Bad Luck (2 page)

Joseph straightened his tie. Now he was gonna be Rodney Dangerfield. “You don't remember the terms, huh? Well, I'll remind you. Down the other end of the boardwalk you happen to have a casino—you remember that one? Nashe Plaza? Well, under that big casino of yours, there's land. And that land under your casino was leased to you five years ago by Seaview Properties. Is it coming back to you now? The terms of that deal were that you'd put down five mil—which you did—pay two million a year for the first five years—which you also did—then in the fifth year, you'd make up the balance in a balloon payment, which you
haven't
done yet and which is now two weeks overdue.
That
was the deal. Okay, now? Anyway, you should know the terms, because you were the one who came up with this balloon-payment idea in the first place.”

Sal chewed the cinnamon-flavored gum with his front teeth and squeezed the ball harder. Bugs Bunny knows all this, Joseph. He's just jerking you around, for chrissake. Stop playing around and just put it to him.

Nashe rolled up the blueprints on the table and crossed his arms with the roll in his hand, like some fucking king.

“Of course, I remember
that
, Joseph, but there are details in the contract that have to be checked.”

“I don't want to hear this crap, Nashe. Just get the money up.”

Nashe tapped the back of his head with the blueprints and stared at the floor for a minute. Then he started pacing.

Sal dug his fingers into the rubber ball. He could feel his heart thumping. Now what, you son of a bitch? What's the excuse gonna be now?

Nashe puckered his lips and nodded before he spoke. “Joseph, let me say from the outset that you
will
get your money. That isn't even an issue here. The issue is commitment, and that's what I don't think you and your brother understand. We are all in the business of making money—that goes without saying. But you have to recognize that there are different
styles
of making money. Some people stick their money in the bank and they're happy getting that nice little five-percent interest. It's safe, it's what they want. Other people are a little more adventurous with their investments. They're willing to accept a certain degree of risk for a better return. But when you're talking about making
big
money, you're talking about
major
projects, and for that you've got to really commit your money. And that means tying it up.”

Joseph waved his hand at Nashe. “Hey, hey, I don't want to hear this shit. All I know is—”

“No, Joseph, just hear me out for a minute. Where I am standing right now will be the biggest casino in the world,
in the world.
Nothing else will even come close. Thirty-two hundred slots, one hundred seventy-five blackjack tables, fifty craps tables, fifty roulettes, twelve big sixes, fifteen baccarat tables. We're gonna have
two
showrooms. Big names playing all the time and
at the same time.
Just try to imagine this. We'll have, say, Liza in one room and Sammy in the other. They'll do walk-ons on each other's shows. People won't believe it. It'll look totally spontaneous. Can you imagine this? You're sitting there listening to
Liza singing ‘New York, New York,' say, and all of a sudden Sammy walks out onstage.
That's
entertainment, my friend.
That's
what brings people in. And
that's
what the Paradise will be known for. But you can't wait till the place is built to start lining up talent like that. No, no, no, no, no. To get big talent like that you've got to line them up long in advance. And that's what we're doing right now. But that takes capital, Joseph.”

Joseph straightened his tie again. “I don't give a shit about your two rooms. All I want is—”

“Hey, take a look out that window.” Nashe pointed with the rolled-up blueprints. “See all those guys working out there? If I gave you your twenty-nine million today, how many of those guys would be there tomorrow? None. That's how many. And what about all the people who're waiting for jobs here? I'm talking about
thousands
of jobs, jobs that I promised the governor I'd give to Atlantic City residents first. Why? Because I'm the only casino owner in this whole town who gives a damn about this community. It's time the casinos stop taking and start giving a little. This city is a disgrace. This town is
built
on money. There shouldn't be slums here. There shouldn't be poor people here. These people should have jobs, and if I have to do it alone, I will make sure the people of Atlantic City get good jobs and are treated right so they take pride in this place.”

Sal squeezed the ball in half. Gas pains were piercing his gut.

Joseph sat forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don't give a good goddamn about these jigaboos down here. I got my own charities to worry about.”

Sal rocked and nodded. Yeah, that's right. Cil's place. Sal looked at Nashe, wondering what other bullshit excuses the rabbit was gonna pull out of his hat.

“Joseph, if the Paradise was the only project I had going right now, you wouldn't have to be here. You would've had your money by now. But I'm also in the middle of promoting this fight.” Nashe pointed with the rolled-up blueprints to the poster taped to the wall. “Two weeks from this
Saturday. The biggest fight in the history of professional boxing, with the biggest cash purse in the history of professional boxing. Forget the Rumble in the Jungle. Forget the Thrilla in Manila. This is the ultimate,
the War Down the Shore.”

Nashe was grinning again, pleased with himself. Joseph was glaring at him, ready to jump out of his skin. Poor Joseph didn't know what the hell to do next. Sal squeezed the rubber ball and rocked. Joseph don't get no respect. That's 'cause he doesn't demand it. You gotta
demand
it, Joseph. C'mon! We gotta get the money!

“Look, Joseph,” Nashe said, waving the blueprints around, “I know you don't want to hear any of this, but I want you to understand where I'm coming from. Originally I had no intention of getting involved with this fight to the extent that I have. What the hell did I know about promoting a fight? But the opportunity came my way and I grabbed it. Why? Because there was big money to be made with this fight. But once again, to make big money you've got to
commit
big money.”

Sal's gum was beginning to lose its flavor. He tuned out Nashe's bullshit, tired of hearing it, and stared at the two fighters on that poster on the wall, two heavyweights facing off, arms bulging, faces mean, skin oiled and shining. Sal didn't like the reigning champ, Dwayne “Pain” Walker. He was a street punk, the kind who'd rape your grandmother. Sal liked the challenger, Charles Epps. He was bigger and had a longer reach. Unfortunately he was also a lot slower and a lot older than Walker. Christ, Epps had fought Ali—that's how long he'd been around. Still, Sal liked Epps because he reminded Sal of himself when he was fighting. Same kind of body, same style. No footwork to speak of, but a killer right. When Sal fought he never fooled around working on the body. He went right for the head, looking for the knockout. Epps used to fight the same way, but his time had passed. They were just rolling him out now to face Walker because he used to be a big name and had held the title for about ten minutes in the late
seventies. Epps wouldn't go more than four rounds, no way. Sure, Sal liked the guy, but he wouldn't put any money on him.

Joseph was raising his voice now. He sounded like Grandma. “I'm getting tired of the crap, Nashe. I want to know what the hell you're gonna do here.” Joseph was begging now. Bad, very bad.

Nashe threw Joseph a patronizing smile as he moved a stool around the drafting table and sat down in front of Sal. He was through talking to the dummy—he wanted to deal directly with the ventriloquist now. “Sal, as I said, you're going to get your money. With interest, of course.” Nashe toned down the snake-oil pitch, but he was still flashing the Bugs Bunny grin.

Joseph's eyebrows started twitching. “What the hell you talking to him for? Leave my brother alone. You don't talk to him. You talk to me.”

Nashe nodded to Joseph but kept talking to Sal. He knew who the boss was. “Sal, I know you understand what I'm talking about. A good opportunity cannot be overlooked. So you have to steal from Peter to pay Paul. So what? You make it up to Peter later and you do right by him. As God is my witness, I genuinely wish I didn't have so much tied up with the Paradise and the fight right now, I really do. I
want
to pay you. Just ninety days. That's all it'll take. Ninety days at ten percent. Does that sound fair?”

Sal looked out the window at the cement trucks and started to shake his head, laughing to himself. Ninety days? That must be a joke, right? Mr. Mistretta gets out of prison in a couple of weeks. He doesn't want to know nothing about no ninety days. Mistretta wouldn't give you nine minutes, you fucking clown. He won't give
me
nine minutes. He wants that money waiting for him when he gets out. And if it's not there . . . Sal started rocking again. He didn't even want to think about it.

Nashe leaned closer. “Talk to me, Sal. Say something. Everything is negotiable. What don't you like? Tell me.”

Sal almost spit out a bitter laugh. He didn't like much of
anything lately. He stared at the rolling drums on the concrete trucks and squeezed the black rubber ball a few times. He'd been acting boss of the Mistretta family for almost four years now, and nothing had worked out the way he'd wanted it to. He had big plans when Mr. Mistretta left him in charge just before he went to prison. It wasn't like Sal wanted to take over or anything. That wasn't his intention.

What Sal wanted to do was bring the family up-to-date a little, get more into legitimate businesses the way the other families were doing. Why reinvest gambling money back into gambling and whore money back into whores? Drugs aren't even worth the risk anymore, not with the fucking Colombians controlling all the coke and the Chinks bringing in heroin. And crack—forget about that. You gotta be crazy to deal with those fucking nuts. Mistretta doesn't like to hear it, but the smart thing to do is go legit with your profits. And that's what Sal had wanted to do. He even had the businesses he wanted to buy all picked out and everything. Three concrete plants, one on Staten Island and two here in Jersey. They could've consolidated them and had a nice little monopoly for themselves in that area. Sal had it all planned out. He even promised Joseph he'd set him up as president of the company. You clean him up a little, shave off that stupid mustache, get him some nice conservative clothes, and he could almost be one of those Knights of Columbus types, very respectable. But things just didn't work out that way.

Sal shook his head, staring at one of the concrete trucks, the drum spinning round and round, red and yellow stripes spiraling. Mistretta, that clever bastard, left him in charge, yeah, but he squirreled away most of the family's money where Sal couldn't get at it. So any major purchases Sal wanted to make had to be made with money he made himself. In the beginning Sal still thought he could pull it off—they were making good money with gambling and girls, and they were doing all right with the garbage trucks too—but then one thing after another happened. One guy
needed money for this, another guy needed money for that, Mistretta's daughter wants a new house, his wife wants a condo in Florida, then his nephew wants to buy into an auto mall, then the bail money for everybody and his uncle, and the next thing you know, there's no money for what Sal wants. The three concrete plants are still up for grabs, but all he's got is about thirty mil to work with. Personally he could come up with another two himself, but what the hell's that? Nothing. Enough for one of the concrete plants maybe. But you've gotta have all three or it's no good. You won't have the control otherwise. Well, fuck it. Mistretta gets out at the end of the month and then it's his problem, thank God. Better to go back to running the crew again. Just be a captain, worry about your own guys. The concrete thing would've been nice, but it's too late now. Just get Mistretta his goddamn money and keep him happy. That's all that's important now.

Sal glanced up at Nashe who was waiting for an answer like a dog waiting for dinner. Fucking jerk. Yeah, he could smile. Joseph too. They weren't gonna be the ones to tell Mistretta that he didn't have the money yet. No, that wasn't gonna be their job. Even if he broke both of Nashe's legs right now, he'd be getting off easy by comparison. Mistretta did not like to be disappointed. Sal remembered what Mistretta did to Tommy Ricks, and a pain shot through his gut so bad he nearly doubled over.

Nashe suddenly put his hands up as if he were being robbed, except he was still grinning with those big stupid teeth of his. “Sal, I give up. Just tell me what you want. I can accommodate you. We can work something out. Just
talk
to me.”

Joseph stood up, mustache twitching, eyebrows squiggling all over his forehead. “Hey, I already told you. You don't talk to my brother. He's a very sick man. He doesn't know what the hell you're talking about.
I'm
the one you talk to—”

Sal stopped rocking then, raising the hand with the rubber ball and waving his brother off. Enough! They had to
have that money and they had to have it soon. Joseph wasn't gonna get it out of Nashe. It was time for Sal to speak for himself. No sense playing dumb with Nashe. Bugs Bunny knows the score.