The Punishing Game (8 page)

Cullen and Bellucci were expecting to see Boff when they left the gym the next morning, but he was nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” Bellucci said as they went down the stairs. “So where is he?”

Cullen smiled. “You sound disappointed. You’re really taking an interest in this.”

“Damn right. I want payback for Nino.” Bellucci hesitated. “Plus I hate to admit it, but I like being around Boff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s sort of cool in a very un-cool way. Let’s wait ten minutes.”

Ten turned into twenty.

“Man, where do you think he is?” Bellucci asked.

“My guess? Exploring the Dark Side.”

“You mean like in
Star Wars
?”

“Sort of. Only instead of Imperial Storm Troopers, Boff likes to mingle with his underworld friends. That’s, like, mobsters, drug dealers, murderers, snitches, and various other riff-raff that he’s helped keep out of jail. You know how you and I surf the Internet for information?” Bellucci nodded. “Well Boff uses the Dark Side as his search engine.”

“Man, that’s totally weird.”

Cullen smiled. “I’ve got no argument here. Let’s go eat. Boff will find me when he wants to.”

As they started to walk down the street, Bellucci said, “Where do you want to eat?”

“You’re the local guy,” Cullen replied. “What do you suggest?”

“You like Chinese?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Then Mikey’s got just the place for you. A lot of Chinese people go to Hop Kee, so you know the food has to be good. It’s got a separate menu in Cantonese. That’s the one I order from.”

“No shit?” Cullen said. “You can read Chinese?”

“Not really.” Bellucci laughed. “Man, I can barely read English.”

“Now I’m confused.”

Cullen stepped off the curb against a red light. A taxi moving at a fast clip suddenly bore right down on him.

“Look out!” Bellucci shouted. He used his fast hands to yank Cullen back on the curb as the cab sped by, barely missing him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Cullen looked shaken. “In Las Vegas pedestrians have the right of way,” he said. “Drivers get four points on their record if they don’t stop.”

“Yeah, w
ell, this ain’t Las Vegas. Welcome to Brooklyn, Danny Cullen. Where you get bonus points the closer you get to hitting somebody.” Bellucci looked in the direction the cab had gone, then turned back to Cullen. “Damn. That cabbie looked like he was really tryin’ to hit you. He seemed to purposely speed up and angle towards you.”

Cullen looked after the cab, too. “You sure about that?”

“I dunno. I could be wrong. But you’d better be more careful when you cross streets.”

Cullen put a hand on Bellucci’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

“For what? I only saved your ass so’s I can get even with you for what you did to me in the ring.”

They both laughed. Cullen resumed their conversation as they walked.
“So, Mikey, if you don’t read Chinese, how do you order?”

“
There’s this Asian kid I know who taught me how to recognize the symbols for beef, chicken, pork, fish, and noodles. So let’s say I’m in the mood for chicken. I just point to something under the chicken symbol.”

Cullen made a face. “You order without knowing what kind of food you’re getting?”

Bellucci shrugged. “There isn’t a Chinese dish I don’t like. The big thing is that by ordering from the menu in Chinese, I get treated like a king by the owners.”

Cullen smiled. “You’re smart, Mikey.”

Bellucci spread his hands. “Hey, I grew up on the street. If you aren’t smart, you don’t last long.”

They reached another crosswalk. This time Cullen made an exaggerated show of looking in both directions. “Looks safe, Mikey. Is it okay for me to cross?”

Bellucci flipped him the bird and stepped off the curb. 

Cullen was sitting in the Biaggi den with McAlary and Kate studying DVDs of Jermain Simms’s fights when Michelle, carrying a bouquet of roses, walked in with Boff.

She held up the flowers. “Danny, look what your friend brought me.”

Boff gave the room a modest smile. “It was the least I could do to thank you for that wonderful dinner,” he said.

McAlary glanced up. “Go away, Boff. We’re working.”

“No problem. How much longer?”

“As long as we need,” Kate said. “Take a hike.”

“I’ll wait in my car. I just bought a new Richie Valens CD with “La Bamba”
on it.”

A half hour later, as Cullen left the house and walked over to Boff’s rental car, he heard the awful Fifties music blasting through the windows. To his surprise, when he climbed into the front seat, Boff turned down the volume.

“This is a first,” Cullen said. “You showing respect for my ears.”

Boff popped out the CD and slid it into his disc case before speaking. “I just got tired of you bitching all the time about my music.”

As the Fifties music lover put the car in gear, Cullen switched topics. “So what was it you had to do yesterday that was so important you didn’t want to talk about Yusef Force?”

Before answering, Boff glanced at his speedometer to make sure he was exactly at the speed limit. Seeing that he was five miles over it, he eased off the pedal. “I went to visit my mother in the Bronx.”

“You really have a mother?”

Boff laughed. “What, did you think that I had just sprung up out of the ground?”

“Yeah, like a weed. No, I…uh, I mean…do you call her Mom and stuff like that?

“Of course.”

Cullen took a moment to digest this new information. “Well, I just hope you don’t treat her like you do me.”

“If I did, she’d disown me.”

“Every time I try to disown you, it never works.”

“That’s because I love my mother. You, I only tolerate. Barely.”

“How old is your mother?”

“Seventy-two. She still runs the family candy store all by herself. My father died ten years ago.”

“Isn’t the
Bronx dangerous for an old wom—lady?”

Boff nodded. “Some parts, yes. But my mother can handle herself.”

“Christ, Boff, she’s seventy-two!”

Boff smiled. “My mother is better able to protect herself than you are.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, for your information, Danny, my mom keeps a shotgun behind the soda counter and takes numbers and the football sheets for the biggest mobster in the
Bronx.
Nobody
would dare bother her.”

Cullen wrinkled his nose. “A shotgun? Mobsters? What kind of mother
is
she?”

Boff smiled. “The best there is.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Whatever. So now are we going to explore this Yusef Force angle?”

Boff nodded. “On the drive to see my mom, I asked myself, who had the most to gain if you were dead? The obvious answer would be the fighter Yusef promotes. Assuming, of course, that you’re going to beat him.”

“I will,” Cullen said with conviction. “No ifs, ands, or buts.”

Boff looked amused. “It’s wonderful to see a young man brimming with such self-confidence. But what makes you so sure you can win?”

“It’s what everybody says!”

“Not that I don’t believe you, but I think we’ll check with a more authoritative source.”

Afte
r a few turns, Boff drove through the Queens Midtown Tunnel into Manhattan and drove uptown to the East Bronx. He cut to the curb at one of three adjacent brownstones with boarded-up windows on 166
th
Street.

Cullen looked around the seedy street. “Nice neighborhood.” 

Three Hispanic men in their twenties were sitting playing cards on the steps of the brownstone. As soon as they saw Boff’s car, they stopped playing.

“This brownstone,” Boff said to Cullen, “is where Enrique Solis runs his bookmaking operation.”

“Who exactly is he?”

“The bookie my mother works for. Come on. Let’s go in.”

The instant they got out of the car, the three dudes on the front porch stood up and drew guns, though they kept them at their sides.

“Stay here a moment,” Boff said. He walked up to the stoop.

“Wassup, honky?” one of the dudes said.

“What card game are you playing,” Boff said in a cordial voice. “I’m a big poker fan, myself.”

The dude who had called Boff a honky wiggled his gun by his side. “Just say what you came to say and go before you get hurt,” he said.

“Tell Enrique that Frank Boff is here to see him.”

“Frank Bofaloney?” the dude said. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Boff,” he said patiently, “and I don’t talk to the kitchen help. Tell the boss I’m here.”

The dude suddenly stiffened and pointed his gun at Boff. “Nobody disses Miguel Ortiz.”

Boff put his hands half up in mock surrender. “Son, if you fire that gun, you’d better buy some dresses, because Enrique will cut your balls
off. Now be a good boy and tell him that Thelma Boff’s son is here.”

Ortiz looked at the other two. They shrugged. There was something about Boff, Cullen thought, that when he said threatening things in an unthreatening way, you believed him.

Ortiz stuck the gun in his waistband. “Wait here, Bofaloney.” He turned to his compadres. “If Bofaloney moves, cap him.” Glaring at Boff as he walked away, Ortiz descended the basement stairs, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

Cullen walked over to Boff and let out an anxious sigh. “That was close,” he muttered.

“Not really. The Boffer has come face-to-face with enough loaded guns to know when the person holding one has what it takes to shoot it. This kid didn’t.”

Minutes later, Ortiz reappeared. “Follow me, Bofaloney.” He pointed a finger at Cullen. “Lose the punk.”

Boff shook his head. “He’s my bodyguard. I don’t go anywhere without him.”

Ortiz whistled to the other two. They came down the steps and walked toward Cullen, who balled up his fists.

“Relax, Danny,” Boff said. “They just want to frisk you.”

Lowering his hands, Cullen let the two guys pat him down.

“He ain’t carrying,” one of them said.

Ortiz made a face. “What kind of bodyguard doesn’t pack?”

“The kind,” Boff began, “with sixth degree black belts in karate, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, judo, and Maui Thai. Best you keep your distance and not upset him.”  

Boff and Cullen followed Ortiz down the steps into the basement. The spacious front room was crammed with desks, behind which sat men and women using cell phones to take bets. The place was hot and stifling, the air thick with smoke and body odor.

Cullen turned to Boff. “How can they work in here? This is worse than the gym. Why don’t they get air conditioning?”

“This is supposed to be an abandoned building, Danny. Nothing advertises occupancy better than having a working air conditioner sticking out a front window.”

“Let’s go, already,” Ortiz said.

He led them down a hallway to a door in the rear of the building. Mounted above it was a surveillance camera aimed directly at them. Ortiz tapped three times on the door, paused, then tapped once more.

“It’s open,” a voice called out from inside.

Ortiz poked a finger in Boff’s chest. “You best behave with Enrique, Bofaloney, or I won’t be so friendly next time.”

As Boff reached for the door handle, Ortiz walked away. Boff and Cullen walked in and were met by a wave of frigid air from a big air conditioner mounted in a window that faced the back yard. Lying face down on a portable massage table was a well-built Hispanic man in his forties with a bald head and one gold earring. The guy was being worked over vigorously by a pale white woman with blond hair that was cut short in the trendy pixie style. Boff thought the woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. She glanced at Boff, then quickly looked away.

The man on the table turned his head and flashed a warm smile. “Frank, I’m Enrique Solis. Your mother’s a sweetheart.”

“I know.”

Solis pointed to the blond. “This is Inger. Best Swedish masseuse in
New York. Who’s your friend?”

Boff put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “This young man is the one and only Danny Cullen.”

Solis nodded. “The boxer.”

Cullen looked surprised. “You’ve heard of me?”

Boff laughed. “Danny, this man’s a bookie. He takes action on fights.”

“I made Danny a minus one-forty favorite to beat Jermain Simms,” Solis said. He gestured toward a couch. “Take a seat. Frank, if you want a massage, Inger’s almost done.”

Boff looked at Inger, who started beating hard on Solis’ back with her fists. “Thanks for the offer, Enrique, but my heart couldn’t take the pounding.”

Solis gave out a little laugh. “Your mother called back after you left her store,” he said. “She told me about some of your cases. I’m impressed.”

Boff opened his hands. “Mom exaggerates.”

“I think not,” Solis said. “I made some phone calls. I’m told people in law enforcement call you Darth Vader.”

The masseuse slapped Solis’ buttocks to get his attention. “Turn over,” she said.

When Solis twisted onto his back, the towel covering his groin looked like it had an eight-inch tent pole under it. Ignoring the hard-on, Inger started working on his feet.

“So what brings Darth Vader to my door?” Solis asked.

“Did you hear about Nino Biaggi getting killed in a
Brooklyn drive-by?” Boff asked.

Solis nodded. “What a tragedy. I have nothing but fond memories of Nino when he was a fighter. He was a real cash cow for me. Nino was usually the underdog in a big fight, so the money would pour in on the favorite. I saved a bundle when Nino won some of those fights, including his second bout with McAlary.”

“The reason I’m here,” Boff said, staying on point, “is that I’m curious about the action on Danny’s fight.”

“I had so much money going in on Danny, I had to lower the odds. My people in boxing say he can’t lose.”

Cullen turned to Boff. “Told you so.”

“Pardon me for doubting you. Enrique, do you know who Yusef Force is?”

Solis hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m told he co-promotes Simms with Sonny Ricci. I’m curious about something. Does Yusef gamble?”

Another hesitation. “Sometimes,” Solis said, caution in his voice. “But Yusef is definitely not what I’d call a chronic bettor. Occasionally he’ll bet boxing. But not other sports. Yusef put down twenty large on Jermain.”

“If Danny’s expected to win,” Boff said, “that doesn’t sound like a smart bet.”

“Maybe not. But Yusef bets Jermain every time he fights. No matter
who
his opponent is.”

That’s one loyal promoter,” Boff said.

Solis smiled. “There’s more to it than that. I’m surprised you didn’t know, sharp operator like you.”

“I live in
Las Vegas now, Enrique. This isn’t my town anymore. Fill me in.”

“Yusef Force’s real name is James Simms. Ring any bells, amigo?”

It did with Cullen. “He’s related to Jermain?” he asked.

“Yup. Yusef is Jermain’s uncle.”

Inger started working vigorously on Solis’s muscular legs. He winced. “Hey, that hurt, Inger.”

The blond looked amused. “Such a baby for a tough guy.”

“Enrique,” Boff said, “how close are this uncle and his nephew?”

“Like father and son. What I heard was that when Jermain was fourteen, his parents moved to
North Carolina. The kid didn’t want to leave New York because he was winning a lot of amateur titles here. So they made an arrangement. Jermain moved in with Yusef, and Yusef flew him to his parents for holidays plus a month in the summer. When Jermain turned twenty-one, Yusef bought the kid his own house.”

Boff turned to Cullen. “If you had been killed, would they have scrapped the fight?”

Cullen shook his head. “No. The number three-ranked contender would take my place. Mike Maroni.”

Boff looked at Solis. “What odds would you make on
Maroni against Simms?”

Solis threw his hands up. “
Ay, caramba
! Forget it. I wouldn’t even take action on that fight.”

“Why not?”

Cullen answered. “Because Maroni’s not on my level. Or even Jermain’s. We both could take him out in under five rounds.”

“So if you were dead,” Boff said, continuing his train of thought, “Jermain would be a shoo-in to beat
Maroni.”

Cullen frowned. “Basically, yeah.”

Boff turned back to Solis. “Enrique, is Yusef the kind of guy who’d have someone killed to insure that his nephew won a fight?”