Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (11 page)

The little Italian waitress exited the curtained room and headed for a four-top she was serving in the far corner of the dining room. Before Eddie could get her attention, a hand parted the curtains. A large, clean-shaven white man wearing a gray suit and white shirt peered out at them. Then the curtains closed.

It wasn’t the first time Everett chastised himself for getting involved.
Lord, protect us.

The curtains parted again and the same man stepped through, waved them back, and disappeared into the mystery room.

“That’s Paulie,” Eddie whispered, putting his shoulders back and leading the way. When they got to the curtains, he stuck his head in. “Mike?” He entered and Everett followed.

It was dark and smoky. A TV glowed with college football from the upper corner of the room. Below it sat four suited men with stone faces, playing poker amid ashtrays, drinks, and several dirty entrée dishes. Beyond them was a sink and a black Formica countertop, stocked with ten or twelve bottles of liquor.

The tension ratcheted up several notches. The place looked like a mob hangout from
The Godfather,
where someone could get whacked while eating a bowl of spaghetti.

At the far end of the room was an old wooden desk. On it sat a hunched man. His face was badly pockmarked, and he had thick black eyebrows and a curved scar on his forehead. “Hello, Eddie.” He dangled his legs and glossy wingtips. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sal.” Eddie nodded toward him.

Next to the desk sat Paulie. Adjacent to him—leaning back on two legs of a chair—was a skinny, balding man with a long thin nose and dark, sunken eyes. “Eddie,” he said, his voice low and thick. “Come over here. You brought a friend, how nice.”

Eddie approached the men, and Everett followed several steps behind.

“This is a buddy, Mike. He helped me with this.” Eddie reached inside his heavy coat and produced a thick white envelope. He handed it to the skinny man, who opened it, removed the stack of bills, and fanned them with his thumbs.

Mike smiled. “Must be nice having such generous friends.”

Everett noticed the poker game had stopped momentarily as the four men at the table watched the transaction.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Mike motioned to Everett.

“I don’t believe…” Eddie stammered. “I don’t think it’s necessary,”

“Oh, come on, Eddie!” Mike banged his chair to the floor. “Who do you think we are? Give your brother a proper introduction.”

Eddie sighed and shot a worried glance at Everett. “Gentlemen, this is Everett Lester.”

Everett nodded once. The men stared.

“If that takes care of everything,” Eddie turned toward the curtains, “we need to get going.”

“Hold on. Hold on.” Mike laughed and stood. “Let’s make sure we got this right before you go runnin’ off.” He smacked the envelope of bills against the palm of his hand. “We got twenty-four grand in all here, correct?”

Eddie nodded while Mike counted some of the money, then handed it to Scarface sitting on the desk. “Here’s four thousand to Shy Sal. That right, Sal?”

“One thousand for the vig he missed last week,” Sal said, counting the money as he spoke, “one thousand for this week’s vig, and we doubled it because of the miss. That’s right. Glad we could get all caught up, with everybody still in one piece.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, Eddie, you found out what happens when you miss your vig payment. Not good.”

Sal hopped off the desk, approached Eddie, and examined his body, head to toe. “Although, it looks like you got off easy. At least you still got all your extremities. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Everett’s face flushed hot with rage. Not only had Eddie lied to him, but these goons were threatening to chop his brother into pieces. Everett knew what it was like to be sick with addiction, and he loathed the predators who preyed on his brother. But he had to keep his cool; this was not the time for discord. These dudes meant business.

“Okay, that leaves twenty grand for the Knicks loss.” Mike rolled up the remaining bills and held them toward Eddie. “Whaddya say, big spender? You want we let it ride—go double or nuttin’ again? Villanova plays Notre Dame tonight. Irish are favored by six, and it’s in South Bend.”

Eddie managed a smile and shook his head.

“That’s all right.” Mike waved. “I understand you can’t talk business around your saintly brother. You call me later and let me know what you wanna do. Personally, I like the Bears at home tomorrow versus Philly. You get eight points and the Soldier Field advantage. Let me know.”

“He won’t be bettin’ anymore,” Everett blurted out.

Several of the men chuckled, and Eddie glared at his brother. Then he took several steps in the direction of the exit and stopped next to Everett.

“Will that do it then?” Eddie said.

One of the men from the card game—a short, young guy with messy black hair and deranged eyes—rose from the table and walked toward the curtained door. As he did, he reached beneath his suit coat to tuck in his shirt, revealing a gun nestled in the waist of his pants. Once at the curtains, he turned, locked his feet shoulder width apart, and stood like a statue—glaring straight ahead with his arms crossed in front of him.

“There’s one more matter of business we need to address.” Mike got right up in Eddie’s face. “We’ve known each other a long time now, Eddie, and it dawned on us that you’ve never met the captain.”

Mike looked at his watch. “It’s almost time. You guys get dem plates and trash outta here before Mr. B gets here,” he barked at the three card players. “Move it!”

As the men scrambled to their feet, Everett’s stomach churned. These guys were all packing heat. He and Eddie were sitting ducks.

“Paulie, help clean this place up,” Mike said. “And make sure there’s plenty of good cigars and gin—Miller’s or Bombay. And bring tonic and fresh limes. We’ll need clean glasses and ice.”

Shy Sal brushed some crumbs off his wrinkled suit and straightened his tie. Walking behind the desk, he tidied up the pens, papers, and ledgers, and pushed the leather chair into place. “It’s not every day you get to meet the captain. You and your brother should feel honored.”

Eddie leaned toward Everett, not looking at him. “Sorry about this.”

Everett made himself take a deep breath and exhale. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just get out of here first chance we get.”

Paulie’s cell phone rang. Its bluish glow reflected off his wide face momentarily. Then he slipped it back into his pants pocket. “Mr. B’s arrived. They’re on their way in.”

“Places, everybody.” Mike motioned Eddie and Everett toward two chairs near the big desk. They crossed to them and sat down. “Stand up!” Mike shot a glance at the door. “What are you, crazy?” The card players, now stationed around the perimeter of the room, took several steps toward Everett and Eddie—who immediately stood.

The bells at the front door jingled. The door slammed shut. And Everett’s heart drummed.
Lord, I give myself to You right now. I’m in Your hands…

First through the curtains ducked a towering dude with dark green sunglasses, short brown hair, and thin sideburns and mustache. Without acknowledging anyone, he marched sternly across the room to the rear of the desk, where he assumed the posture of a Secret Service agent. “Black Bear, in position,” he spoke toward a tiny mike on his lapel, then tilted his head and adjusted a clear device in his ear. “Affirmative.”

Seconds later another bodyguard—this one short, old, and wiry—came through the red curtain and, in a gravelly voice, announced, “Gentlemen, Mr. B.”

Dividing the curtains with black leather gloves, Mr. B glided into the room. His black camel hair coat—with its wide shoulder pads—swished behind him like a cape. He strutted for the main seat at the desk as if he owned New York City. Paulie awaited him with outstretched arms, taking his gloves, scarf, and coat, then disappearing into another room.

“Mike. Sal.” Mr. B nodded as the two men stood anxiously in front of the chairs next to the desk. “Boys,” he acknowledged the three men dotting the perimeter of the room. “Sit.”

As everyone except the border police eased into their chairs, Everett turned to Eddie for reassurance but got none. Eddie’s attention was fixed on the mesmerizing mob captain, who was running one of the Honduran cigars he’d found in the wooden box on the desk under his short nose.

“Light, sir?” Paulie asked, dashing back into the dark room with a fresh gin and tonic, which he set on a coaster in front of the captain.

“Thank you, Paulie.”

The flame in Paulie’s shaking fist illuminated Mr. B’s tanned face and what Everett assumed were expensive porcelain veneers. The mobster had short, tightly curled hair that was way too jet-black for his age; must have been dyed. Mr. B’s weighty rings flashed in the dim light as he toked the cigar, rolling it in his mouth with manicured fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Everett detected movement from Mike. The man’s eyes darted frantically toward Paulie, whom he was gesturing toward with a tapping finger, trying to signal him to fetch an ashtray—but the plea was too late.

“Ashtray.” Mr. B flared, then relished a swig of his drink.

Mike’s head and eyes rolled, as Paulie raced from behind the desk, grabbed one of the ashtrays from the clean poker table, and hurried it back to the captain.

“Eddie,” Mr. B tapped the oily-looking cigar above the glass ashtray, “we appreciate your business. You’ve been a good customer for some time. I think you would agree that these fellas—Mike, Sal, Paulie, and the boys—have been fair to you. They’ve taken good care of you.”

The captain’s wide cheeks collapsed as he took a deep drag on the fat cigar, exhaling the thick smoke in a strong, steady stream. “Are you gonna say nothing?”

“No. I mean, yes. It’s been okay.” Eddie inched forward in his chair.

“Have we been fair to you?”

“Yeah.” Eddie squirmed.

“You need to understand the severity of missing a vig payment.” Mr. B’s small black eyes fixed on Eddie. “Do you? Understand?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Yeah, you do.” He ran a finger around the rim of his wet glass. “You understand this is a family business? A proud, honest business? That when you borrow money from us, just like a bank, we expect to get that money back—on time, with interest?”

“Yeah.” Eddie shrugged and smiled like a smart aleck.

Everett braced himself for the captain’s response.

Sure enough, Mr. B dropped his head. “I don’t like your attitude, Eddie. Never have. That’s why, when I heard your brother was here—” his eyes came up to meet Everett’s for the first time—“I came in. I’ve seen this scenario a million times. I know guys like you, Eddie. Good clients, until you reach a point. A point when you’re runnin’ full tilt. That’s when you become a risk.”

Eddie shifted uneasily while an antsy Everett told himself to keep filling his lungs with air.

“Come on, Mr. B,” Eddie said, looking away. “I’ve always been good for any money I’ve owed you.”

The captain put both elbows on the desk, leaned forward, and stared at Everett. “Look, Mr. Lester. We appreciate you keeping your brother honest. What I want you to know, right up front, is this: No one crosses the Mendazzo family. Okay? No one. When you owe this family money, you pay. If your brother here misses another vig payment, there’s gonna be consequences.”

“He won’t be betting anymore,” Everett declared.

Mr. B worked the cigar and exhaled straight toward Eddie.

“You’ve both been warned.”

“Look, I’m just here to help my brother.” Everett’s temper boiled at these creeps for attempting to take advantage of Eddie. “We don’t plan on seeing you again.”

“And I’m here to tell you I’ve seen dozens of scumbags just like your brother, Mr. Lester. I know the symptoms. And lyin’s at the top of the list. I’m willing to bet you all the money he owes us that he’s been lyin’ to
you
—and would continue to do so—unless we set the record straight. Now, Sal, I want you to explain to Mr. Lester here exactly what his brother is into us for. Don’t make it long and drawn out or nuttin,’ just sum it up.”

“It’s like this.” Shy Sal licked the fingers on both hands, like a quarterback. “Eddie’s been bettin’ a whole lot with Mikey here. Doin’ fine. Winnin’ some, losin’ some. Payin’ his bills. But as the bets got more frequent and larger in sum, Eddie hit a bad beat. Found himself needin’ to borrow funds to pay his debts.”

Eddie dropped back in his chair and undid the top few buttons of his sweater.

“That’s when Mikey informed him that our family does loans,” Sal continued. “In order to pay some of the bets he lost, Eddie borrowed twenty grand from me. Now granted, our interest rates are higher than most,” he snickered, “but Eddie got the loan he needed on the spot, to pay his debt—and save his neck.”

The captain rolled his cigar in the ashtray. “Sal here is what you call a shylock, Mr. Lester. That’s basically a loan manager. Tell him about the vig, Sal.”

Sal seemed to enjoy having the floor. “Vig. Vigorish. It’s interest Eddie has to pay us. In this case, he borrowed twenty grand. The vig is ten points and each point is a bean, sorry, a hundred bucks—”

“Come on!” Mr. B fumed. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Sorry, cap’n. Okay. What it boils down to is—Eddie owes a vig payment of one thousand dollars a week,” Sal said. “As long as he pays that grand a week, everybody keeps breathing.”

Everett glared at Eddie, but his brothers’ eyes evaded him. Looking for any way out of this bad dream, Everett raised his hand halfway and spoke after Mr. B nodded. “So, my brother’s supposed to pay a thousand a week, until he can pay you the full twenty thousand he originally borrowed?”

“Right,” Sal said.

“Is any of the thousand he pays each week going toward the loan amount of twenty thousand?”

Beginning with Mr. B, thunderous laughter broke out around the room. “This ain’t no savings and loan.” Sal clapped. “Your brother has two options—keep payin’ the weekly vig or pay off the entire loan. One or the other.” He looked around at his cronies to trigger one last outburst. “There ain’t no payin’ down on the principal!”