Terror gripped Bobby. He felt a sweat break out on his face. "Uh, sorry, I must have the wrong room."
"You got the wrong fucking city, dickhead! You got the wrong fucking planet."
"Who is it?" a male voice asked from somewhere inside.
"It ain't nobody, Skar," Fornecchio said.
In the next instant, he tossed the ID back into Bobby's face. As Bobby blinked and tried to catch it, Fornecchio grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the room, letting the door slam behind them. Then, the sinews of his neck standing out like the cords of a block and tackle, he banged Bobby's head against the wall as if hammering nails- whap, whap, whap- rattling a framed Winslow Homer print of swaying palms on a Caribbean island.
"You ain't nobody, are you bookie?" Fornecchio hissed in Bobby's face, his breath smelling of cigarettes and pepperoni.
"No," Bobby agreed. "I used to be somebody, at least I thought I was." Pain rang through his skull like thunderclaps. The fear weighed on him like a marble tombstone.
Fornecchio loosened his grip slightly but kept Bobby pinned against the wall, their noses nearly touching. "So what the fuck is a nobody like you doing here impersonating a federal officer?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Skarcynski. The quarterback was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and eating a slice of pizza.
Thank God. With a witness here, he won't…
"Skar, go take a dump," Fornecchio ordered. "You don't wanna see this."
"Whatever," the quarterback said and disappeared into the bathroom, carrying the pizza carton with him.
"I just wanted an autograph for my kid," Bobby said.
How lame! C'mon, think your way out of this.
"Great, maybe I'll get Skar to autograph your cast when I'm through with you." Fornecchio showed a smile like the blade of a serrated knife, then slammed a knee into Bobby's groin. Bobby doubled over, his hands folded over his crotch. Electric pain shot through his body. Sparks flashed behind his eyelids. Tears welled, then flowed uncontrollably. His stomach heaved, and he was nauseous.
"All right," he whispered between sobs. "I'll just leave."
"Sure you will. The only question is whether you go down the garbage chute or over the balcony. Get up!"
Bobby struggled to straighten up, but before he could reach his full height, Fornecchio grabbed him again by the shirt collar and dragged him deeper into the hotel room. "You still didn't answer my question, bookie. What the hell are you doing here?"
Bobby remained silent, and Fornecchio wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed. Bobby gagged and croaked out a sound.
"What'd you say, shyster?" Fornecchio asked, loosening his grip.
"I can't answer if you're choking me," Bobby said.
Thinking won't work. Look for an opening and…
"I know what you're doing," the punk said. "You're snooping around after your bet, aren't you? I saw you at practice the other day. You're shitting razor blades about Skarcynski."
"Yeah, you're right."
"Too late, bookie. You bet on the wrong horse, and this race is over."
"Look Dino, I want you to tell LaBarca something for me."
Buy time, now. Get your wind.
"I ain't your messenger."
"No, please. It's important."
"He don't want to hear nothing from you except the sound of currency as it goes through the counting machine."
"He'll want to hear this."
Fornecchio relaxed a moment, stepped back, and folded his arms over his chest. Bobby had been waiting for the moment. Mustering what little strength he had left, he straightened and fired a left jab. The punch had too little hip and shoulder in it to have the snap Bobby wanted, but it caught a surprised Fornecchio squarely on the nose, which burst like a squashed plum into a fountain of blood.
"Fuck!" Fornecchio yelled, covering his nose with a hand, blood spurting through his fingers. "You broke my fucking nose!"
Bobby brought his hands together, laced his fingers, then swung upward and hammered Fornecchio on the point of the chin. He flew over backwards, bouncing off one wall, careening into the bedside table, then toppling to the floor. He lay there gasping, opening and closing his mouth like a beached snapper, praying for high tide.
Bobby stood over him, his knuckles stinging. "Tell LaBarca he can scare me, but he can't stop me."
Fornecchio didn't reply. Couldn't. He was out cold.
From the bathroom, Bobby heard a flushing sound. "Everything okay out there?" Skarcynski yelled.
Bobby went to the bathroom door, tried the knob, found it locked. "You don't have to do it, Skar. LaBarca's bluffing you. You might as well play your heart out."
"He'll cut my heart out," Skarcynski said through the door. "Now leave me alone."
It wasn't working. LaBarca's creepy associate was babysitting the quarterback, putting him under wraps. He was too scared even to listen.
"Listen to me," Bobby said. "They'll never go to the Commissioner. It will bring too much heat on them. Bookies never rat out on the bettors."
"I can't risk it," Skarcynski said. "Now, get outta here and lemme alone."
On the floor, Fornecchio was stirring, groaning and cursing at the same time, his face gray as lava. On his way out of the room, Bobby reached for the ice bucket, then dumped its contents-cubes and frigid water-on the fallen man.
"Three of my wives were good housekeepers. When we got divorced, they kept the house."
— Willie Pep, featherweight boxing champion
37
Friday, February 3
Two Days Before the Super Bowl
Judge Seymour Gerstein studied the legal documents and twitched his nose, rabbit-like, nearly tossing his rimless glasses overboard. "You filed a motion for rehearing?" he asked, peering over the top of his reading glasses.
"Yes, respectfully Your Honor, I would submit that the Court's prior ruling should be set aside," Bobby said. He employed his bootlicking, lawyer-to-judge tone, in which a clever advocate delivers the message: "you blew it, asshole" without offending the court. "It is not in the interests of my son to be shipped off to a boarding school."
"And where is your lawyer?" the judge demanded, shooting a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of his chambers. Next to him, the court stenographer, an older woman with eyeglasses on a chain, waited for Bobby's answer.
"I've discharged Ms. Suarez," Bobby said. "I'm representing myself."
I've fired her from my life, too.
She'd been calling Bobby, wanting to get together, but he had neither the time nor the inclination. Ever since the night when Christine had nursed his injuries in her hotel room, his thoughts were only of her, and Angelica seemed to know it.
"Do you know why you're fighting this case so hard?" she had asked him.
"Because I want my son."
"Because it's the only way to keep in contact with your ex-wife. It's sick, Bobby, but you don't see it. When will you face the fact that she's gone? She doesn't love you! You'll never get her back."
After Bobby had pulled the sword from his stomach, he told Angelica good night, then burned rubber pulling out of her driveway.
Bobby returned his attention to the judge who was shaking his head unhappily.
"You know the expression about having a fool for a client," Judge Gerstein said.
"Yes, Your Honor, but even a fool could win this case."
Or see which way to rule.
"I've only granted a handful of rehearings in twenty-two years on the bench, so you've got your work cut out for you, Mr. Gallagher."
"I understand, Your Honor." Bobby knew the odds were against him, but this was his only hope. An appeal to the Third District would take a year, and Scott would be long gone. Here was a chance to get the trial judge to overrule himself.