Bookmaking had gone electronic and mobile. It was run on wheels, over the airways, and by phone mail.
In South Jersey, which was Ma’s territory, he operated a dozen “offices” out of vans equipped with cellular phones, laptop computers, digital beepers, printers, and statistical analyses of whatever sporting event was going down. The bets were heaviest within an hour of the event, when the odds had settled down, and as much as could be known about the variables—a quarterback’s broken finger, a fighter’s latest bout with his girlfriend—were in place.
Then customers, who came to the bookie on a referral basis only—and even then were run through a background check of financial and criminal history just as if they were applying for a major piece of plastic—called in to the vans’ cellular phones using their customer codes.
The clerks taking bets handled several lines. Then the clerks faxed the bets to a central office where a bookkeeper punched the information into a computer, in code.
Ma also had another dozen stationary locations, office space or apartments, that housed only telephones on call-forwarding. State-of-the-art electronic security systems alerted the main office if the satellite locations were being raided.
The cellular phone conversations were more difficult for the feds to monitor. Therefore, the vans were becoming the more preferable form of doing business.
Ma had recently read a newspaper article on the electronic bookmaking business that quoted a federal agent saying what with all the electronic gizmos, organized illegal gambling was not unlike the New York Stock Exchange.
Yeah, that was true. And the thought of it made Ma proud. Until he thought about the fact that those stockbroker clowns didn’t have to track people down when they got behind. Also, when the suits took money from gamooshes who had made the wrong call on a piece of business—exactly what he did—they didn’t stand to go to jail. Unless they were too greedy, like that Milken fella.
But hadn’t he had a grand ride—and when he finished his short time in some country club environs, the man wasn’t going to be exactly poor. And nobody was going to be harassing his wife and kids and grandma and grandpa, setting up wires on ’em so the feds knew every time they went to the bathroom.
That’s why Ma’s children by his ex-wife, the twins, Joey and Jennie, were both at Harvard—taking MBA’s, the both of ’em. None of this knocking around for them. They were going to learn to steal legit. Investment bankers. Bond traders. Whatever was going down big time when they were ready to hit the Street.
The Street—only about 25 blocks downtown in New York City from where he’d learned to hustle—on the street. Michelangelo leaned back with his cigar and watched Phyllis George and that fool Billy Carroll try to make the swimsuit competition sound like a bodybuilding contest instead of a good old-fashioned peep show and thought about how times had changed.
It was enough to make a 55-year-old man feel really old.
*
Though it made Michelangelo Amato very happy to think he was the only man in the world watching the preliminary competition of the Miss America Pageant on his own private signal, that wasn’t exactly the case.
Over at the Monopoly, Wayne Ward was sitting in his Action Central checking out the girls parading—stop, turn, stop, smile—in their shimmery white swimsuits. Copping this show had been a piece of cake for Wayne.
Just like Michelangelo’s techie, Wayne knew that the TV equipment van leased by the network was the way to go.
The guy who owned it was a regular joe. Wayne had got to talking with him a couple of days earlier. Busted his butt, this dude named Dean. That’s what it said, right over the pocket of his orange jumpsuit. What he did, he owned the van, the whole 18-wheeler tractor-trailer. It had a name, too. Said Mighty Mo in blue letters on the door. Dean owned all the equipment in the van. He showed it to Wayne, took him on a little tour, introduced him to his utility man. More monitors, cables, decks, recorders, cables, frames, racks, jacks, swing arms, you name it, Dean had it, if you needed it to put on a live TV show. That’s all Dean did, live. He ran Mighty Mo out of Easton, PA, the place he called home. He got by there about once a month. The rest of the time, the minute an event was over, he’d break down any of his equipment they’d taken inside, load it back into the truck, and hit the road. Drive 10, 12 hours to a hockey game they’re broadcasting live out of Toronto. Same drill there, then he’s back to Severance Hall in Cleveland, the orchestra’s playing. On and on it went. Drive 800, 1500 miles, set up, do the show, break down, load up, drive. Man gets tired. Man gets bored. Man gets crazy is what he gets, he’s not above doing a little number just to break things up. This Dean, he was a big guy with a ponytail, but you wouldn’t mistake him for some fruit. It was a righteous truck-driver ponytail, and he knew everything there was to know about each and every piece of equipment in his truck. Wayne could talk with a man like that.
Of course, once he’d heard Dougie say it probably couldn’t be done, he’d have copped that signal if it had meant he had to rewire all of Convention Hall lying on his belly up under the Boardwalk. He hadn’t had to, though. He’d jawed with Dean, bought him a beer, slipped him a wad of bills—bingo.
Now Wayne leaned back in his chair and munched on a hamburger and smiled, thinking about how much Mr. F was enjoying the show, too, from the privacy of his own office. Wayne had delivered the signal up there to Mr. F’s gigantic rear-screen projection TV. It was neat knowing how frosted Dougie must be that Wayne had delivered.
Yep, Dougie. You wanted a job done, you called Wayne Ward.
Wayne delivered. That was his slogan. In fact, he’d had those words embroidered on his black Monopoly Special Services cap, in red, on the back.
Just wait until Dougie got a load of that.
*
Driving Michelangelo down Fairmount Avenue on the way to the main office in Ventnor, Willie passed through Ducktown, the old Italian neighborhood where he still lived. It was getting shabby, but Willie was comfortable there. He was in a two-story brick, right around the corner from where Nicky Scarfo, who ran all the casino unions, had lived on Georgia before he moved to Philly.
Up ahead was the Albany Avenue Bridge. “They never gonna finish this thing,” Willie mumbled to himself. “Waste of the taxpayers’ money.” Not that Willie had ever paid taxes himself, but still it bugged him.
“What’re you saying?” called Ma.
“I said they’re never gonna finish this damned bridge. I don’t know why they need it anyway. The old one was fine.”
“That’s how you know you’re getting old,” said Ma. “Hey. Pull over here.”
“Where?” They were in the middle of a snarl of traffic. Night and day, this construction mess would drive you nuts.
“There.” Ma waved. “Down to the launch. Let’s drink a toast to Lana.” He’d found the grappa in the liquor cabinet. “Little lady’s about to do her swimsuit number.”
Willie wheeled the heavy car down to a dark dirt driveway that led to the boat launch on the inlet called Inside Thorofare. It was a familiar trip. The inlet was one of the deepest channels in New Jersey, so deep it was dredged only once a year—by the Atlantic City cops. Always something, someone, they were looking for popped up. Over on the other side was Bader Field, one of the first airports in the country. Ma had a Cessna tied down over there. He hated flying, and especially commercial. If he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be with a bunch of people he didn’t know puking and screaming and stomping on his feet trying to get to the exit.
“Get back here, Willie. Hurry up. There she is! Wha’dya think? Isn’t she something?”
Willie thought she looked exactly like Marilyn Monroe. Exactly.
It’d give you chills and thrills up and down your spine. He told Ma so.
“I know,” Ma said, after he drank salute! to Willie’s health and Lana’s good fortune. “The hair, the boobs, even that little bit of a belly that Marilyn had. You think that’ll lose her swimsuit?”
“Not in my book. But
who knows what those judges think? Look at those other girls.” Willie pointed at the TV. “They look awfully skinny to me. I like a girl I can grab ahold of. Something to hold on to. You know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.” Ma poured them each another shot. “You still grabbing girls, Willie? Good for you.”
“I do what I can. Not much.” Willie paused, and the two men sipped their drinks silently in the dark. There wasn’t a single light down here at the launch. Then Willie said, “She’s Big John’s niece, ain’t she?”
“Lana? Yeah.”
“So, you’re just looking after her.”
“Yeah. John asked me to. That’s all I’m doing. Making sure she’s comfortable. She’s a pain in the butt, though. Too pushy and not so smart. It’s not a good combination.”
“Uh-huh.” Willie sipped for a bit longer.
“You know what she does? She goes around pretending she is Marilyn. Marilyn in the movies. The other day, she says to me, ‘I like men who wear glasses. Especially if they get their weak eyes from reading those long tiny columns in the Wall Street Journal.”
“That’s not so dumb, she’s got an eye for the producers.”
“It’s a line right out of Some Like It Hot, Willie. She’s memorized Marilyn’s lines.”
“So? She’s not so stupid if she can memorize.”
“Forget it, okay?”
“Right, boss.” Willie poured himself another taste. “So, you’re making her comfortable.”
“I hear what you’re insinuating. Don’t go getting any ideas. She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“Yeah, well, so are them girls you paint.”
“That’s right, Willie. They are. And that’s all I do with them. Paint.”
“I never said different.”
“Yeah, but that’s what everybody thinks. I know what goes through the filthy minds of gamooshes like you.” Ma reached over and clipped the old man on the side of the head with the edge of his hand, but gently. “That’s what’s wrong with the world today. Nobody has any respect for anybody anymore. The way I look at it, I hire a nude model, I hire a nude model. I pay a woman to take her clothes off so I can paint her, I didn’t pay to screw her. I wanted that, I shoulda hired a hoor. You know what I mean?”
Willie nodded in the big dark car.
“No respect. People throwing garbage in the streets, using language in front of anybody. Women. Children. Mothers.”
“I know. It’s terrible, boss.”
“Breaking in car windows. I tell you what. You show me a man who’ll break the windows of a Lincoln Town Car like this, or a Mercedes, a man who has no respect for a beautiful automobile like this, I’ll show you a man who’ll screw his mother.”
“You’re right, boss.”
“Awh, get out of here. You’d say that if I told you you ought to screw your mother. Right, boss. That’s what you’d say.”
“Right, boss.”
“Except that’d be kinda tough, wouldn’t it, Willie, considering that your mother, God rest her soul, hasn’t been with us for quite some time.”
“Right, boss,” Willie said, as he climbed back behind the wheel.
“So, we saw all those girls. Whaddya think of Lana’s chances to win swimsuit?”
“I dunno, boss. I told you I thought she looked pretty good.”
“You know, Willie,” said Michelangelo, leaning back into the soft black leather. “I been thinking, it’d be a nice thing, see what you think, for Big John—who’s been so generous to me, granting me permission to run South Jersey as an outsider, taking only a quarter of the proceeds ’stead of a half like the made guys—it’d be nice if his niece Lana, who he’s put under my protection for the time she’s here in AC, if something nice were to happen to her.”
“I think that’d be good, boss.”
“You know, you’re starting to sound like a parrot, Willie. Getting on my nerves.”
“I don’t mean to, boss.”
“You think a man who’s as well connected in this town as me, who’s got lots of guys working for him and electronic gizmos coming out his ears, so what he can’t tape a movie off his own TV, is capable of making something nice happen for a girl like Lana?”
“I’d think so, boss.”
“I’d think so, too. I’d think all it’d take is knowing a little bit more about how this Miss America thing works.”
“You mean, like who’d she have to screw?”
“Something like that. But watch your mouth, Willie. Talking disrespectful about Lana is like disrespecting my grandma.”
“You don’t have a grandma, Ma.”
“My mother, then. Same difference.”
With his left hand still on the wheel, Willie crossed himself with his right and muttered under his breath. Mary, Jesus, and Joseph. Dealing with Michelangelo, it was hard to keep up. An old man had to be on his toes all the time. It was tough. Very tough. But better than being legit.
“I heard that,” Ma chuckled from the back seat. “Keep your hands on the wheel. Your eyes on the road. Your mouth off my business.”
Jesus!
21
Wayne leaned back in his leather chair—black calf, cushy—exactly like Mr. F’s behind his desk, and watched Mr. F’s favorite girl up on that big stage singing her heart out.
She was good! Better than she had to be considering all the trouble that Wayne had gone to to make sure she’d win.
Not that he minded. Planting the subliminals and watching them work, now, that he loved. Those judges didn’t have a chance against the messages Wayne was bombarding them with night and day. Though he was worried about how little time he was going to have to program the final judges. They didn’t even check in until tomorrow night. Their tapes were done—Mr. F’s favorite girl walking down that runway with the crown on, over and over and over, the one from when she’d won her state, but they wouldn’t know that. The tape would run, without the sound, mixed into their TV signals. An audiotape he’d dubbed—“and the new Miss America is,” with her name—would play on an endless loop while they were sleeping.
But would it be enough?
Wayne gnawed on a fingernail. He wanted to talk with Mr. F about that. He thought maybe they ought to try some other kind of intervention, though he wasn’t sure what. And then there was that business of that bimbo judge telling that woman reporter there was a voice in her room. A woman who drank that much—you wouldn’t think she’d notice.
Wayne was more than a little worried. He hoped that he could manage to see Mr. F privately—without Dougie—before too long. He’d take him up the tape he’d made of his girl winning, that would be his excuse.
Wayne looked up to the rack where he’d filed the tape.
And then he looked again.
He couldn’t believe it.
Oh, no! Christ on a crutch! No!
There was a blank space there. A big blank space. The tape for the final judges was gone, along with a couple of others.
Which ones? Oh, God. Wayne’s mind was reeling. He searched wildly around the room, flinging over his chair, spilling Coke. Maybe he’d just misplaced them. Maybe he’d taken them down and—but no. Of course he hadn’t.
That’s what had happened when he was locked in the men’s room. He had thought it was just someone playing a practical joke. Then he focused on the equipment rack. Christ Almighty! His best camcorder, a professional deck, a computerized editing controller, and God knows what else were gone!
Action Central had been robbed!
Wayne reached over and grabbed up the two remaining cheeseburgers and stuffed them in his mouth. Oh, God. Mr. F was going to be so furious. And Dougie, Dougie would be jumping up and down.
Oh, yeah, Dougie would wet his pants over this one, all right.
Or maybe it was Dougie who—
“Hello. Hello?” Who was that knocking on the door? “Wayne, it’s Gloria. Are you in there? Could I come in and see you a minute? I brought you a little some
thing.”
22
Sam wasn’t the least bit surprised Miss New Jersey took swimsuit. You could smell the excitement in the crowd when she’d stepped out on the stage with her platinum curls, big red smile, cleavage that ate Kansas. It made chills run up and down your spine, how much she looked like Marilyn, even down to the Jell-O-on-springs wiggle.
But she was surprised, amazed even, to see Billy Carroll standing in for Gary Collins. He was pretty awful. Phyllis George looked like she wanted to die—or kill him.
She was also surprised that Sally Griffin, the silver-haired beauty strategist from North Carolina, hadn’t shown up this evening. In her seat, flashing the badge she said Sally had loaned her, though Sam had to wonder why, was Mary Frances DeLaughter, Ph.D., the tall skinny redhead she’d seen outside Barbara Stein’s office whining about being robbed.
She was whining now, too. “These seats aren’t nearly as good as I thought they’d be. You have to kind of crane your neck—”
Which ought to be pretty easy for someone with a neck like hers. The V-necked tan blouse she was wearing didn’t do a thing for her. It was too bad Sally wasn’t here to do a little fashion consulting. Up on the stage Miss Minnesota was pounding out an abbreviated version of the Moonlight Sonata. Sam, whispering, introduced herself to Dr. DeLaughter. It never hurt to be polite. You could never tell where your next story might come from.
“Oooooh,” said Mary Frances. “I know you. I was in England researching serial murderers, and your name came up.”
See? The context wasn’t so nice, but Sam was rather an expert. She’d been a young reporter in the Bay Area in the seventies when there was a bumper crop of killers who went for quantity.
“Oh, yes. Everyone knew your name. It was bandied about among the feminist crowd at Oxford.”
Well. That would give the young whippersnapper from the Inquirer something to think about. Definitely a cut above this nonsense. Maybe instead of a true crime book, after she left the paper, she’d think about doing some research—
“And the case you made in your book for the sterilization of men who don’t support the children they’ve already spawned, well, I needn’t tell you—”
She Walks in Beauty Page 18