Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  The boy didn't answer. Instead, he steadied the camera and pressed the button, and Bobby heard the click-click-click over the shouts from the field.

  Goldy bit into his sandwich, his false teeth crunching through the onion, chopped liver squishing out of the garlic-studded bagel. "The Schlemiel," he said, pointing at the image in viewfinder of Scott's digital Nikon.

  "That's his name?" Bobby asked, confused. They were sitting in a booth at Goldy's favorite deli. For a guy with five million dollars on the line, Goldy Goldberg seemed remarkably calm. But the old man looked ancient tonight and more fragile than Bobby had remembered. The folds of skin at his neck were gray as toadstools, and the seersucker suit hung loose and baggy on his wire hangar shoulders.

  "The guy in the picture. Shecky Slutsky, a bookmaker from Kansas City," Goldy said. "They call him 'The Schlemiel.'"

  "What's he have to do with LaBarca?"

  "Wrong question, boychik," Goldy said. "What's he have to do with Skarcynski?"

  Bobby signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee. "I don't know, what?"

  "Slutsky's cousin Izzy Berg is a bookie in Atlanta. Now, he's a real schlemiel or maybe even a shlimazel or shmegegge. Instead of being happy to balance the books and live off the vig, he takes positions."

  "Like a bartender who's an alcoholic," Bobby said.

  Goldy nodded and licked chopped liver from his fingers. "Izzy Berg lays heavy wood on glamour teams, always bets the home team on Monday nights regardless of trends, bets against the Super Bowl champ the first month of the next season, all the cliche bets that can go wrong and usually do."

  "So?" Bobby asked. The waitress poured Bobby a cup of coffee and he wrapped both hands around it but made no effort to take a sip.

  "Izzy is the bookie who took Skarcynski's bets when he played for the Falcons. The Commish gave Skar a private reprimand and that was the last anybody heard of it."

  "I don't get it. What's that have…" He stopped himself, because he did get it. It took a moment, just like the old Lincoln, which picked up speed several seconds after hitting the accelerator. "Izzy lays off bets with the Schlemiel, who's hanging out with LaBarca who's at Denver practice with that ape Fornecchio. They're showing muscle to Skarcynski. Oh, jeez, don't tell me Skar's betting again, and they've gotten to him."

  "Who knows? But boychik, you better find out. "

  Bobby sat there, brooding like a forlorn ghost. "I'm sorry, Goldy. It's your money that's up. I'm sorry I did this to you."

  "You didn't do nothing to me. Hey, I been around a long time. Remember in '72 when the Dolphins won the Super Bowl?"

  "How can I forget? They went 17-0."

  "No, they went 14-3 against the spread, which is what counts. With all the hometown money coming in on the fish, I couldn't balance the books. I lost my shirt and my Bermuda shorts, too. But I came back. With the vig, a smart, cautious bookie can't lose. I'm a rich man, Bobby, so don't worry about me."

  "But Goldy, I-"

  "Feh!" Goldy said, hushing him. "All right, it don't look so good, but that ball's not round. It bounces funny sometimes. Now, from what I hear, you got enough problems with your ex, so you worry about that. Take care of Scott. He's a good kid. Don't lose him, Bobby."

  The two men sat in silence a moment, huddled morosely in the booth. Bobby was spent, his heart a cinder within a fire that consumed him. Not only was he bringing an avalanche down upon himself, but upon those he cared about as well.

  If I'd gotten a regular job, maybe they couldn't have taken Scott from me. If I hadn't turned to my old friend, I wouldn't be costing him a fortune.

  "Goldy, I love you like a father."

  "You're a good kid, too," Goldy said.

  On the drive back across the causeway to the mainland, Bobby squinted into the bloody fireball of the sunset dipping into the Everglades to the west. Behind him, a slice of moon was rising over the ocean. Why, he wondered, did that luminous sliver of pearly white remind him of the blade of a scythe?

  "I believe in America, the flag, freedom and the fact that people have had to die over the years so that we can do what we're doing right now."

  — Kevin Greene, Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker at Super Bowl XXX

  36

  Room Service

  It cost Bobby a hundred bucks to get Skarcynski's room number from the bell captain. Bobby waited in the lobby until just after the midnight curfew, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and stood in front of the door for a moment, planning what he would say. First, he'd flick open the leather wallet, flash the phony FBI badge, and scowl like a parson.

  "Agent Mahoney here, we had reports of players gambling on the Super Bowl."

  Or something like that.

  He'd put the fear of the feds into the quarterback and hope it cut deeper than fear of Vinnie LaBarca. He'd get Skar to fess up and convince him that the only way to beat the guys extorting him was to beat Dallas. He'd give a pep talk that would make Knute Rockne blush.

  "Show them you can't intimidate Mike Skarcynski. Besides, what are they gonna do? Tell the commissioner you placed a few bets. You'll be the straight arrow who stood up and refused to dump the Super Bowl. You'll be a hero."

  He leaned close to the door and heard the faint sound of the television. Taking a deep breath, he rapped three times, hard enough to sting his knuckles.

  "Yeah?" came a voice inside the room.

  "Special Agent Mahoney, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

  He heard the chain rattle, then the door swung open, and Bobby was staring into the sullen face of Dino Fornecchio. "Mahoney baloney," he said, his voice as friendly as the crepe on a coffin. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  The open wallet still stuck in his hand, Bobby was speechless. Fornecchio tore the fake ID away, glanced at it, then barked out the laugh of a Doberman pinscher. "Scott G. Mahoney, F.B.I.?" Fornecchio's pock-marked face creased into a cadaverous smile that revealed small pointed teeth, sharp as stalactites. He was more wiry than muscular, but his long arms were thick and bony at the wrists. His entire being exuded malice and danger. "Uh-oh, I'm in trouble now," Fornecchio said. "Elliot Fucking Ness is here."

  Terror gripped Bobby. He felt a sweat break out on his face. "Uh, sorry, I must have the wrong room."

  "You got the wrong fucking city, dickhead! You got the wrong fucking planet."

  "Who is it?" a male voice asked from somewhere inside.

  "It ain't nobody, Skar," Fornecchio said.

  In the next instant, he tossed the ID back into Bobby's face. As Bobby blinked and tried to catch it, Fornecchio grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the room, letting the door slam behind them. Then, the sinews of his neck standing out like the cords of a block and tackle, he banged Bobby's head against the wall as if hammering nails- whap, whap, whap- rattling a framed Winslow Homer print of swaying palms on a Caribbean island.

  "You ain't nobody, are you bookie?" Fornecchio hissed in Bobby's face, his breath smelling of cigarettes and pepperoni.

  "No," Bobby agreed. "I used to be somebody, at least I thought I was." Pain rang through his skull like thunderclaps. The fear weighed on him like a marble tombstone.

  Fornecchio loosened his grip slightly but kept Bobby pinned against the wall, their noses nearly touching. "So what the fuck is a nobody like you doing here impersonating a federal officer?"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Skarcynski. The quarterback was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and eating a slice of pizza.

  Thank God. With a witness here, he won't…

  "Skar, go take a dump," Fornecchio ordered. "You don't wanna see this."

  "Whatever," the quarterback said and disappeared into the bathroom, carrying the pizza carton with him.

  "I just wanted an autograph for my kid," Bobby said.

  How lame! C'mon, think your way out of this.

  "Great, maybe I'll get Skar to autograph your cast when I'm through with you." Fornecchio showed a smile like the blade of a serrated knife, then
slammed a knee into Bobby's groin. Bobby doubled over, his hands folded over his crotch. Electric pain shot through his body. Sparks flashed behind his eyelids. Tears welled, then flowed uncontrollably. His stomach heaved, and he was nauseous.

  "All right," he whispered between sobs. "I'll just leave."

  "Sure you will. The only question is whether you go down the garbage chute or over the balcony. Get up!"

  Bobby struggled to straighten up, but before he could reach his full height, Fornecchio grabbed him again by the shirt collar and dragged him deeper into the hotel room. "You still didn't answer my question, bookie. What the hell are you doing here?"

  Bobby remained silent, and Fornecchio wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed. Bobby gagged and croaked out a sound.

  "What'd you say, shyster?" Fornecchio asked, loosening his grip.

  "I can't answer if you're choking me," Bobby said.

  Thinking won't work. Look for an opening and…

  "I know what you're doing," the punk said. "You're snooping around after your bet, aren't you? I saw you at practice the other day. You're shitting razor blades about Skarcynski."

  "Yeah, you're right."

  "Too late, bookie. You bet on the wrong horse, and this race is over."

  "Look Dino, I want you to tell LaBarca something for me."

  Buy time, now. Get your wind.

  "I ain't your messenger."

  "No, please. It's important."

  "He don't want to hear nothing from you except the sound of currency as it goes through the counting machine."

  "He'll want to hear this."

  Fornecchio relaxed a moment, stepped back, and folded his arms over his chest. Bobby had been waiting for the moment. Mustering what little strength he had left, he straightened and fired a left jab. The punch had too little hip and shoulder in it to have the snap Bobby wanted, but it caught a surprised Fornecchio squarely on the nose, which burst like a squashed plum into a fountain of blood.

  "Fuck!" Fornecchio yelled, covering his nose with a hand, blood spurting through his fingers. "You broke my fucking nose!"

  Bobby brought his hands together, laced his fingers, then swung upward and hammered Fornecchio on the point of the chin. He flew over backwards, bouncing off one wall, careening into the bedside table, then toppling to the floor. He lay there gasping, opening and closing his mouth like a beached snapper, praying for high tide.

  Bobby stood over him, his knuckles stinging. "Tell LaBarca he can scare me, but he can't stop me."

  Fornecchio didn't reply. Couldn't. He was out cold.

  From the bathroom, Bobby heard a flushing sound. "Everything okay out there?" Skarcynski yelled.

  Bobby went to the bathroom door, tried the knob, found it locked. "You don't have to do it, Skar. LaBarca's bluffing you. You might as well play your heart out."

  "He'll cut my heart out," Skarcynski said through the door. "Now leave me alone."

  It wasn't working. LaBarca's creepy associate was babysitting the quarterback, putting him under wraps. He was too scared even to listen.

  "Listen to me," Bobby said. "They'll never go to the Commissioner. It will bring too much heat on them. Bookies never rat out on the bettors."

  "I can't risk it," Skarcynski said. "Now, get outta here and lemme alone."

  On the floor, Fornecchio was stirring, groaning and cursing at the same time, his face gray as lava. On his way out of the room, Bobby reached for the ice bucket, then dumped its contents-cubes and frigid water-on the fallen man.

  "Three of my wives were good housekeepers. When we got divorced, they kept the house."

  — Willie Pep, featherweight boxing champion

  37

  Roadkill

  Friday, February 3

  Two Days Before the Super Bowl

  Judge Seymour Gerstein studied the legal documents and twitched his nose, rabbit-like, nearly tossing his rimless glasses overboard. "You filed a motion for rehearing?" he asked, peering over the top of his reading glasses.

  "Yes, respectfully Your Honor, I would submit that the Court's prior ruling should be set aside," Bobby said. He employed his bootlicking, lawyer-to-judge tone, in which a clever advocate delivers the message: "you blew it, asshole" without offending the court. "It is not in the interests of my son to be shipped off to a boarding school."

  "And where is your lawyer?" the judge demanded, shooting a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of his chambers. Next to him, the court stenographer, an older woman with eyeglasses on a chain, waited for Bobby's answer.

  "I've discharged Ms. Suarez," Bobby said. "I'm representing myself."

  I've fired her from my life, too.

  She'd been calling Bobby, wanting to get together, but he had neither the time nor the inclination. Ever since the night when Christine had nursed his injuries in her hotel room, his thoughts were only of her, and Angelica seemed to know it.

  "Do you know why you're fighting this case so hard?" she had asked him.

  "Because I want my son."

  "Because it's the only way to keep in contact with your ex-wife. It's sick, Bobby, but you don't see it. When will you face the fact that she's gone? She doesn't love you! You'll never get her back."

  After Bobby had pulled the sword from his stomach, he told Angelica good night, then burned rubber pulling out of her driveway.

  Bobby returned his attention to the judge who was shaking his head unhappily.

  "You know the expression about having a fool for a client," Judge Gerstein said.

  "Yes, Your Honor, but even a fool could win this case."

  Or see which way to rule.

  "I've only granted a handful of rehearings in twenty-two years on the bench, so you've got your work cut out for you, Mr. Gallagher."

  "I understand, Your Honor." Bobby knew the odds were against him, but this was his only hope. An appeal to the Third District would take a year, and Scott would be long gone. Here was a chance to get the trial judge to overrule himself.

  "Very well, then," Judge Gerstein said. "Now, who's this handsome lad?"

  Next to Bobby, Scott squirmed in his seat. Bobby had wanted to bring him to the first hearing to demonstrate their closeness, but Angelica told him it might backfire. Judges don't like to put kids in the cross hairs of their parents' big game rifles.

  "Your Honor, this is my son, Scott."

  "Any objection?" the judge asked, turning to the other side of the table.

  "Please allow me to consult with the boy's mother," Jailbreak Jones said, turning to Christine, whose face was tightened up like a spring. Jones wore a beige suit with shoulder piping and a string tie with a silver clasp. Next to him, a stack of poster boards leaned against the table, covered mysteriously with a black cloth.

  Bobby stared out the window at the downtown skyline. In a dozen high-rise office buildings, he imagined, lawyers at this very moment were fabricating their evidence, salting their briefs with false accusations, and billing their time at outrageous rates.

  "There's no need to put the minor child through this torture." Jones glared at Bobby with the same disapproval he might use for a pedophile kindergarten teacher.

  "Scott is a material witness," Bobby said. "I'd like the Court to take his testimony."

  Across the table, Christine looked stricken.

  "This is a rehearing, not a trial de novo. It's completely improper to take evidence." Perched on the edge of his chair like a vulture on a limb, Jones seemed to consider a notion before continuing. Bobby had been a trial lawyer long enough to know that the Biggest Mouth West of the Pecos was changing gears.

  "Upon reflection, Your Honor," Jones continued, a smile stretching his thin lips, "we welcome the re-opening of evidence at Mr. Gallagher's request."

  Uh-oh. What now?

  "We will demonstrate that the father has exposed the minor child to lowlifes, felons and miscreants, to professional gamblers and bookmakers, and that the father himself is a bookmaker." With a wave of a hand, he the
atrically swept the black cloth from the stack of poster boards, and held up the first one, a grainy black-and-white photo blown up to gargantuan size. "Exhibit A, Your Honor. The father, the minor child, and a convicted felon mingling in a saloon."

  "That's my Uncle Goldy!" Scott piped up, and Bobby hushed him with a gentle hand.

  "Your Honor, that's Goldy Goldberg," Bobby said," a lifelong friend. We were in the Oceanside Deli eating dinner."

  "I had a Reuben," Scott said.

  "Goldy's like a member of the family," Bobby said.

  "A crime family!" Jones boomed. "The man has a rap sheet as long as the reins on a forty-mule team. This disbarred lawyer who calls himself a father consorts with criminals in the presence of the minor child."

  "I like to hang with Dad," Scott said.

  "We have affidavits," Jones said, without taking a breath. "We have files from the county sheriff, the city police, the state Department of Law Enforcement, the FBI…"

  What, no CIA?

  "The boy would be better off in an orphanage than with this sorry excuse for a father," Jones concluded.

  "Bullshit!" Bobby boomed. "That's complete crap, and this flannel-mouthed windbelly knows it."

  "Mr. Gallagher!" The judge glared at him, his cheeks reddening. "I won't tolerate that! One more outburst, and I'll hold you in contempt. If that is the kind of language you use in the presence of your son, it's no wonder you're in such trouble today." The judge adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, straightened in his high-backed leather chair, and nodded toward Jailbreak Jones. "All right, both of you. Talk's cheap. Let's hear some evidence."

  The rest was dreamlike. Foggy and detached, Bobby felt as if he were floating above the conference table, looking down on the rest of them, listening to the babble. Isn't that what it's like when you have a near-death experience?

  Jailbreak Jones droned on, thumping his drums, bellowing with indignation. He introduced his evidence, and the judge tut-tut-tutted and looked at Bobby, first with displeasure, then shock, and finally a blistering anger.