Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  She glared at him over her glasses. “Joseph, he has been in this business considerably longer than you have. I think he knows how to handle these things.”

  Joseph turned away in a snit. “Yeah, he knows how to handle things. That’s why the FBI is crawling all over the place.”

  A child! Jealous of his brother, just like a child. “I’m sure Sal is doing something to make sure this investment is protected. Don’t you think?”

  Joseph hung his head again, disgusted. “Sal doesn’t tell me nothing. I’m just a dummy.”

  “This jealousy of yours, Joseph—I just don’t understand it. You know that Sal has everything under control. You just don’t want to say so because you’re jealous of him. You ought to be ashamed.”

  Joseph snapped back like a mad dog. “I ought to be ashamed! You wanna know how your dear brother has everything under control? Huh? You wanna know what he’s doing to keep tabs on Nashe so he doesn’t screw us? You really wanna know? He’s screwing Nashe’s wife, that’s what he’s doing. Real smart, huh? I sleep real good at night, knowing that Sal’s getting it on with Sydney Nashe. I bet you feel better now too, huh?”

  Her face was suddenly burning. She could feel her hair tingling at the roots under her veil. She was mortified, ashamed, furious with Joseph. He’d only said this to hurt her, to get back at her, just like a child. But Joseph had never lied to her before, and that’s what hurt more. How could Sal do such a thing? Adultery is a sin—he knows that—but that wasn’t half as bad as the fact that he was doing it with that . . . that woman, that peculiar, ostentatious woman. Mrs. Nashe? How could he? Why would he? She was so . . . so cheap. Why with her, of all people? What could Sal possibly see in her?

  “What’sa matter, Cil? You got nothing to say all of sudden?” The sarcasm was like poison in his voice. “Aren’t you impressed by how clever Sal is? Sleeping with Nashe’s wife—a real stroke of genius. She must know everything her husband’s doing, right? She sees Sal, she must tell him everything. Right? He’s so smart, my brother. You know, I admire him. I really do.”

  Cil looked at that homeless man sleeping on the ground. All she could see were his legs—dusty brown pants, filthy gray wool socks worn through at the soles, no shoes. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she couldn’t stop trying to imagine Sal in bed with that woman, her dyed blond hair, her painted fingernails all over his skin. She felt nauseated, and she stayed very still. How could Sal succumb to such animal lusts with that horrible woman? How could he? Joseph was right about that: It served no purpose. Lust, it was just lust. That’s all it was.

  Then it gripped her. Jesus saw him in bed with that woman, acting like an animal with her. Jesus saw him. Gesù Cristo vede e provvede.

  She looked over at the brownstone and her face felt like stone. Sal was no better than those men who seduced her girls, who made them promises just to have sex with them, then left them pregnant. The girls. The girls. What about them? The more she thought about all this, the worse she felt. Lying to Sal, lying about Mr. Mistretta’s orders, Sal sinning with that Nashe woman, Joseph running around like a chicken without a head—it was all so confusing. She clenched the rosary beads in her fist, the wooden crucifix digging into her flesh. Her stomach was a mess. It was almost as if God were testing her. Yes, she decided, that’s exactly what it was. God was testing her. The road to good is not straight and it’s not well lit. God was putting obstacles and distractions in her way to test her faith. What she must do is stay on the road, no wavering, no detours, no matter what. She must achieve her original goal. The girls must have their new building. That is the goal. Her brothers’ weaknesses and failings cannot divert her from that goal.

  She was suddenly startled when Joseph put his hand on top of hers. “You see what I’m saying, Cil? It’s not all right. Sal doesn’t have a handle on this thing. We’ve got some problems here.” His tone was conciliatory, softer, more rational than he’d ever been. He was just trying to confuse her.

  “There’s no problem, Joseph.” She tried to put him out of her mind so she could think. She hadn’t told anyone about Mr. Mistretta’s objections to betting on the boxing match. It was no time to say anything about that now. Sal was as weak as Joseph. He’d panic if she told him, cancel the whole thing. Then when it was all over, he’d just shrug and say, Someday, Cil. Don’t worry. You’ll get your new building someday.

  No. No more somedays. Now.

  “Cil, say something. You’re making me nervous. Do we tell Sal about the FBI guy or not?”

  She ignored her brother and stared straight ahead at the Center across the street, willing her stomach to settle down. Then it occurred to her. Perhaps Joseph wasn’t the only one being selfish. Perhaps she’d been selfish too, seeing this whole thing only from her own perspective instead of recognizing that she was just one small piece in God’s larger plan. They were all small pieces—her, Sal, Joseph, Mr. Nashe, even Mr. Mistretta. Naturally none of them could ever understand the scope of God’s plan. No one can. She’d been thinking too much, thinking as if she were God, as if she had control over the situation. Good Lord, forgive me.

  It was obvious now what she should do. Nothing, do nothing. Stop trying to outwit God. We are the pieces, He is the player. He has set all this in motion. Mortal beings have no control over it. Just let it happen, let it play itself out the way He had planned it, the way it will happen. Yes. This was all preordained. It will all happen as He had planned it at the beginning of time. No matter what. Cil started to breathe easier. Her stomach felt a little better.

  “Cil, you’re too quiet. You’re making me nervous. I gotta know what you think we should do here. Do you wanna tell Sal about the FBI guy or not?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t tell him. It’s too close to the fight. There’s no reason to upset him now. It was nothing. Just more harassment, I’m sure of it. If we mention it to Sal, he’ll get upset and he might do something foolish. His mind should be on the boxing match right now, nothing else.”

  Joseph nodded, smiled a little. He obviously liked being in on something that didn’t include Sal. For once it was Sal who was being kept in the dark for his own good, and it made Joseph feel important. She shook her head. He was such a child. But that was how God wanted it.

  “You really don’t think we should tell him about it?” Joseph was still unsure of himself.

  She shook her head.

  “You sure, Cil?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I dunno, Cil. If we don’t tell him, don’t you think we should at least do something, like—?”

  “Pray.”

  “Pray?”

  “This is the time for prayer. It’s all we can do.” She stood up from the bench and looked down at him. “And it’s the best we can do.” She turned and walked to the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic so she could cross.

  “But, Cil—”

  “Pray, Joseph. Have faith.” She stepped off the curb and headed for the Center. “Good-bye, Joseph,” she called over her shoulder. He sat there on the park bench, dumbfounded.

  She crossed the street and stood on the bottom step of the old brownstone, looking up at the windows. There wasn’t a single one that wasn’t cracked, and all the shades were torn and yellowed. The condition of this building was shameful. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. Mrs. Nashe would never live in a building like this.

  ou know, I had a feeling you guys were going to ask me about Nashe.” David Holman paused to take a sip from a big white coffee mug with the company name on it—Pope Sedgewick Samms, one of the “Big Eight” accounting firms.

  Tozzi watched the moon-faced accountant’s eyes behind the round tortoise-shell glasses. Gleeful was the word he’d use for them, gleeful eyes. Very strange. The first thing that struck Tozzi about Holman was that he didn’t react the way most people do when the FBI shows up. Most people get scared. Right away they think they’re the ones in trouble. Holman seemed glad to see them, almost from the mom
ent he and Gibbons had walked into his office and shown their ID. When Gibbons had given him the standard line about him not being the target of this investigation, Holman just smiled and said, “I know.” Funny guy.

  Tozzi sipped coffee from an identical white mug and decided to let Gibbons do the talking. He didn’t want to be here in the first place. You don’t need two agents to question an accountant, for chrissake. What was he, dangerous? Tozzi wanted to be back down in Atlantic City, with Valerie. Today was his day off and she didn’t start work until three. They could’ve been doing something together, but no, Gibbons insisted that he shouldn’t be hanging around the boardwalk, not after Sal Immordino’s visit the other night. Actually, Gibbons was probably right—as long as he was guarding Russell Nashe, he was safe, but off duty, wandering around on his own, he was fair game. The night Sal came gunning for him at his apartment, they had gone over to Valerie’s and spent the night there—a very nice night there—but since then he’d been sleeping alone, moving around from one cheap motel to another. If Sal or one of his goons came back, he didn’t want Valerie to be there. Yeah, Gibbons was probably right about his not hanging around. Dammit.

  The phone on Holman’s desk beeped once, no ring. “Excuse me for just one minute.” He flashed a pleasant smile and picked up the receiver.

  Tozzi looked at Gibbons sitting next to him in the cramped little office, their knees almost touching on the other side of Holman’s desk. Gibbons glanced at him, then stared up at the ceiling. Gibbons had picked him up at the Lucky Seven Motel on Tennessee Avenue just after six this morning, and they’d had it out in the car coming up here. It took almost four fucking hours to get to White Plains because Gibbons had decided to cross the GW right at rush hour. Perfect timing. They’re stuck in traffic in the middle of the bridge and he says something like, Shit, this is useless, and all of a sudden Gibbons goes ape-shit, starts yelling at him, giving him this rap about how it’s their duty to stay with the investigation, even if Ivers is shutting it down tomorrow, even if there’s no way in hell they could come up with something substantial on Nashe by then. Gibbons starts getting real hot about it, jabbing his finger, getting red in the face. Do or die, right to the end. Mr. Hard Ass. Who the hell does he think he’s kidding? He just wants to keep this thing going so he won’t have to go back to his desk job at the office. Asshole.

  Tozzi set down his mug on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. This was useless. Holman was stroking his pale yellow print tie, leaning back in his chair, the phone caddy propped on his shoulder, while he was discussing something about an internal audit that had to be redone in San Francisco. It sounded like it was going to be a hassle, but he didn’t seem very upset about it. Strange guy.

  Holman was a senior auditor here and he looked the part. The shirt was white enough to make you snow-blind, and his yellow suspenders matched the tie. Six months ago he’d been working for Russell Nashe in the casino’s accounting department. Tozzi wondered whether he’d been this happy when he was working for Nashe. Nashe likes everybody around him to be happy, but not as happy as him. Holman might’ve been too happy. Maybe that was why he’d been fired.

  He looked over at Gibbons again, but now his partner was squinting at Holman’s diplomas on the wall. Stubborn bastard. Had to do everything by the book. But even if Holman did know about all kinds of skeletons in Nashe’s closet, there wasn’t enough time to follow up on any allegations he might make. Holman would have to give them gold for Ivers to keep this undercover going, and when did a subject ever give a special agent gold on the first interview? Never, that’s when.

  Naturally, he’d love to have something he could pin on Nashe so that the U.S. attorney would sit on the billionaire’s big head and plea-bargain him into giving them something good on Immordino. He’d love to see Sal’s ass in the fire more than anything. But it wasn’t going to happen. There just wasn’t enough time. They weren’t going to find out anything new today and he was gonna go to work tomorrow as Mike Tomasso and then, after his shift, that would be it. Tomasso would disappear, and Nashe and Immordino would keep doing whatever the hell they were doing together.

  In a few weeks he’d give Valerie a call, explain as much as he could about who he really was so he could reestablish some contact with her, they’d have another date or two, he’d avoid the difficult questions as best he could, she’d come up to his place in Hoboken maybe once, then they’d find out it wasn’t working because of the distance and the fact that their hours were both pretty weird and it was too difficult to get together, and then that would be it too. Hopeless. It was hopeless. Tozzi picked up his mug and drained it.

  Holman hung up the phone then. “Sorry. I’ll let my machine pick up for a while.” He sat up straight and linked his fingers on top of his desk. “So what is it you want to know about old Russ?”

  Gibbons uncrossed his legs, ready for business. “You worked for Russell Nashe in Atlantic City. Is that correct, Mr. Holman?”

  “Uh-huh. I was one of the head accountants at the Plaza. I ran the department that took care of the hotel side. The casino had a bigger department all to itself. The two had to be treated as separate businesses. Gaming Commission rules.”

  Gibbons nodded, encouraging him, easing him along. Why bother? Holman didn’t need much encouraging. He looked like he was champing at the bit to tell them anything they wanted to know. Come on, Gib, cut to the chase. This guy doesn’t need the foreplay.

  “And is it true that you were fired from that position, Mr. Holman?”

  “That’s right.” Holman didn’t seem bitter or ashamed about it. Maybe he took drugs, a discreet snort in the bathroom at coffee break, the executive high.

  “Why were you fired?” Gibbons sounded like a funeral director, very somber.

  Holman leaned back in his chair and rocked a little.

  “Why was I fired? That’s a hard one to answer. You’d have to understand how Russell Nashe operates.”

  Gibbons glanced at Tozzi and shrugged. “I’ve got time. Educate me.”

  Oh, Christ. Real clever, Gib. Now it’s gonna be The Story of My Life by David Holman. He’ll have us here past lunch, for chrissake. Tozzi looked at his watch. By the time he got back to Atlantic City, Val would be at work. Goddammit!

  “Well—” Holman started, then paused to look out into the distance. “No. Let me put it this way. Russell Nashe is a very insecure person. I was going to say he was crazy, but that’s only part of it.”

  “What do you mean by ‘insecure’?”

  “Russell Nashe has this pathological need to be the biggest wheeler-dealer on the block. Whenever he finds out somebody is putting together a big deal on something, he has to put together a bigger deal. There are a few people who drive him up a wall, he’s so jealous of them, but most often it’s Donald Trump who gets his goat. Obviously. Trump started work on the Taj Mahal, Russ had to go up against him with the Paradise. Trump promotes fights at his casino, Russ has to put together this big fight deal with Walker this week. Insane.”

  “Why do you say it’s insane?” Gibbons’s eyes did not waver from Holman.

  “Because between you and me, I don’t think he has the money to pay that humongous purse.” Holman turned the corners of his mouth down and shook his head. “Seventeen million for Walker? The figures just don’t work out, not the way I see it. Walker will be taking Russ to court to collect his money. I predict it.”

  “Do you know this for a fact, that Nashe won’t have the money to cover the purse?”

  Holman wrinkled his brow. All of a sudden he didn’t look happy. “Well, no . . . not really. I was gone by the time this fight deal came together.”

  “Then how do you know Nashe won’t have the money?”

  Holman sat forward again, hands joined on the blotter. “I know how Russ operates, and I know how much the Plaza takes in. The Gaming Commission keeps close tabs on the casino money, so Russ can’t fool around with that. But the hotel money is another thing. H
e was always dipping into the till for one thing or another, wheeling and dealing like crazy but never paying the bills for basic operations. We were constantly negotiating with creditors, placating them, giving them free weekends at the hotel, comping them to the ceiling just to put them off a little while longer.”

  “You mean Nashe takes from Peter to pay Paul? That kind of thing?”

  “No, it’s more like he takes from Peter and Paul and then screws them both.”

  “How does he get away with it?”

  The glee returned to Holman’s eyes. “Promises.”

  “Promises?” Gibbons looked skeptical.

  “Sure. Say he’s got a . . . a bakery, say, that’s delivering—I don’t know—say, fifty dozen croissants to the Plaza every day. At some point Nashe tells me don’t pay them, ignore the invoices. The bills pile up, the bakery starts calling, we make excuses, tell them we love their product, maybe even increase the regular order a little to get their hopes up, but we still don’t pay the bills. Then after a couple of months of getting nowhere, the bakery gets mad and starts demanding their money. Russ says tell them anything, but don’t pay. The bakery gets a lawyer then, threatens to sue. That’s when Russ steps in with the bullshit.

  “He gets in the limo and takes a ride down to the bakery. Shows up unannounced and says he wants to talk to the boss. The boss comes out, and Russ tells the guy he’s beautiful, he’s wonderful, he makes the best croissants in the whole world, better than they make in Paris, croissants worthy of his hotel. The baker knows he’s full of shit, and Russ knows the baker knows he’s full of shit, but Russ has that way about him. It’s this very special kind of charm he’s got. Totally calculated on his part, but it always seems to work for him. You think you see right through him, but that’s what he wants you to think because it makes you feel smarter than him. The baker says to himself, Hey, I’m standing here with this big-deal billionaire who gets on TV and in the papers all the time and he thinks he’s pulling one over on me, but he’s not because I can see right through him.