by Tim Green
Jimmy hesitated. He was thinking. He raised his eyebrows to his men, who were all watching him closely. Then he said, "Of course, Metz! You can bet ten thousand if you want to. I know you're good for it. You've been a good customer, and I want to get even with you after what you did to us during the football season."
Jimmy winked at his men.
'That's great, Jimmy!" Metz said. "I hope you don't mind losing ten large."
Jimmy hung up and immediately dialed Mike Cometti.
"Mikey, what's up? This is Jimmy. I got a live one for you."
"Yeah?" Cometti said.
"Yeah, get this . . . this guy's been nickel and diming me all football season, right? Never bets over five hundred, tops. Ever. No, once he bet a grand on a Titans game, come to think of it. Anyway, I figure you might want to let someone up high know what I got here."
"I'm glad you called, Jimmy," Cometti said. 'Tony likes to know about stuff like that."
"Yeah, well, let me know what you want me to do, Mikey. If you need some muscle on this, I got a good guy here who knows the area . . . And say hello to Tony for me, will ya?"
"Yeah, sure, Jimmy."
Jimmy held out the phone in Carl's general direction. Carl took it before he asked, "Hey, Jimmy, how come you called Mike Cometti to tell him about fat Metz's bet? I mean, we want guys to bet a lot of money, don't we? But you seem like something's bothering you."
Jimmy the Squid gave his other cronies a bewildered look as if to ask if Carl was for real.
"We do want them to bet, you dumb ass. But this guy ain't betting for himself. He's betting for somebody else. Somebody big."
"Yeah, so what?"
"So what? Do I gotta tell you everything? Al, you tell this dumb-ass why."
Al looked at Jimmy with his good eye while his bad one meandered about the room.
"Well," he said, "I figure it this way. This guy Metz only bets a couple hundred most times. But now all of a sudden he calls in ten large on a basketball game. So I guess you're thinking that this Metz guy's got a lot of money from someplace, and we want to find out how 'cause if it's something good, we want to get in on it."
Al smiled broadly and nodded his head in agreement with himself.
"Minkya!" Jimmy said, throwing his hands in the air and looking at the ceiling. "All over people are out of work. They say there's college kids who can't get jobs, and I've got a pack of fucking dummies working for me!
"Now, watch and learn something. If you fucking idiots ever want to be made members of this family"--Jimmy looked at Carl specifically--"you gotta show you got at least some small fucking ability to think and to know what the fuck is gonna happen. It's called preception. You gotta have preception to be made. Like this . . . Mike Cometti is calling Tony right now. In a few minutes Mikey's gonna call me back and tell me if this guy Metz wins to pay him and then follow his fat ass. If he loses, then they'll tell me to follow his fat ass after the game to see who gives him the money to pay us. Either way we find out who the mystery man is, and then Tony can decide what to do with him. Get it? This stuff happens from time to time, it's standard procedure. Now, you fucking idiots just sit here with me and wait, 'cause like I said, it's all about preception and what I just said is what's gonna be."
Jimmy the Squid got his call in five minutes.
Hunter worked out with the rest of the Titans at the team's training facility four days a week. He would usually go in the morning and do his lifting and running, then throw some balls to his receivers for about an hour before lunch. After lunch he would take care of the deluge of personal business that besieged a world champion quarterback. This meant dividing his time between charity fund-raisers like the Leukemia golf tournament, endorsement opportunities like shooting a commercial for Scott's Turf Plus, or schmoozing with people on the golf course who he thought would be valuable contacts when his career ended.
He'd actually signed on with Stern and Lipsky, a public relations agency, to handle his schedule for charity appearances. He also consulted closely with Mark Lipsky on just who were the right people to schmooze to best help himself in life after football. One thing the people at Stern and Lipsky understood about scheduling him for anything was that Friday afternoons were out. Hunter wouldn't even throw to his receivers on Fridays. He'd finish his workout by ten and be on the road with Rachel and Sara by eleven, heading for the Hamptons and trying to beat the mobs of traffic that flooded the Long Island Expressway until well past midnight every Friday of the summer. Hunter's other trick was to leave Monday mornings and miss the inbound rush as well. As it was, they were able to enjoy the tranquility of their modest ocean house without packing the weekend between two stress-filled drives with all the other New Yorkers who were insane with their desire to get to the beaches.
Hunter and Rachel's house was set on one hundred feet of ocean-front. Fortunately, the neighbors on either side each owned four hundred feet, so the Logans were able to enjoy a sense of privacy that was paid for by their neighbors. Their house sat atop a dune and was surrounded by clusters of scraggly pines that had been crippled and stunted by the harsh ocean winds. The house itself was contemporary with vertical wooden siding that was painted white and accented with groupings of glass cubes to let light in as well as give some life to the outside structure, which was otherwise as bland as a stack of sugar cubes. Neither Hunter nor Rachel particularly liked contemporary homes, but this one had what they wanted on the inside and was perfectly located as well. Hunter had insisted they be on the ocean. Rachel wanted a place that had a casual layout with one large living area and some bedrooms.
They had spent this particular Friday out on the beach. They'd stopped in town for lunch, then brought blankets, umbrellas, and toys out to the beach to swim, play, and nap in the warm summer afternoon. Around five, Rachel picked up and headed to the house to get dinner ready. Hunter took Sara for one last romp in the waves before he too headed back to the house to shower. After they ate, Hunter helped clear the table, then pulled a beer from the refrigerator and flopped down on the couch.
"Want to see a movie tonight?" Rachel asked. "We could drop Sara at my folks' house for the night."
"Yeah! Nana and Poppa!" Sara screamed with delight.
"Am I that bad to be with?" Hunter said in mock pain.
"You're silly, Daddy," she said with a giggle.
Hunter looked at his watch and picked up the TV remote.
"You know, honey. Let's just hang out tonight. I want to watch the NBA play-offs. We can see a movie tomorrow night."
"I can't remember you ever wanting to watch a basketball game on a Friday night," Rachel said without looking up from the sink where she was scrubbing out a pan.
Hunter was slouched on the couch now with his arm around Sara. The game was just getting under way. His feet were crossed and resting on the coffee table. His bottle of beer sat on the end table, and he felt for it without looking. He took a swig and said, "I just figured I'd watch Patrick Ewing to see how he does. Hell, it's not every day you play golf with a guy who's going up against Michael Jordan in the NBA play-offs."
Rachel peered up from her work to see if Hunter was playing with her. She knew damn well he didn't care about the NBA play-offs. He continued to stare at the screen. She shrugged and got back to her pan. She was loading the dirty dishes into the washer when she looked up suddenly and glared at her husband on the couch.
"So," she said abruptly, "how much did you bet on the game?"
Hunter pretended not to have heard her.
"What'd you say, honey?" he asked, trying to decide how to handle the situation.
"You heard me, Hunter. You've got a bet on this game, don't you," she demanded.
He looked up sheepishly and shrugged.
"Well, Patrick gave me a scoop on Wednesday that I couldn't ignore. It's not a big thing, honey. Don't go giving me the evil eye."
"You do what you want, Hunter," she said in a huff. "I'm not going to be your mother. You made all this money. If
you want to squander it away gambling, I guess it's your business. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Hunter gave a halfhearted laugh and said, "Oh, come on, honey. Don't get so damn sour about one little bet on a basketball game. Besides, Ewing is hurt. The Knicks don't stand a chance."
"I know you think you know what you're doing," she replied, "but just remember I told you that it's not a good idea."
"OK, honey," Hunter said, his eyes already reglued to the set, "I'll remember."
Chapter 12
That will be all, gentlemen," Duncan Fellows said to the group of supervisors that was gathered around the large conference table. They had each reported their progress and the status of their individual groups. One at a time they had stood and reported in a way that reminded Cook of grade school. The idea was that each man could get original management ideas from his contemporaries. Cook thought it was absurd.
"Ah, Cook. I still need to see you. You can sit back down."
The other men looked at Cook and smirked.
Fellows was fucking with him. Ever since the Keel incident, Fellows had been condescending toward Cook. Cook knew this was his boss's way of reminding him that he had one up on him, but Cook didn't like Fellows and he didn't like what was happening. Unfortunately for him, Fellows was his immediate superior, and if he wanted his grand plan to be fulfilled, part of the equation was keeping Fellows happy. Not to mention the problems the whole Keel incident could create for Cook if Fellows ever wrote it up.
Cook looked at his watch. It was Saturday and the meeting had already run over. It was quarter past noon, and Cook had promised to meet Natasha and Aunt Esther at the Plaza Hotel for lunch in the Palm Court at twelve. It was Natasha's birthday and Cook wanted to do something special. He had promised her a carriage ride through the park after lunch and then a trip to FAO Schwartz across the street. He had also promised Esther that he wouldn't be late.
When the room was finally empty, Fellows spoke.
"Everything here in New York to your satisfaction, Cook?"
"Yes, sir," Cook said, "just fine."
"Good, Cook, that's good. Everything moving along as planned?"
Cook shifted impatiently in his chair.
"Just like I said in my report a few minutes ago, sir. Everything is still the same."
"Oh, I know about your report, Cook. I just wanted to know if you had anything going on the side again, you know, some interesting leads that maybe you thought you might keep to yourself."
"I get your point, sir. I don't think it's really necessary to constantly remind me about the mix-up with Tommy Keel."
"Mix-up?" Fellows interjected. "Don't you mean fuck-up? Isn't that what it's called when you show up at the home of a potential witness and flash your badge around before you even have a clue as to what you're going to do with him and what kind of compromised state he's already in? Then, to top it off, the guy gets killed? Don't you think that might have something to do with the fact that you and your men can't get Rizzo on a parking violation? Every snitch on the East Coast knows what happened to Tommy Keel, and they know why. Word on the street is that a black agent shows up at Keel's house the day after he's been beaten up by Tony Rizzo. The word is the agent stayed for fucking tea! Then Keel winds up with his head blown off! You couldn't get someone in that organization to help you if you stuck a cattle prod up their ass. You did more to protect the Mondolffi family since Tony Rizzo, Sr., put a piece of piano wire around Luca Mirrolo's neck! Mix-up, my ass."
"I know what I did was technically wrong. I know you know it. I know you didn't make out a report on it. I know you're holding that over my head. But why don't you just give me some slack and let me get out of here and do my job. I know I'm infringing on your territory. But it's Washington that makes these types of policy decisions. So why don't you just let me do what I've got to do and get on back to Washington?"
Fellows smiled and leaned back in his chair at the head of the long table.
"I'm sure that's just what you want, too, isn't it, Cook? To get on back to Washington, where you can be a real big shot. I know that if this comes off, you'll be in a position to manage the teams they send around the entire country, and that's fine with me. But I want you to know one thing. While you're here, you'll report to me. I want to know everything that's going on before you do it. Any more surprises and you'll be back in Washington all right. You'll be a traffic cop on M Street."
"Is that all, Mr. Fellows?" Cook said in a pleasant voice, despite being unable to hide the contempt in his face.
"Go on, Cook," Fellows said with the wave of his hand, "you look like you're late for something."
Cook got up slowly and left the room, determined not to let Fellows know that he'd probably ruined his day by making him late. But when Cook reached the street he sprinted after a cab going uptown. Five minutes later, he was racing up the steps of the Plaza. He picked Esther and Natasha out of the crowded room easily. They were the only black faces in the place. He rushed to the table and Esther looked up at him with a smile.
Cook looked around. "Is everything all right?" he asked, fearing Esther might have had a small stroke.
"Of course," Esther said. She was dressed up in a floral sundress similar to Natasha's.
"Well," Cook said, bending down to kiss his daughter, who reached up to hug his neck, "Esther, I thought all hell was going to break loose with me showing up late."
"Did you think I would ruin this child's birthday because you're late like you always are? Why, you old fool, Ellis, I'm glad your mama isn't around. Big man in the FBI, but sometimes you haven't got the sense of an ass."
Natasha giggled.
"Now that sounds more like the Aunt Esther I know," said Cook as he sat down with a smile and signaled to a waiter.
Jimmy the Squid wheeled himself out into the middle of his living room. He lived in a modest home in a row of similar homes on a suburban street in North Wootimere. The only thing at all unusual besides the wheelchair ramps was the constant flow of traffic in and out, day and night. When people won a lot of money, they had to come to Jimmy to get it. This was the first time Metz had been invited to pick up his money at Jimmy's.
Metz put one large fat hand on Jimmy's shoulder and with the other grasped a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills that was bound with two rubber bands. The flash exploded and left Metz with a spot in his vision.
'That OK, Lonny?" Jimmy asked one of his thugs with unusual deference.
The man named Lonny, who was wiry and older than anyone else in the room, only nodded.
"Yeah, that's great," said Jimmy. 'Thanks, Metz. I always like to get a picture with the big winners."
Metz nodded and shifted nervously. He didn't like being around people in wheelchairs. A wheelchair was the nightmare of any football player, past or present. It was weird that Jimmy wanted a picture, but Metz was so uncomfortable about being there at all that he didn't give it a second thought. He was happy, however, with the feel of the thick stack of money. And he liked being a big bettor. These thugs were treating him with respect. Usually Carl or someone would meet him at a bar and shove a couple of hundreds into his hand, dismissing him with a grunt. But here he was now, at the center of it all. He knew Jimmy was in the Mafia. Carl had told him repeatedly. And although Jimmy made him nervous, he was tantalized by the mystique. He thought it might be nice if Hunter bet this kind of cash every week. He could see himself being something of a fixture at Jimmy's, someone they expected to see, someone they treated as an equal.
"So who are you taking in Sunday's game?" the Squid asked, looking up from his chair and showing Metz a crooked set of teeth that were black around the edges.
"I'll have to let you know," Metz said with as much authority as he could muster.
"Oh, come on, Metz," said Jimmy. "Don't tell me you're gonna sting me like that and stop the action?"
Metz got nervous again. He looked around to read the expressions of Jimmy's cronies. They grinned oafishly. Metz smile
d and gave Jimmy's shoulder a final squeeze before he moved toward the door.
"I'll have to let you know, Jimmy. I gotta check my source with the Knicks to find out what's up," Metz said, intending to have a little fun himself.
"Oh?" Jimmy raised his eyebrows with mock deference. "And who's your source?"
"Patrick Ewing, who else?" Metz said.
The whole crew laughed at that one, even Jimmy.
Thanks, Jimmy," Metz said as he stepped through the door with a grin and a wave as if they were all old and dear friends.
Metz was glad to be away from the wheelchair, and he was glad to have Hunter's money. He congratulated himself on how smooth he'd been, joking like that with his bookie and his thugs. If they only knew about Ewing! The day was sunny but not too warm. It was Sunday. Metz couldn't wait to see Hunter after work tomorrow. He couldn't wait to see his friend's face. They had actually done it! They'd bet ten thousand dollars and won. Metz felt like a little kid. He never noticed Lonny and Carl jump into a blue van that was parked in the street in front of Jimmy's house and follow him down the road. When Metz pulled into his own driveway and went into his house, the van pulled up across the street and parked. No one got out. The people inside were waiting for Monday, too.
Tony had seen Camille Carter three times since she returned his call. The first night he'd taken her to the Four Seasons, where the waiters and even the owner bowed deferentially to Tony, then to the Palladium, where they were also treated like royalty. Camille seemed bored with the whole thing and that had frustrated Tony. He was trying to be a gentleman, and she could barely hide her yawns.
Things changed when he invited her to his place. She eagerly accepted, and, like their first encounter, they began by snorting some coke. It was then that Camille surprised Tony. Instead of being frightened by him, she was excited. He could see the thrill in her eyes as he thrust himself inside her. This enthusiasm goaded him. He got rough with her, flipping her body over and taking her from behind. She moaned in ecstasy. He wrapped his hands in her soft blond hair and twisted her face toward him. He knew it had to hurt, but pleasure lit her face.