by James Swain
He pulled into the casino’s parking lot. It was full, the poor getting poorer. Driving around back, he parked his rental near the trailers. After the trial, he’d seen Running Bear walk into one of these trailers, ready to go back to work, not holding a grudge against the elders or anything like that. Gerry had been impressed as hell.
He knocked on Running Bear’s door, then stepped back. The chief emerged a moment later, his long shadow touching the hood of Gerry’s car.
“It’s Gerry, isn’t it?” the chief said.
“That’s right.”
“What can I do for you, Gerry?”
“Something has come up.”
“What’s that?”
“My father wants to bust the guy who killed Jack Lightfoot. He’d like you and me there backing him up.”
Running Bear considered the request, then went into the trailer. When he came out, he was wearing his hat. “Let’s go,” he said.
Valentine had grown up loving college basketball. Then one day, five star players at Seton Hall University in New Jersey had gotten caught shaving points. Overnight, the college had become known as Cheating Hall, and his love affair with the game had ended.
Miami College played their games at American Airlines Arena, the same auditorium used by the city’s pro team. Tonight’s game against Duke was sold out, and he begrudgingly approached a scalper standing outside the front doors.
“Need a ticket?” the man squawked.
Fifty bucks got him first row, second section. At the door, a security guard made him open the paper bag he was carrying. Valentine showed him the binoculars he’d just bought and was let inside.
The arena was packed, the crowd drinking beer and having a good time. Duke was on an eleven-game winning streak, and many fans were wearing their blue and white colors. Valentine settled into his seat and removed the binoculars. The two teams came out onto the court and began shooting warm-ups.
He scoured the faces at courtside. Candy’s red hair stuck out like a flag. She was sitting directly beneath the basket. To her left sat Nigel. To his left, Rico. The arena was warm, yet Rico was wearing a sports coat. Packing heat, he guessed.
The national anthem was played, and then the game got under way.
Years ago, he’d gotten his hands on a New Jersey Casino Control Commission report on sports betting. At the time, New Jersey’s governor wanted to legalize sports books and compete with Nevada in this lucrative market.
The commission had painted an ugly picture of the business. Through a variety of unsavory sources, they’d learned of an NFL playoff game being fixed, a semifinal match at Wimbledon that was thrown, point-shaving in both college basketball and the pros, scores of rigged boxing matches, and a dozen racetracks where it was common for jockeys to allow a rider having a bad streak to win a race.
What all of these events had in common was that money was being wagered on them—several billion dollars a year—and the commission had concluded that New Jersey’s casinos would be putting themselves at risk by entering the business.
By halftime, Duke was up by four.
It was an ugly game, with Duke having a difficult time getting off their shots. The players looked frustrated, and so did their coach. He was a black guy with a trigger temper, and he screamed at his team as they ran off the court.
Valentine went to a concession stand. Five bucks bought a program and a soda. Walking back to his seat, he read the team players’ biographies while slurping his drink. All of Duke’s players came from the Midwest. Miami College’s players hailed from Florida, except for two—Jorge Esteban from Brazil, and Lupe Pinto from the Dominican Republic. Both were freshmen, and both were starters.
The teams were back on the court, taking warm-ups. Reclaiming his seat, Valentine removed his binoculars and searched the court until he found the two foreign players. Both had shaved heads, making it hard to tell how old they were. As they hit basket after basket from different spots on the court, a thin smile creased his face.
42
Mr. Beauregard’s ukulele had gone silent. Hicks was driving through Miami searching for American Airlines Arena and saw the chimp rub his stomach. On average, he consumed eight pounds of food a day, and Hicks guessed he was starving.
“Hamburgers, Mr. Beauregard?”
Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands excitedly. He loved hamburgers. Downtown Miami was fast-food heaven, and soon Hicks was sitting in the drive-through at a Burger King. At the squawk box, he was greeted by a sultry Latino voice.
“Welcome to Burger King. Would you like to try today’s special?”
“What is that?”
“Two quarter-pound bacon cheeseburgers covered in special sauce for a dollar ninety-nine.”
Mr. Beauregard jumped up and down in his seat. He loved the special sauce.
“Give me ten,” Hicks said. “And a small fries.”
They ate in the car. Mr. Beauregard was not keen on bread products and tossed the buns out the window. Soon a security guard came out of the restaurant. He was a Cuban macho man and glanced menacingly at them, then pointed at the buns lying on the ground. “They teach you this at home?”
Mr. Beauregard stuck his head out the window and snarled. The guard recoiled in fear. Hicks jumped out of the car, fearful he might call the police.
“Please excuse my friend.”
“Your friend?”
“I am the owner of a carnival.”
“Is he . . . dangerous?”
“My friend, this is the world’s smartest chimpanzee. Do you like music?”
“Well . . . yeah,” the guard said.
“Mr. Beauregard, play for the gentleman.”
Mr. Beauregard took his ukulele off the floor, and the music that came out was Spanish-sounding, like calypso. “Holy shit,” the guard said.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hicks said.
“It’s my favorite song,” the guard replied.
In the fourth quarter, the game heated up.
Miami College began to play like they were possessed, and with five minutes left in the game, the score was even.
Since the half, Valentine had watched Jorge and Lupe exclusively with his binoculars. They were an unusual pair of athletes. Jorge was constantly busting up plays and stealing the ball from Duke’s forwards. He rarely shot the ball, preferring to pass to one of his teammates and let him get the glory.
Lupe, whose statistics in the program were terrible, was playing like he was possessed. He passed, he stole, he dunked, and he had more rebounds than anyone on the court. Two of Duke’s players were trying to cover him, leaving a Miami College player wide open.
With two minutes left in the game, Miami College took the lead for the first time. The crowd rose, screaming like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Valentine knew better. Miami College could have easily been ahead by ten points. Jorge and Lupe were playing below speed, a pool hustler’s term for playing just slightly better than your opponent.
They were pros.
“Your father hurt Gladys Soft Wings’s feelings,” Running Bear said.
Gerry gripped the wheel. He’d read somewhere that I-95 ran over eighteen hundred miles and that the Miami stretch, which was less than ten of those miles, was the most dangerous. When they were free of the madness, he said, “Please apologize to her for me.”
“Your father needs to do that himself,” the chief said.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Why?” the chief said. “Is your father above apologizing?”
Gerry pulled the car into a no-parking zone a hundred yards from the entrance to American Airlines Arena and threw it into park. Turning, he looked the chief in the eye.
“It’s like this. My father’s father was an abusive drunk who beat up my grandmother. When my father got old enough, he threw his father out of the house. Then he spent the next twenty years trying to make up to him for doing it.”
“Did he?”
“No,” Gerry said.
“So he carries around a lot of guilt.”
“Yes,” Gerry said.
Running Bear was about to say something, but then the front doors to the arena burst open, and a crowd of maniacal fans came pouring out.
Duke self-destructed in the final two minutes and lost by seven points. At the buzzer, screaming Miami College students stormed the court, cut down the nets, and carried their team out of the arena on their shoulders.
Through his binoculars, Valentine watched Rico, Nigel, and Candy leave. He hurried to the lobby and through the front doors, saw them standing in the VIP parking area.
He walked outside, and a car parked across the street flashed its brights. It was Gerry, with Running Bear in the passenger seat. He crossed and got in.
Rico’s limousine pulled out of VIP parking a minute later. His son threw his rental into drive and cut into traffic.
“You figure out what Rico’s doing?” his son said.
“Yeah. He brought in two pros, enrolled them in Miami College, and paid them to play like bums until this afternoon.”
Gerry nearly rear-ended the SUV filled with fans in front of them. “Miami College won? Do you know what the odds were on that happening?”
“Twenty-to-one,” Valentine said.
Gerry slapped the wheel. “You knew this was going down, didn’t you?”
“I knew the game was fixed, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Valentine leaned forward so he was hanging between the seats. He shot a glance at Running Bear, who seemed amused by this exchange. He looked at his son, who wasn’t.
“Just drive,” he said. “Okay?”
Ray Hicks had parked in the municipal lot two blocks away from the center. Leaving Mr. Beauregard in the car with the Ultimate Rhythm and Blues Cruise on the jazz station, he’d walked to American Airlines Arena and waited for the crowd to come out. Rico Blanco and his two friends were among the last people to emerge. Rico looked happy. He wouldn’t look that way for long.
Hicks ran back to his car. Mr. Beauregard had jacked up the radio and was clapping his hands to an old Sam Cooke song. Hicks pulled out of the lot, handed the attendant his ticket, then waited impatiently while the attendant figured how much he owed.
“Just keep it,” he said, throwing the attendant a twenty.
Hicks raced down the street. Rico’s black limousine whisked past his car, going in the opposite direction. In his mirror, Hicks saw the limo hang a left at the light.
There was no place to turn around. Pulling into an alley, Hicks waited as dozens of cars whizzed past on the street. Mr. Beauregard grew agitated and played hurry-up music on his ukulele like in the old Westerns.
Hicks tapped his fingers on the wheel. There were times when his friend did not amuse him, and this was one of them.
43
Arthur Godfrey was a famous 1950s radio show host. One day, out of the blue, he fired his longtime sidekick on the air. Candy’s mother had told her about it, and Candy had hated Arthur Godfrey ever since, even though she knew nothing else about him.
Rico parked in front of Bobby Jewel’s newspaper store on the Arthur Godfrey Road. It was a beautiful night, the sidewalks teeming with blue-hairs. Candy put her hand on her stomach and groaned. Nigel glanced her way.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“I . . . feel sick.”
“There’s ginger ale in the cooler,” Rico said from the front. “My mother always said carbonated bubbles were good for a bellyache.”
Candy feigned discomfort, then shut her eyes. Nigel petted her arm.
“You can stay in the car,” he said.
“Only if you stay with me,” she said.
“Of course,” Nigel said.
Candy slit her eyes just enough to see Rico’s reflection in the mirror. He was glaring at her, his teeth clenched. He wanted all three of them to go in, so Bobby Jewel wouldn’t be suspicious.
“Up to you,” Rico said.
Candy heard him get out of the car, and opened her eyes. Rico stood in front of the newspaper store, banging on the glass. Bobby Jewel appeared, scowling, and let him in. Candy heard a loud tap on the window on Nigel’s side of the car. Her boyfriend jumped an inch off the seat.
Tony Valentine stood outside. He had a no-nonsense look on his face.
“Is that the man who saved your life?” Nigel asked.
“Yes.”
“He looks rather mean.”
Candy didn’t think he looked mean at all. Just a man who knew what he wanted. She watched Valentine walk down a narrow alleyway next to the newspaper store. Then she got out of the limo and held out a hand to her boyfriend.
“Better hurry,” she said.
Bobby looked like he’d been run over by a truck. His hair stuck straight up, and his shirt was drenched with sweat. He flopped onto his stool behind the counter.
“Some game, huh,” Rico said.
“Missed it.”
“Duke lost!”
The bookie picked up a towel and wiped his face. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
Rico found himself looking around the store. The place was trashed. Then he saw something on the door to the back room that made his heart stand still.
Blood.
He edged closer. The stain was elephant-shaped. He placed the tip of his shoe against the door and pressed in. On the other side, one of Bobby’s Cubans lay on the floor, the back of his head removed by a bullet. His co-worker was slumped over a bank of telephones. Rico let the door slowly close.
“All of us got hit,” Bobby said. “The store in West Palm, Pompano, and me. I was across the street getting a pastrami sandwich when it happened.” He stared at the door and shook his head. “I loved those two guys, you know?”
“You call anyone?” Rico asked.
“Guys I work for are sending a cleanup crew over.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Rico pointed outside. “I’ve got Nigel Moon with me. He wants to know when he can pick up his money.”
“Tell him he’ll get his two hundred grand tomorrow.”
“His what?”
“You heard me. The guys that ripped me off stole everything.”
“But we made a bet.”
“I called it off. Didn’t you get my messages?”
Rico took his cell phone from his pocket. He’d put the phone on mute at the basketball game. It said he’d gotten three messages. He hit retrieve and heard Bobby say, “It’s Bobby. I just got robbed. The bet is off. Call me.”
The cell phone hit the counter.
“But we made a bet.”
Bobby shrugged. “So make another one.”
Six months of planning down the toilet, Rico thought. Six months of my life. He reached into his jacket and drew his beloved .45 Smith & Wesson. “Get up.”
Bobby swallowed hard. “You fixed the game, didn’t you?”
“Move the legs, fatso.”
“I called you, man . . .”
“I trusted my future to you.”
Bobby got off his stool. He walked over to the bloodstained door and stopped.
“Don’t make me go in there.”
Rico pumped two bullets into him, thinking of Jorge and Lupe and Jorge’s pregnant girlfriend and the rent on the bar and all the other payments he was going to miss, and shot Bobby twice more for good measure. Bobby lurched forward, taking down the door.
“Ahhh,” someone groaned.
Rico dragged Bobby away, then lifted the door. A dazed Tony Valentine lay beneath, clutching a Glock. Rico took his gun away. Then it hit him what had happened.
“You did this,” he said.
Gerry stood on the sidewalk with Running Bear, ten steps away from Bobby Jewel’s place. The sidewalks were teeming with retirees, the cool night air bringing them out from their air-conditioned dwellings. He che
cked the time. A minute had passed since his father had gone around back. His father had said if he didn’t come out in two minutes with Rico, that Gerry and Running Bear should go in.
“You hear that?” the chief said.
“No. What?”
“Sounded like a gun.”
Gerry hesitated. What should he do? What would his father do? Go in, he thought. He started to, then saw his father stagger out of the store with Rico behind him. His father’s hands were tied behind his back, and he looked dazed. Seeing them, Rico raised his gun.
“Back off,” he said.
Gerry started to move, and Running Bear stopped him.
“He’ll kill him,” the chief said.
Twenty people were on the sidewalk, yet no one was paying attention. They were seeing it, but not seeing it. Gerry backed up and watched Rico open the back door of the limo and shove his father inside. People kept walking right by.
“He’s going to kill him anyway,” Gerry said.
Running Bear pulled him backwards. “Get in the car,” he said.
They jumped in. The Honda was facing east; so was Rico’s limo. Rico pulled out of his spot. Gerry followed him, the traffic heavy.
At the light, Rico did a crazy U-turn in the intersection, his tires screeching. The limo had a wide turning radius, and he hit a newspaper machine and sent it through a plate glass window. Gerry made his own U-turn and spun out the Honda.
Running Bear jumped out and ran after Rico’s limo, which had gone a hundred yards, only to become stuck in traffic. The chief’s strides were long and easy, and as he got close to the limo, he went airborne.
His body made a loud bang as he landed on the limo’s roof. Traffic started to move. Rico tried to shake him by driving all over the street. Running Bear punched out the driver’s window, then drew a knife from his belt and plunged it into Rico’s arm.
Rico let out a scream that could have raised the dead, and finally—finally—the old geezers shuffling down the sidewalks woke up from their comas.
The limo veered drunkenly from left to right. Running Bear hung on for half a block, then was thrown to the ground.