“Sir, before I can let you take that, I need you to sign this book for me.” He brought out a huge gilt-edged ledger book used to keep track of property in the safes.
I took a fountain pen from the green baize-topped counter and found myself struggling to remember how I spelled my last name. “Say, you haven’t seen Frank Diamond around, have you?”
From his side of the counter, he studied my upside-down signature and licked his lips. “You are Mr. Russo?”
“I think so.”
“Could you wait here one minute?”
He disappeared into the back office again, twitching his butt. Everything seemed wrong. I grabbed a Kleenex from the counter and tried to stanch my nosebleed. Two dozen losers wandered out of the casino, heading for the Boardwalk. Then I heard someone in the back office asking, “Hey, Tim, is that F.B.I. guy still here?”
That was all I needed. I bolted across the lobby with my briefcase and the sixty thousand dollars’ worth of chips in my hand. And ran straight into John B., who was standing by the elevators, holding a silver ice bucket.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
He looked at me once and started moving away.
“Hey John,” I chased after him. “I asked what’s going on?”
I caught him by the elbow but he wouldn’t look at me.
“Come on, man. Let go my arm. I can’t have anybody see me talkin’ to you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Police came by the dressing room looking for you, man.”
“Ha?”
A wave of static engulfed my brain.
“Said they wanted to talk to you, man.”
“What’d they want?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head furiously, disavowing everything. “F.B.I. man said he wanted a few words with you. Got nothing to do with me. Except only now we can’t get paid for the fight.”
I glanced across the lobby to see if anybody was watching us, but the only people around were other losers feeling sorry for themselves.
“The fuck is going on?” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “John, you better not have said nothing to them. I got you into this fight and gave you this opportunity. You wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”
“Fuck you, man,” said John B., his jaw jutting out to challenge me. “My brother’s upstairs and he can’t stop the ringing in his ears. They gotta take him to the hospital and see if he’s got a skull fracture. He don’t even know me. He’s on Queer Street. And now we can’t get paid, because of something you done. You best get a good lawyer.”
“Yeah, but what’d I do?”
“I don’t know, man. All I know’s I didn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe your old lady dimed you out. I just know it’s not my concern.”
I went charging up one of the escalators, back toward the casino floor. My mind was boiling over. I looked up and saw “$17,901,873” in yellow digits on the giant Progressive Slots tote board. There was a crowd of gamblers six-deep around the nearest craps table. I went over and tried to lose myself in it. Some Wall Street girl with red hair was trying to convince the dealer to take her pearls in lieu of cash while a Vietnam vet in a wheelchair tried to throw his dice over the side. An announcement came over the P.A. asking an Agent Sadowsky to report to the front desk. Then they went back to playing music. Only instead of “California Dreaming,” it was “The Logical Song” by Supertramp.
So I tried to be logical. Why would the feds be after me? It could be only one thing. The fact that I’d killed Nicky. I knew it would catch up to me. But who could have told them about it? The closest thing to a witness was Richie Amato, and he was too much of a loyal dog-ass mob wannabe to even think of talking. So who else knew about it? Teddy and Vin. Forget them. Vin would protect me to the bitter end, and Teddy couldn’t speak against me without implicating himself. That left Rosemary.
She’d been threatening me about Nicky ever since that night in her dressing room. What was it she said? “I know about you.” And what about tonight? What was that business about paying her “or else”? Or else she’d go to the feds and tell them about Nicky? But then I’d never be able to pay her. It didn’t quite make sense. Especially considering I was supposed to meet her in the garage in ten minutes.
I listened to the steady winding tick of the roulette wheel and the constant bong, bong from the slot machines. And I remembered how she’d acted that night at the club when she thought I’d betrayed her with Vin. She’d gotten so mad she practically raped that drunken idiot in the ring. She had the temper to do it. So maybe she had the temper to send me to jail, regardless of the consequences. That was the thing about having too much anger. You usually ended up hurting yourself.
67
THE YELLOW NEON SIGN above the row of slot machines said REDEMPTION CENTER.
But why would anyone come here for redemption? P.F. wondered. All casinos were good for was taking your money.
The high rollers all flocked to the table games, leaving the slot machine games like Magnificent 7, Break the Bank, and Aces High to the old men and women who’d be here on a regular night anyway. These were people who’d spent their days in front of conveyor belts and video terminals and their nights in front of television sets. And now they expected a machine to give them something in return.
The men seemed more resigned to losing. They put their money in, pulled the levers, and watched the dials tell them something they already knew. But the women were full of hope and determination. Some played two or three machines at a time. When they pulled a lever, they put a lifetime of frustration into it. And when they hit a jackpot, they celebrated like it was the birth of a grandchild, jumping up and clapping their hands with glee.
Their joy was contagious. Between watching them and seeing Elijah fight on past his prime, P.F. felt oddly elated. What was the phrase his father used when P.F. discovered he was having an affair at the age of seventy-seven? Never too old to be bold.
He even felt encouraged seeing Wayne Sadowsky and two other beefy F.B.I. agents striding down the aisle of slots with great purpose.
“So what’s the good word?”
“You-all see a gentleman name of Anthony Russo around here?” Sadowsky asked briskly.
“Why? What do you want from him?” P.F. found himself feeling defensive about the kid. Especially after the talk they’d had about Mike Dillon this afternoon.
“That’s not your concern.” Sadowsky scratched his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth. “Do you know this young man?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
The agent drew himself up to his full six foot two inches. “Detective, this is a federal matter. Your cooperation would be appreciated...”
“Beautiful. Tell me another one. Last time I cooperated with you, I found out you’d been the one telling the casino people all this bullshit about me and Teddy. Why should I help you now?”
The left side of Sadowsky’s face twitched. “Because I will not hesitate to swear out a warrant against you if you impede a federal investigation,” he drawled.
P.F. went belly-to-belly with him like a sumo wrestler. “Fuck you twice.”
One of the other agents stepped between them. “Come on, Wayne. This scumbag doesn’t know anything. We’re wasting time here.”
Sadowsky backed away slowly, shaking out his arms and rotating his head, like he was ridding himself of some taint. P.F. belched defiantly.