So just what is the difference between Martin Kingsley and me?
Crossing the field, Bobby paused to watch the long snapper rocket hard spirals between his legs to the holder, who spun the ball around and held it at the proper angle for the field goal kicker to blast a long one through the uprights. The least appreciated play in football did not escape Bobby's notice. Like so much of life, perfection came from precise repetition and hard work.
The snap, the hold, the kick.
Each should be identical to the one before and the one after, as alike as sparrows perched on a line.
"At least the kicking game looks solid," Bobby said.
"It's easy when there's no rush coming," Kravetz replied.
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "That's why it's so strange that Skarcynski can't hit the broad side of a barn. They're playing touch out there. What's gonna happen in the game?"
"Hey Dad," Scott said, "isn't that Mr. LaBarca?"
Bobby looked into the lower stands. Dressed in a warm-up suit was a stocky man in sunglasses. Two other men in sport coats with open-collared shirts flanked him.
"I don't know," Bobby said, squinting into the sun. "I can't see him from here."
Scott raised the Nikon with the telephoto lens and peered through the viewfinder. "It's him, Dad. Plus that dweebis Dino Fornecchio and someone else I've never seen."
"What the hell's LaBarca doing here?" Bobby asked.
"Maybe checking on his investment," Kravetz said. "What do you think, Scott?"
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
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."