by Paul Levine
Bobby was irritated and tense, his nerves tight as baling twine. He should be spending the day either trying to scrape up a million bucks or packing his bags for Bora Bora. Jeez, how much farther could he fall?
Just how far was it from LaBarca's penthouse balcony to the pool deck below?
Bobby wondered whether he should spend the day trying to collect the money, which was impossible, or fabricating excuses, which were implausible? As it turned out, he couldn't do either one. The early phone call from Angelica Suarez reminded him that he was due in court. Now, after the hearing, his lawyer's suggestion of a "global settlement" with Kingsley baffled him. The court appearance was only round one in Christine's motion to send Scott to boarding school in Vermont. No decision yet, with more hearings to come. The notion that Scott could be so far away terrified Bobby.
Stopped at the curb, Bobby slipped the gear shift into park, then turned around and faced Angelica, who leaned back with her legs crossed, sipping a Perrier in the old limo's spacious but shabby passenger compartment. She gave Bobby the impression that she wouldn't mind being waited on for the indefinite future.
"What are you saying, Angie? Settle what? I'm not in litigation with Kingsley."
"Really? Then what just happened no more than fifteen minutes ago when the Honorable Seymour Gerstein gave you a week to show cause why he shouldn't honor a Texas order compelling Scott to pack his bags for Berkshire Prep for the start of second semester?"
"Just like I told the judge, Scott should be with his parents. If Chrissy wants him one semester in Dallas, that's fine because I'll get him one semester here. But to ship the kid off to New England for nine months is cruel and unusual punishment."
"For you or for him?"
"For both of us! Jeez, Angie, you don't have any kids, so you can't relate."
"That condition can be remedied," she said, her tone flirtatious.
He chose to let that comment drift on the tide without netting it. "Like I also told the judge, Scott's my life."
Angelica was silent a moment, as if testing the weight of her words before dropping them. "Bobby, please don't take this the wrong way, but maybe it's time you got a different life."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're thinking of Scott in egocentric terms. It's your loss if he goes off to this fancy prep school. Sure, you'd miss him, but maybe the prep school is the best thing for him."
"Jeez, I can't believe you said that. Even Chrissy was reluctant at first about boarding school."
"Which means her father's fingerprints are all over the plan."
"Maybe so, but the case is still between Chrissy and me."
"No, it's not. And neither is the Bar proceeding. You may have slept with Christine, but you were married to her father. He's the one who wants to skin your hide."
"Even if you're right, I still don't get it. How do I settle anything by asking for a seven-figure loan? What do I have to give?"
She didn't answer, and he thought about it a moment. A Metro bus wheezed to a stop next to them, its brakes squealing, black noxious exhaust rolling over the limo. Another street peddler appeared alongside, this one hawking roses with a life expectancy equal to your drive-time home. Bobby tried to focus on his lawyer's advice and his unanswered question.
"What do I have to give?" Only one thing. No, she couldn't mean that!
Angelica Suarez was biting her full lower lip when Bobby glared at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were a dark brown so deep as to almost be black. Her skin was burnished bronze from weekends on the boat in Biscayne Bay. Her black hair was pulled straight back and held with a silver barrette. He had seen that hair loosened and flowing over her bare shoulders. It had been an evening of paella and too many mojitos, and they had ended up in bed. In the morning, he had awakened, dreaming of Christine.
"Counselor, you're not telling me to give up Scott."
"You wouldn't be giving him up. You'd be setting new primary custody provisions and visitation guidelines."
"That's lawyer double talk. You mean Chrissy would have him full time, except she'd send him off to school in New England, and I'd get him on alternate holidays."
"Maybe it's for the best."
"Bullshit!"
He started up the limo and pulled into traffic. Her office was three blocks away.
"I'm just asking you to consider it," she said. "Kingsley can use his connections to get the Texas Bar to reinstate you. If that happened, Florida would follow suit. You'd have options you don't have now."
"I wouldn't have Scott!"
"Face facts, Bobby. You won't have him anyway."
Each word, spoken ever so softly, exploded like a grenade. "What are you saying, that we're going to lose?"
"Would you rather I kept the truth from you? We're losing big time. You're in violation of a direct court order from Texas. You've been disbarred. Unless the complaining party, who happens to be your ex-father-in-law, pulls some strings to get you reinstated, it's a lost cause. If you were paying me, I'd say you're wasting your money."
The anger smoldered inside Bobby. He was furious at all of them, at Christine for divorcing him, at Martin Kingsley for impoverishing him, at his own lawyer for forsaking him.
"We're here," Bobby said, double parking on General Maximo Gomez Boulevard, just outside Angelica's office, which occupied the ground floor of a two-story building that also housed a palm reader, a medico clinica, and a farmacia. He got out and went around to the back, opening the door and avoiding her gaze as if he were the hired help.
"Bobby. I wish it were different. I wish I could do something for you." She put her hand over his, but still, he refused to meet her eyes. "Jesus, I even wish you didn't still love your ex-wife, but that's the way it is. Call me when you have a chance to think it over."
But he'd already thought it over. He used the old strategy of putting himself in his adversary's shoes. What would Martin Kingsley do if the situation were reversed? What had he said yesterday in Green Bay?
"Sometimes a man has to throw into double coverage."
The old bastard was right. Never give up, regardless of the odds. Bobby would battle to the end, with or without Angelica's help. He'd try the case himself if he had to, appeal if he lost, and appeal again after that. He'd file every motion known to the legal system and a few he'd make up. The thoughts of fighting the good fight seemed to invigorate him.
Five minutes after dropping Angelica off at her office, Bobby was driving east on Coral Way when the cellular rang. Now what? What could possibly go wrong today that already hasn't?
"Be at my apartment tonight," LaBarca said. "Seven o'clock,"
"With the money?"
"No, with a bouquet of roses. Of course with the money, dickwad!"
22
Bobby's Posse
Bobby spent the better part of the afternoon at the Fourth Estate, a saloon on North Bayshore Drive near the soon-to-be demolished Miami Herald building. He had stepped into the cool environs of the Club, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The Club was a dimly lit serious drinking place straight out of the sixties, complete with a jukebox packed with ballads. No skylights, blonde wood, or California ferns. In fact, the only thing growing was mold on the bathroom tile.
Bobby was still blinking when he heard a familiar scratchy voice competing with Sinatra crooning that he'd done it his way.
"Over here boychik. Sit down. Let's schmooze."
After a moment Bobby found Goldy Goldberg sitting at a red Naugahyde banquette with a few of his cronies in the faint light of a faux Tiffany lamp. The old bookmaker looked at the world through thick prescription sunglasses, even in the dark saloon. Goldberg hadn't changed in appearance since Bobby's father placed bets with him thirty years earlier. With his pale, translucent skin that reminded Bobby of fine stationery, Goldy could have been fifty or eighty or anything in between. He wore a baggy brown suit with a green bow tie that resembled racing silks and was in his familiar pose,
cradling a glass of cold seltzer in both hands.
How long ago was it, Bobby tried to remember, when Morris Goldberg-Goldy to friends and probation officers alike-got him the job slopping out the stalls? Bobby figured he must have been about Scott's age.
His real job, of course, was relaying information to Goldy, everything from jockey and trainer scuttlebutt to which horses had sore knees. But most fun of all was climbing an olive tree just outside the perimeter fence and watching the races with binoculars, calling down the winners to Goldy as they crossed the finish line, practicing a melodious chant as if he were calling the stretch run at the Florida Derby.
"Down to the wire they come…and it's…Blood Orange by a nose! Romeo's Revenge second, and three lengths back, the game but outclassed Crackerbarrel for the show!"
Armed with the information, Goldy would race across the street to a pay phone- no cellulars then-and using a phony name, he'd get down a bet with a rival bookie.
Is this illegal?" young Bobby once asked as Goldy returned, out of breath, to their surveillance post.
"What, past-posting a bookie?" Goldy replied, surprise in his voice. "Maybe it ain't exactly kosher, but it ain't illegal either."
Now as Bobby settled into the booth, Goldy made a cluck-clucking sound like a mother hen. "One stinking play and it all goes to hell. I'm sorry, kid."
A chorus of sympathetic murmurs ran around the table. They had all heard the story of Bobby's disaster in Green Bay, Saul (the Cantor) Kaplan spreading the news like a virus through the betting community. Jose Portilla whispered some condolence in Spanish. Bobby had rescued Portilla from bankruptcy when his ill-fated fast-food restaurant, Escargot-to-Go, went belly-up. Now, the short, chubby chef operated El Pato Loco, The Crazy Duck, and was making money. Picking up the hint, Philippe Jean-Juste chanted something in Creole and dabbed his index finger in holy water-actually bourbon and water-making the sign of the cross on his forehead. Jean-Juste was a sometimes Santeria priest who would have gone to jail for animal cruelty if Bobby hadn't successfully argued that freedom of religion permitted his client to behead goats in a public park. It was one of his last cases before The Florida Bar, following Texas' lead, stripped Bobby of his license.
"Tough going, Bobby," said Murray Kravetz, self-consciously adjusting his hairpiece. Kravetz was the eleven p.m. sports anchor on Channel 9, a great job if you wanted to drink all day and still possessed the ability to pronounce Ndamukong Suh when your lips are numb.
"Getting middled is a bookie's nightmare," Goldy said, shaking his head. " So, what are we going to do to help our friend here?"
For a moment, no one spoke, and the only sound was the clinking of glasses at the bar, and the mournful wail of Tony Bennett who wanted to pick up the pieces of someone's heart. Then Portilla suggested they go en masse to the Bahamas and knock off a casino with loaded dice. After another round of drinks, Jean-Juste said he would sacrifice two chickens, a goat and a pig and pray to the god Oshun that Bobby would win this week's Florida lottery. Kravetz claimed he knew a way to rig the ping-pong balls and fix the lottery, which sent Portilla into a soliloquy on various scams he'd run before going straight, including selling waterfront property in land-bound Ocala, and other cons, stings, and swindles, all of which could be used to raise dough for Bobby.
"Thanks guys," Bobby said, when they'd finished their alcohol-sodden meanderings. "I appreciate it. But there's nothing you can do."
"Don't underestimate us," Kravetz said. "All together, we've totaled a couple centuries of degenerate conduct."
"He's right, Bobby. Call on us any time," Portilla said.
"I will put a curse on this LaBarca if you say the word," Jean-Juste said.
"Good luck, boychik," Goldy concluded, clasping a hand around his shoulder.
23
Playing Jeopardy
Bobby entered the gilt-edged mahogany door to LaBarca's penthouse condo. This time, he had left Scott home. Outside, it was a cool and moonless evening with an ocean breeze. Inside the darkened apartment, the blast of central air could have made a side of beef shiver. The marble floors seemed frozen, the post-modern chandelier resembled a quiver of icicles, the chrome and glass furnishings seemed as barren as an alien landscape. Yet still, Bobby's palms were sweaty.
He was here to bargain for time. He would find a way to pay every cent, but with everything that's been going on, he needed some understanding, too. Hey, Vinnie LaBarca was a loving father. He'd understand, right?
LaBarca's errand boy, the creepy Dino Fornecchio, led him into the sunken living room, an area dominated by an aquarium and a large-screen TV. Bobby watched as a lionfish, gills flaring, trailed a smaller tropical fish like a cop on surveillance.
Vinnie LaBarca sat in a leather recliner in front of projection TV that nearly filled one wall. He was watching a rodeo on ESPN2 with the sound turned down. "I'll take the bull for a thousand," he said without looking away from the screen. "You want the rider, Gallagher?"
"Nah. I lost two hundred bucks once betting against a kangaroo in a boxing match against a Philly middleweight. I don't wager against animals, play poker with guys named Slim or eat at restaurants called Mom's."
When dealing with LaBarca, Bobby thought, it was best to talk the talk. He only hoped that after tonight, he could still walk the walk.
On the screen, a mangy bull with its testicles in a cinch bucked and heaved as the cowboy held on with one hand. Bobby felt his own privates tighten empathetically. A moment later, the bull tossed its rider ass-over-elbows, and LaBarca thrust his fist into the air in triumph.
"Sit down, Gallagher." LaBarca kept his eyes on the screen, where the cowboy fell trying to run away from the still-furious bull. "Stomp his ass!" LaBarca yelled, but two rodeo clowns quickly distracted the bull, and the cowboy scampered over a barrier to safety.
LaBarca put a tissue to his nose and blew, the sound of a tugboat horn. "Damn allergies," he said as he wiped. "My head feels like it's filled with seaweed."
"You oughta check the air conditioning ducts for algae," Bobby said.
"We check them once a month," the mobster said, "but only for FBI bugs."
"So how's Tony doing?" Bobby asked, trying for a little father-to-father camaraderie.
"Quit school, the lazy punk," LaBarca said. "Asked me to set him up in the video poker business offshore. I wanted him to have a different life than me. Funny thing is, he wants in. All these years I thought I was protecting him, shielding him from the life, and now, all he wants is to be part of it."
"Life's weird that way," Bobby said.
"Ain't it, though." LaBarca turned to face him head on. "So, Gallagher, where's my friggin' money?"
"I don't have all of it." Bobby placed a short stack of wrinkled hundred dollar bills on the coffee table.
"Jeez, I never thought you'd lay down on me." LaBarca did a quick count on the currency and coughed up a laugh. "You owe me 1.2 million and you bring me three grand?"
"It's a show of good faith," Bobby said, feeling a shudder run through him.
Don't let him see your fear.
"It's an insult," LaBarca said, shaking his head in disbelief, then hacking up some phlegm. "If word got out that you could stiff Vinnie LaBarca…" He closed his eyes in sad contemplation of losing his reputation as a fearsome killer.
"I would never stiff you, Vinnie. I just need more time."
"Time is what you ain't got. Time is a boa constrictor squeezing the breath out of you." He rubbed his crooked nose, and Bobby thought he could hear the cartilage snapping. "What the fuck am I gonna do with you?" LaBarca leaned over the glass coffee table and swept an arm across the stack of hundred dollar bills that Bobby had brought as a peace offering. The money — all three thousand dollars of it — went flying. "I don't want table scraps, dickwad!"
Bobby's last shreds of dignity prevented him from getting on his knees and scooping up the bills. "The Super Bowl's in two weeks. I can make some money, put a dent in the debt."
"Only dents are gonna be in your skull."
Bobby's imagined what it would feel like to be tossed overboard from LaBarca's boat, bound and gagged, weighted down with concrete blocks. He wondered if his body would drift north in the Gulf Stream or just settle at the bottom, and he thought of all the sharks he'd seen while fishing as a boy. He wondered, too, what his last thoughts would be, but then knew immediately that they'd be of Christine and Scott, just as they are each night as he drifted off to a shorter sleep.
"I'll get you the money. All of it. Day after the Super Bowl."
Bobby didn't know how he'd do that, but he had to say something.
LaBarca looked off into space as if contemplating great issues, then turned back to Bobby. "I always liked you, Gallagher, so I'm gonna cut you a break. I'm gonna be your banker. I'm gonna give you time to pay."
There was a soft squishy sound as LaBarca sucked a wad of phlegm into his mouth from his nasal passages, then swallowed
"Whatever it takes, Vinnie, if you give me time, I'll get it."
"Plus the juice! You bookies get your vig, and I get the juice. Two per cent a day, and because I like you, simple interest instead of compounded daily. So, that's 14 per cent interest…"
"A hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars," Bobby said.
"Round it up to two hundred g's for my trouble. You owe me a million-four the day after the Super Bowl. And that's it. No more credit, no more Mr. Nice Guy," LaBarca said. "You hear me?"
"Yeah. No problem, Vinnie."
"All right, get outta here. 'Desperate Housewives' is coming on the satellite in ten minutes."
"I don't know whether I prefer Astroturf to grass. I never smoked Astroturf."
— Joe Namath
"Joe Namath, you're not bigger than football! Remember that!"
— Vince Lombardi (shouting in his sleep as he lay dying in hospital)