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 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
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.