Bad Luck (25 page)

“And is it true that you were fired from that position, Mr. Holman?”

“That's right.” Holman didn't seem bitter or ashamed about it. Maybe he took drugs, a discreet snort in the bathroom at coffee break, the executive high.

“Why were you fired?” Gibbons sounded like a funeral director, very somber.

Holman leaned back in his chair and rocked a little.

“Why was I fired? That's a hard one to answer. You'd have to understand how Russell Nashe operates.”

Gibbons glanced at Tozzi and shrugged. “I've got time. Educate me.”

Oh, Christ. Real clever, Gib. Now it's gonna be
The Story of My Life
by David Holman. He'll have us here past lunch, for chrissake. Tozzi looked at his watch. By the time he got back to Atlantic City, Val would be at work. Goddammit!

“Well—” Holman started, then paused to look out into the distance. “No. Let me put it this way. Russell Nashe is a very insecure person. I was going to say he was crazy, but that's only part of it.”

“What do you mean by ‘insecure'?”

“Russell Nashe has this pathological need to be the biggest wheeler-dealer on the block. Whenever he finds out somebody is putting together a big deal on something, he has to put together a bigger deal. There are a few people who drive him up a wall, he's so jealous of them, but most often it's Donald Trump who gets his goat. Obviously. Trump started work on the Taj Mahal, Russ had to go up against him with the Paradise. Trump promotes fights at his casino, Russ has to put together this big fight deal with Walker this week. Insane.”

“Why do you say it's insane?” Gibbons's eyes did not waver from Holman.

“Because between you and me, I don't think he has the money to pay that humongous purse.” Holman turned the corners of his mouth down and shook his head. “Seventeen million for Walker? The figures just don't work out, not the way I see it. Walker will be taking Russ to court to collect his money. I predict it.”

“Do you know this for a fact, that Nashe won't have the money to cover the purse?”

Holman wrinkled his brow. All of a sudden he didn't look happy. “Well, no . . . not really. I was gone by the time this fight deal came together.”

“Then how do you know Nashe won't have the money?”

Holman sat forward again, hands joined on the blotter. “I know how Russ operates, and I know how much the Plaza takes in. The Gaming Commission keeps close tabs on the casino money, so Russ can't fool around with that. But the hotel money is another thing. He was always dipping into the till for one thing or another, wheeling and dealing like crazy but never paying the bills for basic operations. We were
constantly
negotiating with creditors, placating them, giving them free weekends at the hotel, comping them to the ceiling just to put them off a little while longer.”

“You mean Nashe takes from Peter to pay Paul? That kind of thing?”

“No, it's more like he takes from Peter
and
Paul and then screws them both.”

“How does he get away with it?”

The glee returned to Holman's eyes. “Promises.”

“Promises?” Gibbons looked skeptical.

“Sure. Say he's got a . . . a bakery, say, that's delivering—I don't know—say, fifty dozen croissants to the Plaza every day. At some point Nashe tells me don't pay them, ignore the invoices. The bills pile up, the bakery starts calling, we make excuses, tell them we love their product, maybe even increase the regular order a little to get their hopes up, but we still don't pay the bills. Then after a couple of months of getting nowhere, the bakery gets mad and starts demanding their money. Russ says tell them anything, but don't pay. The bakery gets a lawyer then, threatens to sue. That's when Russ steps in with the bullshit.

“He gets in the limo and takes a ride down to the bakery. Shows up unannounced and says he wants to talk to the boss. The boss comes out, and Russ tells the guy he's beautiful, he's wonderful, he makes the best croissants in the whole world, better than they make in Paris, croissants worthy of his hotel. The baker knows he's full of shit, and Russ knows the baker knows he's full of shit, but Russ has that way about him. It's this very special kind of charm he's
got. Totally calculated on his part, but it always seems to work for him. You think you see right through him, but that's what he wants you to think because it makes you feel smarter than him. The baker says to himself, Hey, I'm standing here with this big-deal billionaire who gets on TV and in the papers all the time and he thinks he's pulling one over on me, but he's not because I can see right through him.

“So what Russ does then is he gets this baker feeling real good about himself, thinking he's real smart. That's when Russ moves in and makes ‘the promise.' He confides in the man, tells him about his plans for the Paradise, his big dream, the biggest hotel casino in the world, two and half times bigger than the Taj. He throws figures around like he's talking to the Secretary of the Treasury, complains about the high cost of labor and construction, then tells the guy he must have the same kinds of problems in the bakery business, puts the guy on his level, which of course makes the guy feel even more important.

“Then he tells the poor schmuck about the temporary cash-flow problem he's having because of the Paradise construction and that this is why he hasn't been paying his bills for the croissants these past few months.
But
if the baker will be gracious enough to float him just a little while longer, he'll have Russ's solemn promise on his mother's grave that every croissant that is ever served in the Paradise will come from this bakery and no other. Scout's honor. Then Russ gives the man the bullshit grin, like he may be full of shit or he may not. But by now the guy feels that he and Russ are equals, fellow entrepreneurs. The guy feels that he can deal with Russ, that his business is gonna triple, that he's gonna be the Famous Amos of croissants if he just hangs in there with Russ. And so he goes along with it because a contract like that you can take to the bank. Right? The guy's dreaming about custom-built houses, a big black Mercedes, sending his kids to Harvard, a boat, European vacations, all that stuff, and in the meantime Russ is getting a million croissants on time at no interest.”
Holman shook his head. “I've seen him do this to I don't know how many people. Works every time. He's incredible.”

Gibbons nodded. “That's very interesting.”

Tozzi picked up his mug, then frowned down into it. He forgot he'd already finished the coffee. So Gib thinks this is “interesting.” Interesting but not indictable. Bullshitting people is not a crime. We're wasting our time here, Gib. This is stupid.

Gibbons stopped nodding and stared Holman in the eye. “So why were you fired?”

Holman sipped his coffee, eyes sparkling behind the glasses. “You know, after all this time, I'm still not sure.” He shrugged. “Maybe he couldn't afford me anymore. I had been with him for almost four years. Maybe he figured he could hire a younger guy, a little less experienced, save twenty, thirty thousand in salary.”

“Doesn't sound like much of a savings for a billionaire.” Gibbons sipped from his mug.

Tozzi rubbed his chin. The guy's dodging the question, Gib. Can't you see that?

Holman narrowed his eyes as he wagged his finger at Gibbons. “That's the thing about Russ. He's a billionaire, yes. But on paper. A very very small portion of those assets are liquid.”

“Why's that?”

“Because Russell Nashe is a deal junkie. Each deal has to be bigger and more complicated than the last. I told you, it's pathological with him. He can't control himself. He owes everybody money and he's leveraged to the eyeballs. At this point he
has
to keep making deals to keep his debts from catching up with him.”

Gibbons squinted at him. “Doesn't make any sense. Sooner or later creditors get pissed, and they sue.”

“Except that he's promised everybody in the world a piece of the Paradise. You see, it all rides on the Paradise now. It's been the source of all Russ's promises since he first dreamed it up. I'm glad he fired me. Once that monstrosity
is finally built and all his buddies start calling in their markers, the shit's gonna hit . . . the . . . fan.” Holman enunciated each word.

But as far as Tozzi was concerned it was bullshit that was hitting the fan. Holman's bullshit because he still hadn't said why he'd been fired, and Gibbons wasn't doing much to get it out of him, except looking soulfully into his gleeful little blues.

Tozzi was about to ask the question himself when Gibbons beat him to the punch. “When you worked for Nashe, did he have you keep two sets of books?”

Holman laughed out loud, too loud. “Two! Try fifty-two. I'm not kidding. I had people on my staff who just cooked the books based on these wild scenarios Russ would come up with. I mean totally off-the-wall stuff, like the hotel being booked eighty percent on all five weekdays, like the big room selling out without a big act, that kind of stuff. Insane. I asked him once why he wanted us to cook up books that showed more profit than we actually made. I always thought you were supposed to do it the other way, in case the IRS calls for an audit. He told me these books weren't for the IRS. He said he just wanted to see what it would look like on paper.” Holman shook his head, eyes sparkling. “That's what he said, I swear. I think Russ really loved it, going over these totally outrageous books that made him look like—I don't know—like Donald Trump. No, better than Trump. He actually told me once that he loved to curl up with these stupid books in bed, said it was like reading a really good thriller that had him as the hero.” Holman shrugged, eyes still twinkling.

Tozzi was getting sick of this shit. Fuck Gibbons. He'd put it to Twinkle Eyes himself. “But why did—?”

“Excuse me,” Gibbons said, giving Tozzi the hairy eyeball. “I don't want to lose my train of thought.”

Eat your fucking train of thought.

“This business about creating bogus records, not paying creditors, and so on—who else had knowledge of these practices?”

“Well, there were the people on my staff . . . I can't think of anyone else, though.”

“Any partners?”

Holman shook his head. “Russ is the sole owner of the Plaza.”

“How about his wife? She know anything about all this?”

Holman paused. His eyes weren't so bright. “Sydney.” He pounded his chin with his fist a few times. “Sydney.” Another pause. “If you think he's weird, you ought to meet Sydney.”

I have. Tozzi watched his eyes.

“Weird in what way?” Gibbons asked.

“Theirs is the most fucked-up relationship I've ever seen.”

“How so?”

Holman paused again, staring into the space. “Well,” he finally started, “it's not based on love, that's for sure. They can barely stand the sight of each other.”

“So why don't they get divorced?”

Holman shrugged. “They're very weird. See, they play this strange game where he doesn't tell her a thing about his business, nothing, and she plays spy, trying to figure out what he's up to. When she finds out something good—you know, the kind of stuff that could embarrass him—she blackmails him with it. Basically she blackmails him into staying married. It's all a very elaborate game they play. Very sick.”

“And how does she get her information?”

Another pause, then a weak grin. The eyes weren't even remotely gleeful now. “She sleeps around. She must be pretty good at worming things out of men in bed. Very sexy woman—if you've ever met her.”

“How do you know that she—”

“You know, another thing about her.” Holman cut Gibbons off. “I heard a rumor once that when she gets a really good piece of information—something she can't blackmail Russ with but something she knows he'd love to know—she sells it to him. You know that lavender yacht she has? A
payoff from Russ for some really good piece of information.” Holman shook his head again. “She must be a real Mata Hari in bed.”

Tozzi felt the blood draining out of his face. That bitch. He didn't want to believe it. All this time he thinks he's getting info out of her, she's running back to Nashe, telling him about their afternoon delights, probably telling him what kind of nosy questions he's been asking. Shit. Nashe must've figured out a long time ago that he's some kind of agent working undercover. And if Nashe suspected him, he'd keep him at arm's length, make sure he didn't go anyplace where he might hear anything . . .

And what had he heard in the last eight weeks?

Shit . . .

Tozzi's stomach rumbled. But how did Sal know he was a fed? Did Nashe tell him? Why? Is whatever they're doing together that big that they'd risk killing a fed? It would have to be pretty big for that. But what was it? Tozzi felt itchy. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He was also pissed as hell at Sydney, that bitch. He didn't like being manipulated.

“Gentlemen, I'd love to help you any way I can, but I am pretty busy and if there aren't any more questions . . .”