by Tom Fowler
I didn’t understand why until I started toward the back. Tony wasn’t at his table. Since I’d returned from Hong Kong and well before I left, Tony always parked himself in the table by the fireplace. Some restaurants would use it as a signature seat for their best customers. Not Tony. He claimed it for himself. “Plenty of other fucking tables,” he told me once when I asked why he reserved such a prime one for himself.
Today, Bruno sat there, accompanied by a nameless goon. Bruno was Tony’s consigliere, though he lacked most of his boss’ personality and charm. He looked to be in his late forties, wavy black hair graying above the ears, and olive skin showing the classic initial wrinkles of middle age. Bruno’s dark eyes never looked at me fondly, and today was no exception. The other fellow at the table followed his supervisor’s lead.
“Where’s Tony?” I said, stopping behind the chair opposite Bruno.
“Vacation,” he said. “Everybody needs one from time to time. Tony ain’t took one in years.”
He didn’t look to be in good enough health for a vacation the last time I saw him, but I let it pass. Maybe he recovered quickly. “Mind if I sit?”
“If I say yes, will you leave?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes and sighed. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the chair I stood behind.
“Thanks.” I pulled the chair out and sat.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” Bruno said, thrusting his finger at me. He did a good job of not raising his voice beyond a conversational volume. Tony taught him well. “Tony’s way too good to you. You’re practically a cop. You come in here and ask for information, and he gives it to you. I tell him he shouldn’t, but he’s the boss.” Bruno withdrew his finger, putting both his hands on the table. “I’m the boss right now, and I ain’t telling you shit.”
The goon beside him smiled as if he provided input. I pressed on. “I’m not here for information. Not directly, at least. Maybe we can help each other.”
Bruno stared at me until it became obvious I wouldn’t blink first. “Fine. Whadda you want?”
“I’ve become acquainted with a guy running a numbers racket,” I said. “Point shaving, to be specific.”
“Jesus Christ, someone still does that?” The other man frowned at Bruno, probably for his blasphemy.
“The more you talk to me, the more you realize I’m right a lot.” This truism didn’t impress either of my table companions. A waiter approached but retreated at Bruno’s quick head shake. “I know he’s making money. I’m not sure how much yet, and I still need to figure out exactly how he does it, but—”
“So what?” Bruno broke in. “Lots of people make money. Capitalism.”
“What if he’s making it in the city?”
“Is he?”
I shrugged. “I’m still working on it. As far as I can tell, he’s based in the county, but it doesn’t mean he stays there.”
Bruno steepled his fingers under his chin and studied me. He brought the other fellow in close for a quick whispered confab. They came to a hasty consensus. “Who’s this guy you’re talking about?”
“Name’s Eddie Ferrugia,” I said. “He sometimes uses the surname of Fells. Like to imagine himself as an Eddie Felson type.”
This made Bruno chuckle. I couldn’t recall seeing him display a sense of humor before. “For Christ’s sake. He probably calls himself Fast Eddie and tries to hustle people at pool.”
“He might.” I wouldn’t put it past him, based on what I’d uncovered online so far. I wondered if a billiards table sat in the lobby of Ferrugia’s data company headquarters. “He’s making money at a lot more than pool, though.”
“And you think we might have an interest in this.”
“If he’s crossing into the city, I think you should.”
“Yeah? You think so?”
“The player he’s putting the squeeze on has a young daughter.” Bruno’s scowl softened a little. “You can dislike me all you want, but I know you’re a father, and I don’t think you’d want to see anything happen to a little kid.” I turned my eyes to our silent tablemate. “I don’t know anything about you.” His neutral expression and slight shrug told me he was fine with continuing this arrangement.
“Anything else you think we should do?” Bruno said. I didn’t know if appealing to his sense of fatherly justice made a difference or not.
“You could try smiling more,” I offered.
Bruno crossed his arms under his chest and glared at me. “Tony indulges your sense of humor too much.”
“Maybe he just understands how funny I am.”
After rolling his eyes, Bruno said, “Anyone else you want us to look into to make your life easier?”
“Hey, if you don’t want to know about people trying to get around the system, it’s all good. Not what Tony would expect, but like you said . . . you’re the boss right now.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I am. And I don’t need you to tell me what Tony would expect. We’re done here.”
I didn’t get up. The goon at the table stood. This was my cue to leave. “All right. Thanks for your time.” Bruno grunted. The enforcer remained standing as I turned away and returned to the front of the restaurant. “The atmosphere’s a little lacking,” I said to the maitre d’ as I passed his station.
He didn’t reply.
Tipoff loomed. I couldn’t recall the last time I stayed home to watch a college basketball game, especially a local one. With the interest in Calvin and JHC spiking, a local TV station carried the contest. Gloria and I sat on the couch munching on tortilla chips and salsa. I didn’t expect her to watch the game with me, but I was glad for her company.
The first several minutes were a taut affair. The Presidents came out quickly, opening up an early eight-point lead on the strength of their ball movement and general speed. William and Mary took a time-out and devised an answer on defense. They went smaller, removing their plodding center for a small forward who could slash to the basket and still get back on defense. The pace of the game remained high, but the Tribe—team nicknames which weren’t expressly plural bothered me—chipped away at the deficit. With about ten minutes remaining, JHC held a three-point lead.
“Good game so far,” Gloria said as a batch of commercials began. I tried to get tickets to see the game live, but they were sold out. TV timeouts in basketball games are more palatable with the energy of the crowd buzzing around you.
“It is.” I checked an online box score. Calvin led JHC with nine points so far. No one else scored more than five. So far, he didn’t look to be throwing the game. A margin of three over each of the remaining ten-minute blocks would lead to the Presidents comfortably covering the spread. I wondered if this was the desired outcome. Playing a bunch of squeakers against lesser teams would attract attention. Drubbing a team you were supposed to beat would not. Before the game, the Vegas lines closed to seven, and the vig on Hanson went down, indicating a lot of action on William and Mary. Maybe Eddie Ferrugia planned to turn a profit on this game by bucking the trend.
The rest of the opening half saw a lot of back-and-forth. Hanson led by six when Calvin went to the bench for a breather after incurring his second foul of the game. It seemed a bit of a conservative move by Coach Baker, a sentiment the announcers echoed a moment later. During their star player’s absence, the Presidents struggled. It exposed how much they depended on Calvin. The team had other good players, but the offense moved differently with someone else at the helm. The game slowed down. Slashes and cuts got replaced by fadeaway jumpers. The Tribe capitalized, closing the deficit to two before Calvin came back in with a bit under four minutes until halftime.
Those four minutes went much more according to plan for the Presidents. In his first play back, Calvin came off a pick to drain a three from the top of the key. The crowd roared, chest-bumping ensued, and William and Mary regrouped with another timeout. The remainder of the second quarter went quickly, with both t
eams forsaking defense in the name of more shots. At the end of twenty minutes, JHC enjoyed a five-point lead.
“They’re on pace to cover, right?” Gloria asked.
I grinned at her. “Look at you using gambling terms. Next, you’re going to chide me for not putting a dime on the over.”
A blank look passed over her face, which she compensated for by smiling. It worked. “I’ll pretend I understood that.”
The over-under sat at 154 before tipoff. At the half, Hanson led 51 to 46. Unless the second half saw the players in torpor, this game would cruise past 154 combined points. Now I wondered if Eddie bet on the total, too. Maybe he used his pernicious influence on Calvin—and whoever else on the team—to emphasize offense over defense. This is why organized sports needed to be free of the influence of gambling—everything came into question once legitimacy cracked.
The second half opened with more of the same. The Tribe kept their smaller lineup on the court, and the teams traded baskets and occasional free throws. Calvin absorbed a hard foul, made both his free throws, and went to the bench. William and Mary brought their center back out, and the pace of the game slowed. The Tribe moved the ball more deliberately, using the big man effectively and narrowing the lead.
Calvin remained on the bench until the twelve-minute whistle. He took the court with his team up by a single point. William and Mary countered with their smaller package. The center snatched a towel from someone on the sideline and sat angrily in a chair much too small for his seven-foot frame. I would’ve been salty in his spot, too. He was a good player, and it wasn’t his fault the coaches couldn’t devise an effective counter to Hanson’s quickness with him on the hardwood.
With Calvin running the show, the Presidents’ offense played like it did in the first half. By the eight-minute mark, their lead was back up to five. With the last regular TV timeout at three minutes and change, JHC had pushed the lead to eight. This exceeded the Vegas line by one. I leaned forward on the couch and felt Gloria do the same beside me. “Now, we’ll see which way they’re going on this one,” I said.
“What if there’s no action on the game? You said they can’t rig them all.”
“True. But if Hanson wins their conference and goes to the big dance, the stage is a lot bigger. National reporters will nose around and maybe pick up on trends. They won’t be as deferential to the players and coaches as the local guys.”
“You think they have something in the works for this one?” Gloria asked.
I nodded. “They only have one game after this one before the scrutiny ramps up. I think Eddie and whoever’s in league with him will squeeze Calvin dry before then.”
“Sounds like he could be in trouble.”
“It’s his family I’m worried about. They can’t break Calvin’s legs because he’s the meal ticket, and he’s smart enough to understand this. But his mother, daughter, and girlfriend could be collateral damage.”
Gloria rubbed the center of my back. “You need to get him out of this . . . get them all out.”
“I know. I’m working on it. Calvin might be more willing to cooperate now.”
At the sixty-second mark, the Presidents led by nine. Then the slew of timeouts began. The end of a close basketball game is nearly interminable. Fifty seconds of game time plays out over a quarter-hour of fits and starts with frequent breaks to strategize and give the sponsors another word. Gloria fidgeted beside me. I sympathized.
With fifteen seconds to go, Calvin hit a three from the corner to put Hanson up by ten. Following yet another stoppage, the Tribe put on a furious rally. They hit a quick trey, then fouled Calvin as soon as he received the inbounds pass. This was the other factor slowing close games to a crawl. Score, pass, foul, shoot free throws. Sprinkle in a timeout here and there and repeat.
These free throws would be key. The Presidents’ lead was back to seven, exactly the Vegas line on the game. Calvin hit these uncontested shots at an almost ninety-percent clip. The odds of him missing both were a shade more than one percent. If he sent both clanging off the rim, I knew the fix would be in.
The crowd hushed as Calvin lined up the shot. Swish. Hanson led by eight. A cheer spread through the arena. Eleven seconds remained. Every point JHC scored made a Tribe comeback so much more unlikely. Calvin got the ball and lined up his second attempt. The fans fell silent.
Swish.
The lead was nine. If the fix were in the usual way, the Presidents could play shoddy defense and concede the shots from William and Mary. They didn’t. Calvin intercepted a pass, got fouled on his way to the basket, and made it eleven with six seconds to go.
“It’s going to be more than seven,” Gloria said.
“And well over a hundred fifty-four,” I added.
The horn sounded. The final: John Hanson College 92, William and Mary 81.
In the postgame celebration, Calvin looked legitimately happy. I wondered if Eddie Ferrugia felt the same.
Following the game, I made the mistake of watching the sports highlight shows in a search for meaningful analysis. I am far from a basketball savant, and none of the talking heads told me anything I didn’t see with my own amateur eyes watching the game. Shows like this compelled many people in my generation to cut the cord. Maybe I would join my brethren soon.
The only useful thing I learned was when Hanson would play their next game. They would tip off against an opponent to be determined in about a day and a half on Saturday afternoon. The betting lines wouldn’t be released until someone won the next game. I wondered how happy local bookies were with tonight’s result, so I called the one I knew best.
“What now?” Margaret Madison said.
“You salty because you took a bath on the Hanson game?”
“I just finished watching it.” Her voice brightened.
“Do you set the same lines Vegas does?”
“Mostly. If I vary, it’s not by much.”
“You seem happy with the result.”
“I am.”
I played a hunch. “What about Eddie?”
She paused for a beat too long. “Who’s Eddie?”
“You’ll be pleased to know I’ve figured it out,” I said. “Or maybe you won’t.”
Her answer was noncommittal. “I don’t work for Eddie or anyone else. I learned my lesson from your buddy Vinnie.”
“Tell me, Margaret . . . is Eddie ambitious?”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t always end well in his line of work. I know you know how to play the game.” Like most people working in the shadows in Baltimore, she tithed a chunk of her money to Tony Rizzo. It may have been the one good thing Vinnie taught her.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Margaret said. Before I could tell her I didn’t, she hung up.
Now, she’d never know.
I found a channel carrying the second CAA semifinal game, so I watched it. As I did, I wondered if this fell more under dedication or masochism. Maybe some of both. After forty minutes of occasionally interesting action, the Northeastern Huskies earned the right to take on John Hanson College for the conference title. The opening whistle was confirmed for Saturday at two-thirty.
Checking the Vegas lines within moments of the game ending made me feel a bit like a degenerate gambler. JHC opened as five-point favorites. I figured point shaving became more difficult as the expected margin narrowed. Then again, sometimes the bookies bucked the trend and made money the old-fashioned way.
Even though it grew late, I sent Calvin a text. When I was his age in college, I don’t think I went to bed on the early side of midnight. Good luck against Northeastern. I think we should talk before then.
No answer came. I gave it a few minutes and tried again. I heard everyone was happy tonight. You know this trend won’t continue forever.
As before, no reply came. I hoped Calvin would come to his senses and want to talk to me before the next game. The more contests he tilted a certain way, the deeper he got in with Eddie. And the
deeper he got in with Eddie, the less chance I had to pull him out.
Chapter 14
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual thanks to my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I picked it up. Ten after eight. Denise Murray called. If this were a real emergency, it would have come in four hours ago. I sent it to voicemail while I got out of bed and readied myself to face the day.
Once I settled in downstairs with a cup of coffee in front of me, I returned her call. “How’s your investigation going?” she said.
In my two years or so of doing this job, I’ve found things I like and others I don’t. My least favorite aspect is the client update. I get why people ask for them, but what I can provide never seems to match their expectations. Cases often start out slowly and meander along before hitting a rapid dénouement. No one really wants the boring details. I’ve seen plenty of yawns and glazed-over eyes when I’ve provided these status reports in person. Denise’s reactions over the phone would probably fall in line with my expectations. “I figured out who Eddie is,” I told her.
“Oh.” I heard disappointment in her tone. Why didn’t I know before? What did this mean? I covered my phone and sighed. People weren’t keen on incremental updates. “Who is he?”
“A guy who runs a data mining business. Most people who do what he does have some kind of legit operation going.”
“What’s data mining?”
I could’ve provided a long answer here but went with a shorter, simpler one instead. “It doesn’t matter. I know who he is and where he’s probably operating from.”
“What does that get us?”
“It’s a start,” I said. “I think Eddie enjoyed being anonymous before.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“This isn't an exact science. Some will depend on what he does. But I'm going to get Calvin away from him and keep you all safe.”
“You don't need to worry about me,” Denise said.