Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (6 page)

“Pappalardo.”

“Whatever. He was making hand movements and Poppaloppa hit the gas. They had it all arranged. The guy doing the signaling looked like a short Elvis, or at least that's what the witness told me.”

“A short Elvis?”

“You know, the hair. That's what J. Arthur Madison said. He's a lawyer. Do you remember seeing anyone like that? I vaguely remember something.”

“Maybe. He may have been talking to a young guy with a tan, like he was the only person on the street with a tan. They drove off in his car, a little blue thing.”

“So they're in it together,” says Manny.

“And maybe they've got nothing to do with it. Maybe you're rushing things. Can I get back to my dinner now?”

Manny shuffles his feet and gives Mrs. Vikström an apologetic look. “We need to talk to Fat Bob's widow, and we need a picture.”

Vikström has sat down and was just lifting his fork, which is now suspended in midair. “You kiddin' me? That was supposed to have been done this afternoon.”

He gets up again. He knows that Manny has put off this final bit of information for the moment when Vikström felt he could again sit down.

“Phelps and Joanie were supposed to do it, but they got called off to a drug bust. You'd better get your coat. Temperature's dropping.”

Vikström makes a point of never swearing in front of his wife. As a result he's tongue-tied.

Manny looks sympathetic. If we have crocodile tears, we should also have “crocodile sympathy”—a wincing, squinched expression suggesting emotional pain. “Sorry to mess up your dinner,” says Manny. “Maybe we can grab a burger. G'night, Mrs. Vikström.”

Manny pushes open the storm door as Vikström grabs his coat; then Vikström has to catch the door as it swings back and nearly hits him. He hurries out to Manny's Subaru Forester parked at the curb. Manny prefers the Subaru to the Detective Bureau's dark blue, unmarked Impala, saying that the Forester's 2.0XT Touring model “has got big teeth,” meaning it does a good job of gripping the road. This is pure vanity on Manny's part, but at least he's had the Subaru equipped with a police radio at his own cost.

As Vikström gets in, the Subaru starts to move.

“Hey!” he calls.

“Sorry, sorry.”

But Vikström knows he isn't sorry; it's just that tonight's steady flow of passive-aggressive behavior seems less passive than at other times. He also knows it goes back to that damn karaoke box. What can Vikström do at this late stage? There's no point in saying sorry, no point in asking to be invited to the next musical evening; he can't even shout, “Sing to me, sing to me!” It's too late for that.

Sometimes two weeks will go by when Manny's passive-aggressiveness slips back to dormant aggressiveness. Then it begins again. Vikström doesn't know why.
Was it something I said?
he wonders. So Vikström remains on alert, which is tiring. Two months back, around New Year's, Vikström had been hearty and chummy and willing to let bygones be bygones, but Manny had seen through it. There'd been a mocking grin, a sarcastic snippet. “Who says you get off so easy?” Manny had asked.

Now Vikström contents himself with brief displays of long-suffering patience. He sighs a lot.

I
t's nearly eight, and Vasco had promised to meet him at seven, but Connor expected that—when had his brother ever been on time? Connor sits on a stool at the Scorpion Bar at Foxwoods, nursing a Corona and bypassing the many kinds of tequila and tequila drinks as he surveys the assortment of glitter with a south-of-the-border motif. The skulls on display at the entrance must belong to former customers. More skulls dot the walls around the room, as well as gaudy silver crosses. Behind the bar in a large glass box, a six-foot rattlesnake slithers back and forth. The music is loud, and Connor's been told the go-go girls get busy at ten o'clock. The bar is one of those places meant to be an event by itself: the people sit quietly, while the bar, with its decor, flashing lights, and constant music, enacts the party. It saves people from the need to talk. About ten other men and women also sit at the bar; three jokers at a table share a forty-ounce turquoise tequila drink.

When Connor called Vasco ten minutes earlier to see where he was, he got his voice mail. Connor asks himself how often this has happened in their life together. More than he can count. Slot machines chuckle in the distance; the casino has fifty-five hundred, over fifteen hundred more than Detroit's MGM Grand. For several years the sound excited him; now it's the sound of disappointment.

As Connor waits, he thinks about his morning: the accident's havoc and spectacle, but also Sal Nicoletti and his wife, especially the wife, with her long legs and then her black eyes, but they couldn't really be black, maybe a dark brown. He thinks about her mouth and full lips, the curve of her figure. Recalling her, it's as if Connor's memory rests in a soft place. Then Vasco arrives.

“Hey, Zeco, it's great to see you. You mind if we eat here instead of the Paragon? I got an appointment coming up.”

Connor gives his brother a hug, feeling the love and exasperation he often feels with Vasco, who is the only person who calls him Zeco, the name he changed when he left high school. “You mean burritos instead of wild boar tenderloin?”

“You're a sneaky guy, you've been peeking at the menu. Anyway, they got more than burritos. Me, I like the salads. You wearing the shoes? Let's see.” Vasco steps back to look down at the Bruno Maglis. “Shit, Zeco, they make you look like a million bucks. Let's grab a table in the back. I like to keep it private.”

“You look pretty great yourself.” Connor follows Vasco to a table.

Vasco wears a pin-striped suit with a vest, gray on gray, and black crocodile handmade Italian lace-up shoes that make the Bruno Maglis seem shabby. His black silk tie on his black silk shirt is no more than a shadowy flutter; his watch is a Rolex Day-Date with little diamonds instead of numbers. Vasco once told Connor that he had the left sleeves of his suit coats cut a little shorter than the right in order to show off his pricey watches. Connor had thought he was joking.

Otherwise Vasco is thirty-two, about six feet, thin, and dark with black hair—a display of Portuguese Moorish blood. His face is narrow and long like an El Greco saint. When he smiles, his perfect teeth seem too white and his eyes don't change. But he doesn't smile often. He saves his smiles for when they count.

Vasco shrugs. “You got to play the role. After all, it's theater. The Rolex is a rental. How's Bounty, Inc.? Still a bunch of clowns?”

A cute waitress arrives with menus. “You know what you want, Mr. Raposo?”

“Just a salad or something. I'm not that hungry.” He glances at the menu.

Connor is impressed the waitress knows Vasco's name and that she calls him “Mr.” But this is what Connor always does: he lets Vasco impress him. If Vasco works at the casino, there's no reason the waitress wouldn't know his name.

When she leaves, they talk about Bounty, Inc. Connor makes it sound more businesslike than it is. He doesn't mention the Eartha Kitt and Vaughn Monroe routines.

“You would've made more money if you'd stayed in Detroit or at Viejas,” says Vasco. “You would've been promoted. I was seeing to that.”

“Thanks, but I got tired of the casino life.”

“Too much ring-a-ding and too many losers. That's what I like about it.”

“Right at the end, there was a guy who sat at his slot for forty-eight hours. He never left. When he had to shit or piss, he did it in his pants. That's when I decided I'd had enough. They had to drag him away.”

“Yeah, we've had those. The stink upsets the other players, but you get used to it.”

“Seriously?”

“When am I ever not serious?”

As they talk, Vasco keeps glancing around the room, speaking to Connor but looking elsewhere. Connor knows he does this with everyone, but it makes him feel temporary, as if he were only occupying Vasco's time while he waits for someone more important. He also knows this is how Vasco wants him to feel.

“I saw an incredible accident this morning when I was picking up the shoes. A biker smashed into a dump truck in downtown New London. He was ripped in half, and his head's still missing.”

Vasco glances back at his brother. He has slow, dark eyes that make him look as if he were always watching combinations of numbers drift across an interior screen. “I saw something about it on the six-o'clock news. These bikers don't get it. You go fast and don't have a helmet, you get killed. It's as simple as that.”

“Pieces of this guy were thrown all over the place. I got stuck there. The street was closed for hours.”

Connor continues his story, speaking rapidly to keep Vasco's attention, but in his hurry his words turn the story into a dull outline stripped of the elements that Connor can't forget. Vasco looks away again. For him the biker story is over.

“The guy's name was Marco Santuzza. I knew a kid named Santuzza in high school. You remember that name? And I saw a guy I knew from Detroit, maybe the MGM Grand. I was going to ask you about him. He said his name was Sal Nicoletti, though it meant nothing to me. He's got thick, black hair swept back over his head. A short guy, with a finger-busting handshake: does that sound familiar?”

As Connor talks, his brother's attention becomes more focused.

“This is in New London?”

“Yeah, right downtown. You remember Nicoletti? I'm almost certain that's not his real name.” Connor feels uneasy. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Nicoletti. He decides not to mention Nicoletti's office on Bank Street or that he lives nearby. “He lives outside of New London someplace, not in town.”

As Vasco stares at his brother, he again seems to be counting up numbers. Connor's afraid his face will show that he's lying. All the years they spent growing up, he could never lie successfully to Vasco. And what does he know about his brother's work? He'd only mentioned Nicoletti to get Vasco's attention. He wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.

“Don't know him,” says Vasco. “But yeah, I remember the name Santuzza from high school, a girl. She must've been your friend's older sister. Cute.”

Connor watches Vasco survey the room. He's afraid of getting Nicoletti in trouble, but he can't keep his mouth shut. “Maybe Nicoletti had problems in Detroit. Maybe that's why he's here.”

“Like I say, it rings no bells. You probably saw him in San Diego.”

They fiddle with their drinks: Connor nurses his beer, Vasco pokes at the lemon in his Coke with a swizzle stick. If Vasco knows anything about Nicoletti, he won't share it. They wait for their food.

“You think those skulls are real?” asks Connor, not knowing what else to say.

Vasco didn't so much look at him as give him a look, a long one. “Plastic, Connor, they're plastic. And the antlers are plastic, the long horns are plastic, the marble tabletops are plastic, the silver crosses are plastic, the drinks are watered, the serapes are made in China, and the big-titted go-go girls have implants. Fuck, Connor, smarten up. Nothing's real in here, not even the people.”

“What about the rattlesnake?”

Vasco laughs one of his metallic laughs. “It's a drone.”

“How so?” Connor tries to conceal his surprise.

“Its movements are controlled by an iPad behind the bar. They used to let it out on the floor on crowded nights, but it caused serious panic. So now it slithers back and forth in its box. It's plastic, too, as well as titanium and other shit.”

“You joking?” Connor tries to see the snake from where they sit, but people are in the way.

“You're doubting me again? Why should I lie to my little brother?” Vasco glances toward the bar, adjusts his black tie, and then turns back. “You know how long you'll be here? Where're you staying?”

“Maybe two weeks or less. Didi says it depends on the ‘pickings.'”

“He's a sleazebag. You know that? You can't trust him.”

“I like him. He's odd and sarcastic. I thought you didn't know him. Anyway, he's your uncle or something like that. He's family.”

The cute waitress shows up with their food. Vasco gets a Mexican Caesar salad with shrimp. Connor has the buffalo burger.

“When I knew him, his name wasn't Didi,” says Vasco. “It was Leonor, and people called him Nonô. That's some years ago. Maybe he isn't any kind of relative—maybe he isn't even a tugo. But he's been around for a while. He's a con man. He's lucky not to be in jail. Fuck, I ought to report him.”

“Don't do that, I need the money.”

“You could work here.”

“I'm done with casinos.”

Vasco pushes away his barely touched salad and gets up. “I'm late. Call me if you want to have dinner again. We'll go to a real place next time.”

Connor hesitates and then asks, “You going to say anything about Nicoletti?”

“Give me a break. Why should I talk about someone I don't know?”

As Vasco turns, a big man in a dark suit approaches. “Hey, Vasco, where you been? I thought you weren't going to show up.”

Vasco again offers his metallic laugh. “Not me, Chucky, I was just leaving. I want you to meet my little brother, Zeco. He worked in Detroit for a while.”

Connor gets to his feet. “It's Connor. Not Zeco, Connor.”

Chucky grabs his hand with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. The sausage fingers show off a few classy rings. Connor expects a strong handshake, but the hand is soft, sticky, and hot. It's like putting his hand inside a warm pudding.

“Shit, Vasco, I didn't know you had a kid brother.” Chucky's over six feet and bloated rather than fat. His small teeth seem made for nibbling rather than biting. He wears several gold chains and looks like a former bouncer who saved his pennies and bought the bar where he once worked. His grin is a salesman's grin—half affable and half hungry, but his small, dark eyes give no sign of humor.

“He just showed up from San Diego.”

“That's great. Give him some vouchers. You should've said you'd be late.”

“Zeco saw that accident in downtown New London this morning. He says the dead guy's somebody called Santuzza, not Robert Rossi.”

Chucky turns his small eyes toward Connor without turning his head. After a moment he says, “Nah, the bike belonged to Rossi. The cops say the dead guy's Rossi. Zeco's wrong, that's all.”

Connor wants to describe finding the dead man's biker cap with the name Marco Santuzza written inside. Instead he asks, “Who's this Rossi?”

“A gambler,” says Vasco. “A bad one.”

Chucky again shakes Connor's hand, and again it disappears into the warm pudding. “We got people waiting. You know how it is. Come back tomorrow and we'll get acquainted, have a few drinks.”

Vasco shakes his brother's hand. “Duty calls.”

Vasco and Chucky head for the exit.

Connor strokes the hairless area of his upper lip. He decides that Chucky is his brother's boss. This shouldn't be strange, but Vasco hasn't mentioned working for anyone. And he was deferential to Chucky. More significantly, he was cautious. Connor realizes he's been left with the check.

—

A
fireman sprinkles a smoking Fat Bob with a booster line from the pumper while two other firemen stand on the sidewalk playing rock-paper-scissors as they wait for the first fireman to finish. There's a smell of burned rubber. The time is seven-fifteen, and it's dark, but the scene is lit by the lights from the fire truck and from four New London police cars drawn up at different angles in front of a medium-size house with a bay window. A dozen onlookers stand outside a ring of police tape talking with one another. Not much has happened, despite earlier excitement, and they get ready to go home. A light rain is falling; soon it will snow.

“Looks like we're late for whatever's going on,” says Manny as he pulls his Subaru Forester up to the curb by the red pumper.

“Maybe someone's told Mrs. Rossi her husband's dead,” says Vikström, getting out of the car.

“Yeah, and she got so pissed she ran out here and blew up his motorcycle.”

Vikström stops ten feet from the bike. “Are those bullet holes in the fender?”

Manny can't tell, so he only grunts.

The detectives pick up their pace and join the fireman holding the booster line, who has just shut off the water. Manny asks what's going on.

“Someone took some shots at the Harley,” says the fireman, “put a few holes in the gas tank. It blew up. Detectives are inside.”

“You've any idea who?” asks Vikström.

“You'll have to ask your buddies about that.”

As they continue to the house, Manny says, “They're sure to have told Fat Bob's wife that her husband's dead.”

“Let's hope so,” says Vikström.

Three cops are on the walk, and there's a fourth at the door. Vikström nods to them. These are men he's known for years.

Inside, they hear a woman shouting, “They want to kill him, they can kill him! I'm sick to death of him!”