up on those games. But for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how anyone could get his hooks into them. They are gonna be multi-millionaires. Their endorsements alone would have been in the stratosphere. They were walkin’ Wheaties boxes. So it wasn’t money. They must have killed that girl in Florida and Stupachi has proof. He owns those poor bastards. He probably made a bundle betting college football, but it’s not a fraction of the score he’ll make when they get to the pros. It was perfect. Fuckin’ perfect. Then that reporter threatens to upset the apple cart. And you show up askin’ questions. No wonder Cosimo went nuclear and wanted you both dead. Even killed a cop. That will tell you what’s at stake. You’d better watch your ass.”
Toon finished the last of the pastries and licked his fingers.
“I wonder what the proof is. You got any ideas, Scarne?
“No. And I don’t think Cassie Mulloy knew either.”
“Doesn’t matter. With that much at stake, Cosimo wouldn’t take any chances. The kid was dead soon as she started sniffing around the other girl’s murder. And like I said, he’s gonna try to kill you again, even if you don’t know nothin’.”
“Then I better find that proof. So I don’t get killed for nothing.”
“Where you gonna start?”
“I’m heading back to Florida. Whatever Weatherly and Landon did, it happened at the party they were at with Alva Delgado. Desiderio, the guy who threw the party, must know something that can help.”
“Desiderio?”
“Yeah.”
“Anthony Desiderio?”
Scarne looked at him.
“Yeah. You know him?”
Toon started laughing. The laughs came so quickly and forcefully they morphed into coughs. Scarne grew alarmed. Toon looked like he might be having a seizure. His face turned beet red and he coughed horrible things into his noxious handkerchief. Finally, the laughing jag subsided.
“What the hell is so funny?”
“You asking Tony Desiderio if he knows anything. I wish I could be there for that conversation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Desiderio is Cosimo Stupachi’s nephew.”
Toon started laughing again.
CHAPTER 23 - PAYING RESPECTS
Atlantic City International Airport is a joint civil-military airport in Egg Harbor Township 10 miles northwest of Atlantic City. He left his car in the long-term lot and booked a 3 P.M. direct flight to Fort Myers on SunPeople Air. While waiting to board, he called Dudley Mack and told him what he’d found out from Toon.
“You know, Jake,” Dudley said, “I’m beginning to think I didn’t go crooked soon enough.”
“You started bending the law in college, Duds.”
“Yeah. But some of these assholes must have popped out of their mother’s snatch working scams. I’m getting jealous.”
“I don’t know how Stupachi got his hooks in Weatherly and Landon, but I think the answer lies with Desiderio.”
“Let me guess. You plan to make a gigantic nuisance of yourself and hope something incriminating pops up.”
“It has worked before.”
“And you almost get killed every time.”
“Almost only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes, Duds.”
“Your luck has to run out eventually.”
“Which is why I’m telling you what’s going on. If anything happens to me, the Times will do something about the Touchdown Twins. But I wouldn’t mind if Bobo paid some other people a non-judicial visit.”
“Don’t worry, Cochise. If you get aced, both of us will be stopping by to see old man Stupachi and his favorite nephew.”
“I’m touched.”
“You sure you don’t want Bobo hopping a plane now? To watch your back?”
“I’m sure.” Scarne heard an announcement in the background. “They’re calling my row. By the way, you ever hear of SunPeople Air?”
Mack started laughing.
“Oh, yeah. I hope you bought First Class, Cochise.”
“I don’t think they have classes.”
“Sure they do,” Mack said, still laughing. “All low. The mob may be the least of your worries.”
Sc
arne soon found out what had amused Dudley Mack. It wasn’t long after he was seated in the SunPeople jet that he looked enviously as some of the military transports lined up on one of the runways. At least when he flew compliments of Uncle Sam during his Marine Corps days, he expected the discomfort the flight invariably entailed. Now, he found himself shoe-horned into a seat that, by comparison, made the one in his old MGB look and feel like a chaise lounge. His seat, which was worn threadbare, did not recline, either by design or defect; the tray table, if lowered, threatened to cut off his air supply, and he had to bend sideways to allow his seatmate to lower the armrest between them.
“Sorry pal,” the man said. “You know what they call this airline? Sardine Air.”
Scarne listened with disbelief as a harried flight attendant explained the aircraft’s safety systems. He knew that in an emergency the flight crew was supposed to evacuate the entire airplane in 90 seconds. Scarne doubted if he would make it to the aisle in that span. He shrugged, a movement that took some work on his part. What did he expect from a no-frills budget airline that charged for bags, pillows, blankets, an entertainment system that didn’t work and anything to eat or drink, including water and peanuts?
He was consoled only by the fact that he’d bought a one-way ticket. He vowed that when he returned from Florida he would find another airline, even if he had to make intermediate stops in Outer Mongolia. Fortunately, he’d booked a window seat. The window shade, of course, was stuck open, but he was able to lean against the bulkhead and nod off. At least until a baby in the row behind him started crying. After about an hour of unremitting screeching that no amount of parental consoling could stem, the child finally ran out of steam and settled down with a steady whimper. Scarne knew how the kid felt. Finally, a flight attendant asked him if he wanted a cocktail.
“Just leave the cart,” he said.
“Excuse me.”
In the end, he settled for gin and tonic. Two of them.
***
After picking up his nondescript rental car, a Nissan Versa, Scarne drove straight to Calusakee, only stopping suddenly at an isolated roadside tomato stand to make sure no one followed him from the airport. He’d been cautious since leaving Manhattan. Stupachi, he suspected, was the persistent sort. He didn’t underestimate the old Mafioso’s organization — after all, it had arranged an assassin in Europe — but he was pretty sure no one tailed him from Nero’s Palace in Atlantic City. And if one of Stupachi’s men was on the SunPeople jet, he probably was still recovering from the trip.
None of the motels Scarne passed near Calusakee appeared inviting, but he was looking for the most run-down lodging he could find. He finally settled on one that had a “VACANC” sign. He assumed that the missing “Y” was probably a good indication of decrepitude. He was right. The room the slovenly office clerk assigned him smelled of mold; the bathtub, sink and toilet had stains he hoped were rust. None of this bothered Scarne. Unless a potential assassin also doubled as a health inspector, he would be hard to find.
It was getting late and Scarne was hungry. He drove to a Publix supermarket he’d passed a few miles from the motel and bought some beer, cheese, sausage and a loaf of Cuban bread. Back in his room he called Jamilia Turay. He asked Herrera’s lawyer to meet him for coffee at the casino the next morning.
“I can’t. I have an arraignment.”
“I don’t have much time,” Scane said, ignoring her. “Find someone to cover it for you. And bring me anything you can find out about Cassie Mulloy’s murder.”
There was a very long pause.
“You think it has something to do with Manny?”
“Don’t you?”
“I was suspicious, but the police said it was a murder-suicide. Her boyfriend killed her and then shot himself. I presumed they’d be thorough, with one of their own involved.”
“I met Chief Kummerspeck, Jamilia.”
“I know he’s incompetent. But there are some some good people in the department, and I think they might have even called in the State Police for help. It was a sensational crime.”
“The people who killed Cassie Mulloy and Herberto Robles are very good at that sort of thing.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they tried to kill me. Manny Herrera is innocent, Jamilia.”
Another, even longer, pause.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Scarne made a sandwich and opened up a bottle of beer. He sat up in bed and ate. The room now smelled of the cheese and sausage, a drastic improvement. He looked at the television sitting atop a cable box on a small aluminum stand on the opposite wall. He was surprised that the motel had cable, and hoped that it worked. He might be able to catch a ball game. Idly, he picked up the remote from the night table and hit the power button. Nothing happened. He opened the back of the remote. No batteries.
Sighing, he put down his meal and went to the TV and pushed its power button. While it slowly came to life he read the laminated and heavily stained program guide that was on the table next to the set. He was relieved to see that there were a fair amount of sports channels available to him. But then he noticed what else was available, for an extra charge. A thought coalesced in his consciousness.
“God, I hope it’s that easy,” he said to the room.
***
“Those rotten sons-of-bitches. They should burn in hell!”
“You would make a great prosecutor, Jamilia,” Scarne said. He had just finished telling her what he knew and suspected. “And that would be an impressive closing argument. Were you able to find out anything useful about Cassie Mulloy’s murder?”
They were each on their third cup of coffee. She shook her head and handed him a newspaper and a sheaf of papers that was in her oversize shoulder bag.
“Mostly just clippings from news stories and some stuff I got on the Internet. The local media was all over the killings like stink on shit when it first went down, but soon lost interest. It’s not the first time a cop supposedly went off the deep end down here. Even happens in Naples. Heat makes people crazy. So I’m not surprised everyone bought the murder-suicide story. Hell, I did.” She placed a finger on a small headline on the first page of the Calusakee Sun Times. “The only reason there a story in today’s paper is that there is a funeral service for the cop this morning.”
“What about Cassie?”
“Her parents took her back to Michigan to bury.”
Scarne was thankful for that. He would have gone to a service for her but knew he couldn’t tell her folks what really happened. Justice, and closure, for them would have to come later.
“So, Jake, what are you going to do now? Go to the police or Ray Loquitor?”
“Neither. I told Cassie’s editors to give me a little more time to get some proof. I’m on a pretty short leash so I’m going to do things that are bound to piss off some people who must be getting very nervous. I’m hoping they do something stupid.”
“Like try to kill you again. Great plan.”
“I’m taking precautions. And I’m telling enough people what really went down. I know you, Jamilia. You will do your damndest to see that Herrera doesn’t pay for a crime he didn’t commit. And I think the D.A. will be sympathetic, especially with the pressure The New York Times will eventually bring to bear.”
“What’s your first step?”
“Breakfast. Can I get you something?”
Turay shook her head and started to get up.
“I have to be in court. After you fill your face, what then?”
Scarne was scanning the newspaper. The service for Herberto Robles was at 11 A.M.
“I think I’ll go to church.”
“That may be the first sensible thing you’ve said. I’ll be praying for you, too.”
After she left, Scarne ordered some eggs and read the story about the funeral service while he ate. The story, which included a recap of the alleged murder-suicide, jumped to an inside page, where he noticed a
nother headline:
COLLIER U. GRADUATION
SET FOR SATURDAY
The story detailed the university’s day-long festivities, which were to be capped off with a President’s Reception at which the institution’s two most famous graduates “and future NFL stars” Marcus Weatherly and Ford Landon were to be the guests of honor. A special video screening highlighting the school’s spectacular athletic successes in several sports was part of the program.
Scarne looked up to see his waitress hovering with a carafe.
“More coffee, honey?”
“Only if you know CPR. Just the check, please.”
***
Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church on Boston Avenue in downtown Calusakee was a one-story gymnasium-style wooden structure. Scarne had no trouble finding a spot among the the 20 or so cars in its dirt-and-grass parking lot. A dusty hearse and single funeral limousine stood outside the front entrance, behind a Calusakee Police Department cruiser. A white van with the logo of a local TV station was parked off to the side.
Inside, the small church was only about a third full. Robles’s casket was draped with an American flag. The mourners in the pews on the left, some in field clothes, appeared to be all Hispanic. In the front two pews, better dressed all in black, sat family and close friends of the dead officer.
Across the aisle from them were a sprinkling of police uniforms and some other men and women in civilian clothes. Scarne thought he recognized the woman employee he saw in the station house the day he met Robles. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Among the cops, Scarne had no trouble spotting Chief Kummerspeck. The gold braid and rolls of fat above his collar stood out even from where Scarne sat in the rear of the church. The mass was in Spanish, and brief. The priest said a few words, looking at the family mourners. Scarne tuned him out. What can you say about a man who shot his lover and then took his own life? A man sworn to uphold the law. There was a time when Robles wouldn’t have rated even a modest Catholic service. Scarne seethed. He knew he couldn’t approach the dead cop’s family. Like Cassie Mulloy’s, they would have to wait for the truth to come out. But there was one person in the church that he could approach.
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 20