Sucker Bet (21 page)

40

The phone in Nigel’s bungalow rang at four o’clock.

They were taking a nap. Candy’s eyes opened first, and she stroked her lover’s hair. Yesterday, she’d wanted to kill him; now she loved him more than ever. Her mother had always said that if you could love a man, then hate him, then love him again, things would usually work out. On the tenth ring, Nigel reached over her and picked up the receiver.

It was Rico.

Nigel slid out of bed and sat on the edge with the receiver pressed to his ear. “Half hour it is,” he said.

Hanging up, he slapped Candy playfully on the buttocks. “Get dressed. We’re going to a basketball game.”

“Is this the game you’re betting two hundred thousand dollars on?”

“Yes.”

“I still think this is a mistake,” she said, her head buried in goose down.

“What the hell,” he said. “It’s only money.”

He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Candy slipped out of bed and pulled Tony Valentine’s business card from her purse. She punched in his cell phone number. Valentine answered on the second ring.

“How would you like to put the screws to Rico Blanco?” she said.

Celebrities did not show up anywhere on time, and Rico was pacing when they met up in the lobby forty-five minutes later.

Nigel went to the front desk, and the hotel manager was summoned. The four of them went into a back room where the safe-deposit boxes were housed. Nigel produced a key and opened a box, then began removing stacks of hundred-dollar bills and dropping them into Candy’s leather bag. At twenty he quit.

Rico lugged the bag to his limo. It stayed in the backseat with Candy and Nigel as Rico drove.

The demarcation line between the trendy and hip and the rest of Miami Beach happened at 26th Street, and the sidewalks were filled with garishly dressed retirees. Reaching the Arthur Godfrey Road, Rico put his indicator on.

“Don’t be turned off by Bobby Jewel’s store,” he said as he parked. “It’s a toilet, but that’s how Bobby likes it.”

Calling the store a toilet was being kind, Candy thought as they entered. Small and unbearably hot, the store reeked of body odor. Behind the counter sat an enormous man who resembled Jabba the Hutt. Rico did the introductions.

“Nice to meet you,” the bookie said.

A Cuban man came out from the back and counted the money in Candy’s bag. Candy had heard that Bobby worked for a syndicate that could cover any bet. The Cuban said something and returned to the back room.

“You want to bet it all on Miami College?” Bobby said.

Nigel grunted. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure I can handle it. Don’t you want to know the spread?”

The newspaper store grew deathly still. Gamblers
always
wanted to know the spread. Bobby was wise to them, Candy realized. Nigel frowned at the bookie.

“I would assume it’s a large one,” he said.

“Twenty-to-one.”

“Can you cover it, or should I take my action elsewhere?”

A bag of potato chips was on the counter, which Bobby kept sticking his hand into. Stuffing some into his mouth, he said, “You’re on!”

Bobby explained the rules. On bets over five grand, his syndicate sent a guy over, who took the money to a hidden location, where it was counted and checked to be certain it wasn’t counterfeit. Only then was the bet accepted.

Nigel agreed to the terms, and Bobby wrote him a chit.

Back in the limo, it was all Rico could do to not kiss Nigel.

“That was beautiful,” he said.

The basketball game was scheduled to start at seven-thirty. Rico drove them back to the Delano, then joined Nigel in the bungalow for a drink. Candy said she wanted to take a walk on the beach. Instead, she went to the Rose Bar. It was packed.

“Over here,” a voice said.

Tony Valentine sat in a corner booth, blending in with the dark wood. Candy slipped into the seat across from him.

“How did it go?”

“Bobby Jewel took the bet,” she said.

A waitress came and took their drink order. Valentine stared at her. She looked different from the other day on the balcony, less harsh. Shedding her whore skin, he guessed. “Who is Miami College playing tonight?” he asked.

“Duke.”

Duke was one of the best basketball teams in the nation, and a Final Four favorite. Even their benchwarmers could whip Miami College’s starters. Any money on Miami College was a sucker bet.

“Doesn’t Nigel suspect something is up?”

“Nigel has this computer program that says Miami is going to win.”

“Did Rico give it to him?”

She smiled. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“The game is fixed, but Rico doesn’t want anyone to know that. So he conned Nigel with one story, Bobby Jewel with another. If he gets caught, the police won’t know which story to believe.”

Their drinks came. Valentine sipped his coffee. In Candy’s face he saw a struggle going on. She stared at the carbonated bubbles in her soda.

“How do I protect Nigel from getting hurt?”

“Tell him everything, including your relationship with Rico.”

“He already knows I’m a hooker.”

“You told him?”

“Last night. I think he’d already figured it out. I told him I’d quit for him.”

“What did he say?”

“He kissed me.”

They finished their drinks. Valentine wanted to tell her to get out before she got hurt. Instead, he took out his wallet and paid the tab.

“So what’s going to happen?” she said.

“I’m going to go to the game tonight and figure out what Rico’s doing. Then I’m going to Bobby Jewel’s store. You and Nigel shouldn’t come in with Rico when he comes to collect the money.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to grab Rico when he comes in. Then, I’m going to take him to the police and have him arrested. I won’t bring up your name or Nigel’s.”

“What if Rico gets violent?”

“I’ll deal with it.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“A man of his word. I like that.”

Valentine slipped out of the booth. “See you at the game.”

41

“What the hell is this?” Slash said angrily.

Mabel stared at the letter in her abductor’s outstretched hand. Normally, she needed her glasses to read, only the type was so large, it wasn’t necessary. Slash was holding Tony’s latest piece of hate mail.

“It’s from U. R. Dead,” she replied.

“I know. I can read some. Who sent it?”

“A person my boss put in jail.”

The phone on the desk rang. It was within reach, and she imagined picking up the receiver and yelling “Help” at the top of her lungs. Slash had the same thought, and put his hand around her throat.

“Pick it up, say hello. If it’s your boss, get off the line.”

“I thought you wanted me to tell him to come home.”

“I changed my mind.”

He loosened his grip, and Mabel picked up the receiver. It was Tony.

“I’m on the other line,” she said. “Call you right back.”

She hung up, and Slash shook the threatening letter in her face.

“Your boss is a cop.”

“He’s retired.”

“Cops don’t fucking retire,” he said contemptuously. “Someone threatens him, he’s going to be prepared. It’s called survival.”

She watched Slash tear through Tony’s study, pulling out drawers and turning them upside down, as well as boxes of gaffed gambling equipment. Soon, half of Tony’s things were lying on the floor, the room a total shambles.

Slash had dropped the U. R. Dead letter in her lap, and Mabel stared at it long and hard before she made the connection. Slash had figured out that there was a gun in the house, probably in this very room. And he didn’t know where it was.

Taking 595 west into the Everglades, Gerry felt the skin on his arms start to tingle. He’d grown up in Atlantic City, later moved to Brooklyn, and was not accustomed to seeing alligators sunning themselves by the roadside. The locals called them gators. Up north,
gators
was slang for pimp shoes, and cost a thousand bucks a pair.

He pulled into the casino’s parking lot. It was full, the poor getting poorer. Driving around back, he parked his rental near the trailers. After the trial, he’d seen Running Bear walk into one of these trailers, ready to go back to work, not holding a grudge against the elders or anything like that. Gerry had been impressed as hell.

He knocked on Running Bear’s door, then stepped back. The chief emerged a moment later, his long shadow touching the hood of Gerry’s car.

“It’s Gerry, isn’t it?” the chief said.

“That’s right.”

“What can I do for you, Gerry?”

“Something has come up.”

“What’s that?”

“My father wants to bust the guy who killed Jack Lightfoot. He’d like you and me there backing him up.”

Running Bear considered the request, then went into the trailer. When he came out, he was wearing his hat. “Let’s go,” he said.

Valentine had grown up loving college basketball. Then one day, five star players at Seton Hall University in New Jersey had gotten caught shaving points. Overnight, the college had become known as Cheating Hall, and his love affair with the game had ended.

Miami College played their games at American Airlines Arena, the same auditorium used by the city’s pro team. Tonight’s game against Duke was sold out, and he begrudgingly approached a scalper standing outside the front doors.

“Need a ticket?” the man squawked.

Fifty bucks got him first row, second section. At the door, a security guard made him open the paper bag he was carrying. Valentine showed him the binoculars he’d just bought and was let inside.

The arena was packed, the crowd drinking beer and having a good time. Duke was on an eleven-game winning streak, and many fans were wearing their blue and white colors. Valentine settled into his seat and removed the binoculars. The two teams came out onto the court and began shooting warm-ups.

He scoured the faces at courtside. Candy’s red hair stuck out like a flag. She was sitting directly beneath the basket. To her left sat Nigel. To his left, Rico. The arena was warm, yet Rico was wearing a sports coat. Packing heat, he guessed.

The national anthem was played, and then the game got under way.

Years ago, he’d gotten his hands on a New Jersey Casino Control Commission report on sports betting. At the time, New Jersey’s governor wanted to legalize sports books and compete with Nevada in this lucrative market.

The commission had painted an ugly picture of the business. Through a variety of unsavory sources, they’d learned of an NFL playoff game being fixed, a semifinal match at Wimbledon that was thrown, point-shaving in both college basketball and the pros, scores of rigged boxing matches, and a dozen racetracks where it was common for jockeys to allow a rider having a bad streak to win a race.

What all of these events had in common was that money was being wagered on them—several billion dollars a year—and the commission had concluded that New Jersey’s casinos would be putting themselves at risk by entering the business.

By halftime, Duke was up by four.

It was an ugly game, with Duke having a difficult time getting off their shots. The players looked frustrated, and so did their coach. He was a black guy with a trigger temper, and he screamed at his team as they ran off the court.

Valentine went to a concession stand. Five bucks bought a program and a soda. Walking back to his seat, he read the team players’ biographies while slurping his drink. All of Duke’s players came from the Midwest. Miami College’s players hailed from Florida, except for two—Jorge Esteban from Brazil, and Lupe Pinto from the Dominican Republic. Both were freshmen, and both were starters.

The teams were back on the court, taking warm-ups. Reclaiming his seat, Valentine removed his binoculars and searched the court until he found the two foreign players. Both had shaved heads, making it hard to tell how old they were. As they hit basket after basket from different spots on the court, a thin smile creased his face.

42

Mr. Beauregard’s ukulele had gone silent. Hicks was driving through Miami searching for American Airlines Arena and saw the chimp rub his stomach. On average, he consumed eight pounds of food a day, and Hicks guessed he was starving.

“Hamburgers, Mr. Beauregard?”

Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands excitedly. He loved hamburgers. Downtown Miami was fast-food heaven, and soon Hicks was sitting in the drive-through at a Burger King. At the squawk box, he was greeted by a sultry Latino voice.

“Welcome to Burger King. Would you like to try today’s special?”

“What is that?”

“Two quarter-pound bacon cheeseburgers covered in special sauce for a dollar ninety-nine.”

Mr. Beauregard jumped up and down in his seat. He loved the special sauce.

“Give me ten,” Hicks said. “And a small fries.”

They ate in the car. Mr. Beauregard was not keen on bread products and tossed the buns out the window. Soon a security guard came out of the restaurant. He was a Cuban macho man and glanced menacingly at them, then pointed at the buns lying on the ground. “They teach you this at home?”

Mr. Beauregard stuck his head out the window and snarled. The guard recoiled in fear. Hicks jumped out of the car, fearful he might call the police.

“Please excuse my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“I am the owner of a carnival.”

“Is he . . . dangerous?”

“My friend, this is the world’s smartest chimpanzee. Do you like music?”

“Well . . . yeah,” the guard said.

“Mr. Beauregard, play for the gentleman.”

Mr. Beauregard took his ukulele off the floor, and the music that came out was Spanish-sounding, like calypso. “Holy shit,” the guard said.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Hicks said.

“It’s my favorite song,” the guard replied.

In the fourth quarter, the game heated up.

Miami College began to play like they were possessed, and with five minutes left in the game, the score was even.

Since the half, Valentine had watched Jorge and Lupe exclusively with his binoculars. They were an unusual pair of athletes. Jorge was constantly busting up plays and stealing the ball from Duke’s forwards. He rarely shot the ball, preferring to pass to one of his teammates and let him get the glory.

Lupe, whose statistics in the program were terrible, was playing like he was possessed. He passed, he stole, he dunked, and he had more rebounds than anyone on the court. Two of Duke’s players were trying to cover him, leaving a Miami College player wide open.

With two minutes left in the game, Miami College took the lead for the first time. The crowd rose, screaming like it was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. Valentine knew better. Miami College could have easily been ahead by ten points. Jorge and Lupe were playing below speed, a pool hustler’s term for playing just slightly better than your opponent.

They were pros.

“Your father hurt Gladys Soft Wings’s feelings,” Running Bear said.

Gerry gripped the wheel. He’d read somewhere that I-95 ran over eighteen hundred miles and that the Miami stretch, which was less than ten of those miles, was the most dangerous. When they were free of the madness, he said, “Please apologize to her for me.”

“Your father needs to do that himself,” the chief said.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Why?” the chief said. “Is your father above apologizing?”

Gerry pulled the car into a no-parking zone a hundred yards from the entrance to American Airlines Arena and threw it into park. Turning, he looked the chief in the eye.

“It’s like this. My father’s father was an abusive drunk who beat up my grandmother. When my father got old enough, he threw his father out of the house. Then he spent the next twenty years trying to make up to him for doing it.”

“Did he?”

“No,” Gerry said.

“So he carries around a lot of guilt.”

“Yes,” Gerry said.

Running Bear was about to say something, but then the front doors to the arena burst open, and a crowd of maniacal fans came pouring out.

Duke self-destructed in the final two minutes and lost by seven points. At the buzzer, screaming Miami College students stormed the court, cut down the nets, and carried their team out of the arena on their shoulders.

Through his binoculars, Valentine watched Rico, Nigel, and Candy leave. He hurried to the lobby and through the front doors, saw them standing in the VIP parking area.

He walked outside, and a car parked across the street flashed its brights. It was Gerry, with Running Bear in the passenger seat. He crossed and got in.

Rico’s limousine pulled out of VIP parking a minute later. His son threw his rental into drive and cut into traffic.

“You figure out what Rico’s doing?” his son said.

“Yeah. He brought in two pros, enrolled them in Miami College, and paid them to play like bums until this afternoon.”

Gerry nearly rear-ended the SUV filled with fans in front of them. “Miami College won? Do you know what the odds were on that happening?”

“Twenty-to-one,” Valentine said.

Gerry slapped the wheel. “You knew this was going down, didn’t you?”

“I knew the game was fixed, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Valentine leaned forward so he was hanging between the seats. He shot a glance at Running Bear, who seemed amused by this exchange. He looked at his son, who wasn’t.

“Just drive,” he said. “Okay?”

Ray Hicks had parked in the municipal lot two blocks away from the center. Leaving Mr. Beauregard in the car with the Ultimate Rhythm and Blues Cruise on the jazz station, he’d walked to American Airlines Arena and waited for the crowd to come out. Rico Blanco and his two friends were among the last people to emerge. Rico looked happy. He wouldn’t look that way for long.

Hicks ran back to his car. Mr. Beauregard had jacked up the radio and was clapping his hands to an old Sam Cooke song. Hicks pulled out of the lot, handed the attendant his ticket, then waited impatiently while the attendant figured how much he owed.

“Just keep it,” he said, throwing the attendant a twenty.

Hicks raced down the street. Rico’s black limousine whisked past his car, going in the opposite direction. In his mirror, Hicks saw the limo hang a left at the light.

There was no place to turn around. Pulling into an alley, Hicks waited as dozens of cars whizzed past on the street. Mr. Beauregard grew agitated and played hurry-up music on his ukulele like in the old Westerns.

Hicks tapped his fingers on the wheel. There were times when his friend did not amuse him, and this was one of them.