They were standing at the back of the room during the post-fight press conference. Elijah Barton was not present. His brother John stood at the microphone, explaining that Elijah was upstairs with his doctor trying to determine whether any of the blindness or hearing loss would be permanent. Terrence Mulvehill was half slumped over on the dais, wearing a black baseball cap with a white towel draped around his neck. He had a large ice pack pressed against the side of his face.
“All right,” said Sadowsky. “Run it by me one more time.”
“The charge would be fraud and extortion. Mr. Russo set my fighter up with this girl I was telling you about.”
“And why didn’t you file a complaint before the fight?”
“I have certain fiduciary responsibilities,” Frank said evenly. “If I’d had Mr. Russo arrested beforehand, I might’ve endangered the bout and cost my fighter a payday. I had to protect his rights.”
At the front of the room, Terrence was standing at the podium as the photographers snapped flashes at his bruised eyelids.
“And you-all want us to pick this Anthony up tonight?” Sadowsky asked, looking and sounding only slightly incredulous.
“Why not?” asked Frank. “You shouldn’t have any problem getting a warrant. I’ve seen a half dozen federal judges standing by the roulette wheel upstairs.
Sadowsky threw back his shoulders, as though he was ready to go twelve rounds himself. “Well, I suppose we could pick him up for questioning,” he said. “Have you already paid his people for their part in the fight?”
Up at the podium, John B. was smiling with the innocence of a holy fool with a gold-capped tooth and saying his brother could claim a moral victory tonight.
“Of course, they’ve been paid part of the advance,” said Frank, picking up a champagne glass. “But I can find at least five places where they’ve violated the spirit and letter of our contract.”
Sadowsky inhaled and rolled his eyes. “You drive some hard bargain, Mr. Diamond.”
“Well, what do you expect?” said Frank. “The object of this sport is to knock the other guy out.”
66
A HALF HOUR LATER I was still in the empty dressingroom, waiting for Frank. I was beginning to wonder if I’d gotten the time and the place wrong. Everything seemed out of sync since I’d gotten the stuffing knocked out of me by that guard. Doors opened and closed too quickly, footsteps were too loud on the stairs.
I dug the Filofax out of my jacket pocket and double-checked. “12:15: Pick up balance of payment from Frank D.” Where was he?
I started tearing apart the dressing room, looking for some kind of note from him. He couldn’t have just skipped out on me. He wouldn’t have the nerve. I looked under the training table, which was covered in dried blood and sweaty towels. I searched through the box full of bandages and rolls of tape. I even lifted the red carpet at the corners. But nothing.
I was beginning to panic. I ran upstairs to the casino, hoping the guards hadn’t let Tommy Sick back in the building. My vision blurred and then split in two. I saw two sets of Japanese businessmen jamming the baccarat pits; two sets of yuppie couples at the craps tables, hollering like it was divorce court; four sets of young black and Chinese dope dealers in expensive running suits throwing thousands of dollars at the blackjack dealers.
Something about watching two guys beat the shit out of each other made people feel like gambling, as if they were the ones taking the risks.
I blinked until my vision came together again and then walked the length of the casino floor, past the jangling bells and twirling slots, heading for the lobby. I wanted to at least get the sixty thousand dollars I had out of the hotel safe.
As I came down the escalator, I heard the old song “California Dreaming” playing on the P.A. system and wondered if I’d ever make it out there.
I got to the front desk and asked the clerk, who was dressed as a pirate, to go get my briefcase. He took my registration number and hurried away, twitching his butt in his tight brown britches. While I was waiting for him to come back, I caught sight of a tense, disheveled guy in a wrinkled jacket and dirty sweatshirt in the nearest smoked wall mirror. And then I realized I was looking at myself. My nose began to bleed as the clerk returned and handed me the briefcase across the counter.
“Sir, before I can let you take that, I need you to sign this book for me.” He brought out a huge gilt-edged ledger book used to keep track of property in the safes.
I took a fountain pen from the green baize-topped counter and found myself struggling to remember how I spelled my last name. “Say, you haven’t seen Frank Diamond around, have you?”
From his side of the counter, he studied my upside-down signature and licked his lips. “You are Mr. Russo?”
“I think so.”
“Could you wait here one minute?”
He disappeared into the back office again, twitching his butt. Everything seemed wrong. I grabbed a Kleenex from the counter and tried to stanch my nosebleed. Two dozen losers wandered out of the casino, heading for the Boardwalk. Then I heard someone in the back office asking, “Hey, Tim, is that F.B.I. guy still here?”
That was all I needed. I bolted across the lobby with my briefcase and the sixty thousand dollars’ worth of chips in my hand. And ran straight into John B., who was standing by the elevators, holding a silver ice bucket.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
He looked at me once and started moving away.
“Hey John,” I chased after him. “I asked what’s going on?”
I caught him by the elbow but he wouldn’t look at me.
“Come on, man. Let go my arm. I can’t have anybody see me talkin’ to you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Police came by the dressing room looking for you, man.”
“Ha?”
A wave of static engulfed my brain.
“Said they wanted to talk to you, man.”
“What’d they want?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head furiously, disavowing everything. “F.B.I. man said he wanted a few words with you. Got nothing to do with me. Except only now we can’t get paid for the fight.”
I glanced across the lobby to see if anybody was watching us, but the only people around were other losers feeling sorry for themselves.
“The fuck is going on?” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “John, you better not have said nothing to them. I got you into this fight and gave you this opportunity. You wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”
“Fuck you, man,” said John B., his jaw jutting out to challenge me. “My brother’s upstairs and he can’t stop the ringing in his ears. They gotta take him to the hospital and see if he’s got a skull fracture. He don’t even know me. He’s on Queer Street. And now we can’t get paid, because of something you done. You best get a good lawyer.”
“Yeah, but what’d I do?”
“I don’t know, man. All I know’s I didn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe your old lady dimed you out. I just know it’s not my concern.”
I went charging up one of the escalators, back toward the casino floor. My mind was boiling over. I looked up and saw “$17,901,873” in yellow digits on the giant Progressive Slots tote board. There was a crowd of gamblers six-deep around the nearest craps table. I went over and tried to lose myself in it. Some Wall Street girl with red hair was trying to convince the dealer to take her pearls in lieu of cash while a Vietnam vet in a wheelchair tried to throw his dice over the side. An announcement came over the P.A. asking an Agent Sadowsky to report to the front desk. Then they went back to playing music. Only instead of “California Dreaming,” it was “The Logical Song” by Supertramp.
So I tried to be logical. Why would the feds be after me? It could be only one thing. The fact that I’d killed Nicky. I knew it would catch up to me. But who could have told them about it? The closest thing to a witness was Richie Amato, and he was too much of a loyal dog-ass mob wannabe to
even think of talking. So who else knew about it? Teddy and Vin. Forget them. Vin would protect me to the bitter end, and Teddy couldn’t speak against me without implicating himself. That left Rosemary.
She’d been threatening me about Nicky ever since that night in her dressing room. What was it she said? “I know about you.” And what about tonight? What was that business about paying her “or else”? Or else she’d go to the feds and tell them about Nicky? But then I’d never be able to pay her. It didn’t quite make sense. Especially considering I was supposed to meet her in the garage in ten minutes.
I listened to the steady winding tick of the roulette wheel and the constant bong, bong from the slot machines. And I remembered how she’d acted that night at the club when she thought I’d betrayed her with Vin. She’d gotten so mad she practically raped that drunken idiot in the ring. She had the temper to do it. So maybe she had the temper to send me to jail, regardless of the consequences. That was the thing about having too much anger. You usually ended up hurting yourself.
67
THE YELLOW NEON SIGN above the row of slot machines said REDEMPTION CENTER.
But why would anyone come here for redemption? P.F. wondered. All casinos were good for was taking your money.
The high rollers all flocked to the table games, leaving the slot machine games like Magnificent 7, Break the Bank, and Aces High to the old men and women who’d be here on a regular night anyway. These were people who’d spent their days in front of conveyor belts and video terminals and their nights in front of television sets. And now they expected a machine to give them something in return.
The men seemed more resigned to losing. They put their money in, pulled the levers, and watched the dials tell them something they already knew. But the women were full of hope and determination. Some played two or three machines at a time. When they pulled a lever, they put a lifetime of frustration into it. And when they hit a jackpot, they celebrated like it was the birth of a grandchild, jumping up and clapping their hands with glee.
Their joy was contagious. Between watching them and seeing Elijah fight on past his prime, P.F. felt oddly elated. What was the phrase his father used when P.F. discovered he was having an affair at the age of seventy-seven? Never too old to be bold.
He even felt encouraged seeing Wayne Sadowsky and two other beefy F.B.I. agents striding down the aisle of slots with great purpose.
“So what’s the good word?”
“You-all see a gentleman name of Anthony Russo around here?” Sadowsky asked briskly.
“Why? What do you want from him?” P.F. found himself feeling defensive about the kid. Especially after the talk they’d had about Mike Dillon this afternoon.
“That’s not your concern.” Sadowsky scratched his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth. “Do you know this young man?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
The agent drew himself up to his full six foot two inches. “Detective, this is a federal matter. Your cooperation would be appreciated...”
“Beautiful. Tell me another one. Last time I cooperated with you, I found out you’d been the one telling the casino people all this bullshit about me and Teddy. Why should I help you now?”
The left side of Sadowsky’s face twitched. “Because I will not hesitate to swear out a warrant against you if you impede a federal investigation,” he drawled.
P.F. went belly-to-belly with him like a sumo wrestler. “Fuck you twice.”
One of the other agents stepped between them. “Come on, Wayne. This scumbag doesn’t know anything. We’re wasting time here.”
Sadowsky backed away slowly, shaking out his arms and rotating his head, like he was ridding himself of some taint. P.F. belched defiantly.
“I just hope you’re not protecting this individual,” Sadowsky said. “Because if I find out that’s the case, it could make your life very complicated.”
“My life’s already complicated.”
The three agents brushed past him, with Sadowsky jabbing an elbow into his ribs. As P.F. watched them cross the casino floor and disappear down an escalator, he wondered why he’d had the brief urge to protect Anthony. He’d felt some paternal stirrings during their talk that afternoon. But no, to hell with that. He didn’t know where the kid was anyway. He’d only had the fight with Sadowsky because they hated each other and would do anything to screw up one another’s cases.
He turned to go out the Boardwalk side exit and saw that he’d previously misread the sign above the slot machines. It didn’t say REDEMPTION CENTER. A glass chandelier had been in the way. It was a COIN REDEMPTION CENTER, a booth for changing quarters into dollars. There was a waiting line of sallow-eyed gamblers grasping pink change cups, with their pants hiked up to their armpits.
Things were what they were, he told himself, moving toward the escalators. Only a fool would make too much of them.
68
I HID IN THE darkness for ten minutes, watchingRosemary wait by my car in the garage. I wanted to make sure she hadn’t brought any cops along to arrest me. The world still seemed skewed. All the cars were tilting the wrong way. The casino lights beyond the concrete lip of the garage looked like dots of blood against the black sky. And the pain in my head was like a throbbing supernova.
From twenty yards away, I saw Rosemary lean against the rear fender, cross and uncross her legs three times, and then fire up a cigarette. She looked nervous, maybe even desperate. Maybe even desperate enough to turn me over to the feds, if it suited her purposes. She sucked down a lungful of smoke and held it with all her might. I wondered if I’d be desperate enough to kill her if she was the only witness against me.
I waited another five minutes until the rest of the cars on the fifth floor flared red and drove away. Then I came walking out of the darkness with the briefcase in my left hand.
“Get in on the driver’s side,” I told Rosemary.
“Why, are we going for a ride?”
“You tell me.”
She got in and I slid in beside her in the passenger’s front seat. The dashboard clock said it was 1:27 in the morning. My eyes were bloodshot in the rearview mirror. The gun I’d used to kill Nicky was still in the glove compartment. I’d had it there for weeks, perhaps because I felt guilty and thought I deserved to get caught. But now that I was backed into a corner, I was thinking of using it again.
“That thing you said earlier tonight. ‘Or else.’ What’d you mean by that?”
She looked confused for a moment before her mouth pulled the rest of her face to attention. “Oh. I was just saying I wanted you to keep your promise.”
“But you said ‘or else.’ Or else what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Or else I guess I’d have to talk to somebody about it.”
“Yeah, like the police? What would be the point of that?”
She looked at me the way you’d look at a ringing alarm clock. “Listen, Anthony, I’m tired,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “It’s one-thirty, I gotta get up with Kimmy in the morning, and my arms are killing me from carrying the round cards all night. All I am asking is if you brought the money. If you didn’t, we can talk about it tomorrow ...”
“No! I wanna talk about it now!”
I slammed the dashboard with my fist as my voice bounced off the windshield and stayed compressed in the car. Rosemary became very still.
“Well, if you don’t have it, you don’t have it.” She glanced down at the briefcase on my lap and reached for her door handle. “There’s nothing else for us to talk about.”
Which meant she was going downstairs to call the F.B.I., as far as I was concerned. That was the reason she’d come to meet me. My head pulsed once more. She’d been waiting to see if she could get the money out of me before she threw me to the lions. I reached across her body and pulled her door shut with my left hand. With my right hand, I popped open the glove compartment and pulled out the gun.
“Just sit there,” I said, aiming it at her hea
d. “Is this how you wanted it to end? Like this? Don’t you know I’ve been trying to get away from this all my life?”
Even in the dimness of the car, I could see her turning pale. “Anthony, what are you talking about?”
“I know you already called the police about me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Rosemary! I heard enough lies to last the rest of my life!”
Right at that second, I felt I was capable of killing her. After all, I’d killed Nicky and nothing had happened to me. That was what Teddy and Vin had understood all along. There was no difference between right and wrong. It was just a matter of what you could get away with. And now I was sure I had that same coldness in my heart.
“I never talked to any police officers,” Rosemary said feebly.
“Bullshit! Why should I believe you?”
The car rocked on its springs beneath us. I raised the gun right to the level of her eyes.
“Please don’t do this,” she said.
“Why not? You tore my fucking heart out. And now you’re going to send me away for the rest of my life.”
“It’s not right.”
“Yeah, you tell me about what’s right. You come all this way with me and then you stab me in the back. You call that right?”
“I have a daughter,” she said calmly.
“Yeah, so?”
“So do you want her to grow up the way you did? Losing someone she loved?”
Somehow when she said that, it was as if she’d flipped a switch and turned off a generator in my head. All the current began to cycle down and the energy that I would’ve used to kill her left the car. I couldn’t do to somebody else what had been done to me. Probably that was my great failing in life. Even if I had been born Sicilian, I wouldn’t have made it in Teddy and Vin’s world.
I stuck the gun in my waistband and opened the briefcase on my lap. Sixty thousand dollars’ worth of Golden Doubloon casino chips. I stuffed half of them into the five pockets of my jacket. Then I closed the briefcase and gave the rest to Rosemary.
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