“What time?”
“You got to her apartment at nine thirty and left about ten minutes later.”
I rattled off a ten-digit number.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Freitas asked.
“My alibi,” I said. “And when you call it, please tell attorney Yolanda Mosley-Jones I’m very sorry I had to miss our lunch date today. I was unavoidably detained.”
25
“Lunch would have been nice,” I said, “but dinner is better.”
“Why is that?” Yolonda asked.
“Because we’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”
She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she picked up her fork and went to work on her lobster and crab cakes. I shoveled in a forkful of the wagyu beef with wasabi arugula. The Capital Grille, located in the city’s renovated old Union Station, was Yolanda’s kind of place. She’d chosen a bottle of La Crema Pinot Noir from the wine list. They didn’t carry Killian’s, so I settled for Samuel Adams Summer Ale that was served in a tall glass instead of the bottle I preferred.
When she finally spoke, she changed the subject.
“You should have called me, baby. It’s not smart to talk to homicide without a lawyer present.”
“I don’t like lawyers, present company excepted,” I said. “Besides, if I asked for one, the interrogation would have ended, and I wouldn’t have learned anything.”
“And you learned what?”
“That Mario Zerilli tried to frame me. He stole my gun, planted it in his girlfriend’s apartment to place me there, beat her up, and got her to lie to the cops.”
“What’s he got against you?” she asked.
I took out my wallet, removed a five-dollar bill, and slid it across the table.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A retainer. We are now covered by attorney-client privilege.”
“It’s like that?” she said.
“It is,” I said, and then told her about Whoosh’s offer.
“Don’t tell me you’re seriously considering this,” she said.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“When I get it worked out, I’ll let you know.”
“It sounds like Mario isn’t the only one out to get you,” she said. “Wargart and Freitas seem to have it in for you, too.”
“They do. They’ve been eager to pin something on me for a couple of years now.”
“Why?”
“I’ve written a lot of unflattering stuff about the Providence PD over the years. The homicide twins always seem to take it personally.”
“Let me help,” she said.
“How?”
“I can get a restraining order against Mario. Might be able to get one against the Providence PD, too.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but no thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want them to go away,” I said. “Every time they show up, there’s a chance I might learn something.”
Later, as we sipped our coffee and shared a slice of coconut cream pie, Yolanda turned the conversation back to us.
“Ever dated a black woman before?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell me.”
“A few years ago, I was seeing a devastatingly beautiful black lawyer, but she dumped me for a Brown chemistry professor. Oh, and I had a few dates with a Jamaican girl when I was in college.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“The Jamaican girl? Yeah. The lawyer? Not yet, but I haven’t given up hope.”
“You’re not one of those white guys who’s obsessed with the sisters, are you?”
“Just with one of them.”
“Serious question.”
“I gave you a serious answer.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but I think it requires elaboration.”
I leaned forward, right into those big, dark eyes.
“You love baseball. You know your way around the blues. When you’re not reading, you’re talking about something you’ve read. You’re smart and tough and one of the best there is at what you do. You always do the right thing, even when it’s difficult. When we talk, there’s an intimacy I don’t feel with anyone else. And I love the bluesy sound of your voice. It’s got smoke in it.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but I wonder if there’s more to it.”
“A lot more,” I said. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Those incredible legs. The curve of your neck. The way your skin shimmers even in this low light. Yes, I love it that you’re black, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“It is,” she said.
“And you want to know why.”
“I do.”
This was treacherous territory. Taking my cue from Captain Parisi, I took five seconds to frame my response.
“Having things in common is important,” I said. “Most guys think that, and good looks, are the only things that matter. They want a woman who likes the same kind of music, roots for the same team, eats the same kind of food, worships in the same church. Not me. I prefer women who are different from me in at least a few important ways.”
“Why?”
“The differences are what make life interesting,” I said. “When I’m with you, I see the world through fresh eyes. I can’t tell you how much I treasure that. I could learn something new from you every day of my life.”
She smiled, reached across the table, and took my hand. “Baby, you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
Yolanda picked up the check again, and we strolled to her car. I opened the door for her and walked around to the other side. She hesitated, then unlocked the passenger door and let me in. I pulled her close for a kiss. And then another. It was ten minutes before we came up for air.
“My place is a mess,” I said, “and I’ve still got that roommate.”
“Go home,” she said, “and tell him you didn’t score tonight. Or lie to him if you want. I don’t mind.”
“Aw, hell.”
“But, baby?”
“Um?”
“You’ve given me a lot more to think about.”
26
When I got home, the first thing I noticed was that Joseph had scrounged an old oak bookcase from somewhere. In it, he’d shelved the set of leather-bound Dickens novels he’d inherited from his mother. They were charred around the edges and still smelled faintly of smoke from the arson that had taken her house.
When I first got to know Joseph, I was astonished that a lug who had trouble piecing words together to make grammatical sentences was reading his way through the master’s works. Tonight, he was stretched out on the couch, drinking from a can of Narragansett and reading the new Woodrow Wilson biography I’d picked up free at The Dispatch. The paper didn’t run book reviews anymore, but publishers who hadn’t figured that out yet were still shipping us copies.
“Any good?” I asked.
“Ain’t sure yet,” he said. “I’m only on page five. I plowed through a coupla your Elmore Leonard novels this afternoon. There’s another guy what can fuckin’ write.”
“Good as Dickens?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, “but different. Never uses two words when he can get by with one. And the best dialogue ever. That fuckin’ guy knows how real people talk.”
“I thought you were going to look for a job today.”
“I was out lookin’ all mornin’.”
“No luck?”
“You know how it is.”
“Don’t give up, Joseph,” I said.
“I won’t. So how’d it go with the babe?”
“Good, I think.”
“Then why you home so fuckin’ early?”
“Not that good,” I said.
“Gonna see her again?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Well, at least that’s somethin’.”
“It is.”
“So listen. There was some trouble here when you was gone.”
“Had a problem with a guy,” he said.
“The landlord?”
“Nah. Some other guy.”
“Tell me.”
“I heard someone messin’ around outside the door, so I yanked it open, and there was this tall, skinny dude with a crowbar in his hand.”
“What did you do?”
“Took it away from him.”
“And then?”
“I asked him what the hell he was doin’, and the dumb fuck took a swing at me.”
“Did it land?”
“Not so you’d notice. He hits like a fuckin’ girl.”
“Then what?”
“I picked him up and threw him down the stairs.”
“Hurt him bad?”
“Not so bad he couldn’t pull himself up and limp away. Bounced all the way down on his ass, though, so he’s gonna be sore for a few days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this when I first came in?”
“You started talkin’ about books and I got dis—…”
“Distracted?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Uh-huh. He was a regular at the Tongue and Groove back when I was workin’ there. Looked kinda young, so I always carded him. First name began with an M, I think. Marco, maybe. Or Mario. Yeah, I think that was it. Mario somethin’. Pretty sure the last name was Italian.”
“Mario Zerilli?”
“Sounds right,” he said. “He the same asshole who trashed the apartment?”
“I think so. He’s dangerous, Joseph. You’re lucky he didn’t pull a piece on you. If he comes back, you should call the cops.”
“Nah. I’ve taken guns away from way tougher guys than him. If the fucker comes back for another beatin’, which I doubt he’s gonna, I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said, “but don’t take any foolish chances.”
27
“What the hell was that about yesterday?” Twisdale asked.
“A misunderstanding,” I said.
“That was the second time police came in here looking for you.”
“The second you know of.”
“You mean there were more?”
“Not lately, but yeah.”
“I don’t like cops barging into my newsroom, Mulligan.”
“So why didn’t you do something about it, Chuckie?”
“Like what?”
“Call a lawyer for me.”
“Why would I do that?”
I hadn’t wanted a lawyer, but that wasn’t the point.
“When a reporter is arrested,” I said, “his editor is supposed to call the company lawyers in to represent him.”
“Our attorneys have more important things to do than bail you out of trouble, Mulligan. Get yourself arrested, and you’re on your own.”
“Good to know,” I said. I snatched the Purell bottle from his desk, squirted some into my palm, and stomped out.
“Hey!” he shouted. “We’re not done.”
I turned back and slouched against his doorframe.
“What?”
“That anti-gambling super PAC, Stop Sports Gambling Now, placed a full-page ad in the sports section today.”
“I saw.”
“They’re planning to run it daily for at least a couple of weeks.”
“Great,” I said. “Maybe now you can afford to give me a raise.”
“Not happening.”
“Of course not. What was I thinking?”
“Did you watch any TV last night?” he asked.
“No.”
“You should have.”
“Why? Did I miss you on Dancing with the Stars?”
“Several organizations, some for and some opposed, started running ads about the gambling bill on the local broadcast stations,” he said. “Cable and satellite TV, too.”
“I don’t have cable or satellite.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t pay me enough.”
“I got Time Warner,” he said, “but I asked around. Turns out they were on Xfinity, Dish, and Cox, too.”
“So?”
“So they’re running all day long. Pretty slick, too. Celebrities, high production values, the whole ball of wax.”
“Can I go now?”
“I need you to monitor the TV for a few hours this morning. Jot down the names of the groups paying for commercials and see if you can find phone numbers the ad department can call.”
“That’s not my job.”
“Your job is whatever I say it is.”
* * *
It was ten A.M. when I stepped into Hopes and watched the day bartender lug a crate of Budweiser out of the storage room. He clanked it on the bar, tore it open, and shoved the longnecks into an ice chest. Besides me, he was the only one in the place.
“A little early for you, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It is.”
“We’re not really open yet.”
“That’s okay. I’m not here to drink. Just need a place to hang out for a while.”
“Oh. I’ve got a pot of coffee going. Can I get you a cup?”
“Thanks, Craig. That would be great. And if you don’t mind, could you turn on the TV and let me have the remote?”
I started with the local broadcast affiliates, then ran through ESPN, CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, MTV, Comedy Central, Lifetime, Animal Planet, the Food Channel. Even the Cartoon Network. Cable channels set aside only two or three minutes per hour for local commercials; but in less than two hours, I caught the same three sports gambling commercials a dozen times—even though I lingered over SportsCenter for twenty minutes.
One spot featured apocalyptic warnings about the evils of sports gambling, the sort of mournful music you hear on commercials about abused animals, and New England sports heroes representing the major pro leagues, including soccer. The players mouthed the tag line in unison: “Stand up for integrity. Save our games.”
Another anti-gambling spot, this one paid for by a different group, included soft-focus photographs of kids shooting baskets in driveways and playing baseball and soccer in the sunshine. The soothing radio voice of the Boston Red Sox delivered the message: “Sports. They should be about fun—not money.” Funny. I didn’t remember him complaining when the Sox’s payroll ballooned to a hundred and eighty million dollars.
In the third spot, Kenny Rogers touted the virtues of privately operated sports betting. As he spoke, the jaunty melody from his best-known stinker—the one with the lyric “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em”—played softly in the background. Kenny delivered the tag line in his down-home drawl—“Stop big government’s takeover of sports gambling. Support free enterprise.”
By quarter of twelve, the serious midday drinkers had gathered at the bar, their arms curled around their boilermakers as if they were afraid somebody might confiscate them. When they started grumbling about my channel surfing, I tossed one of them the remote, carried my fourth cup of coffee to a table in back, and made a call.
“Campaign Finance Division, Bud Henry speaking.”
“Hi, Bud. It’s Mulligan.”
“I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you this morning.”
“So you must know what I’m calling about,” I said.
“The super PACs that are running all those gambling ads.”
“Yeah. What do you know about them?”
“Officially, nothing at all.”
“What about unofficially?”
“It’s looks like we’ve got four big-money players in the game.”
“Can you run them down for me?”
“The NCAA and the pro sports leagues are behind Stop Sports Gambling Now,” he said, “but I think you already knew that. The scuttlebutt is that at least one Atlantic City casino, maybe more, is funding Americans for the Preservation of Free Enterprise, the super PAC advocating privatized sports gambling. And don’t ask me w
hich casino, ’cause I don’t know.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And Don’t Gamble with Our Kids’ Futures, the super PAC running the ad with the soft-focus photos of little kids? I think their money’s coming out of Vegas.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“Last Thursday,” he said, “I got a call from an attorney claiming to represent them.”
“A local lawyer?”
“He was calling from Nevada. Had some questions about the fine points of Rhode Island campaign finance law. After we hung up, I did a little checking. Turns out his firm also represents a trade association that lobbies on behalf of Las Vegas casinos.”
“Interesting.”
“But odd, don’t you think?” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“That the Atlantic City Casinos are for sports gambling in Rhode Island and the Las Vegas casinos are against it.”
“Not really,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“The Vegas casinos want to protect their monopoly on legal sports betting,” I said. “The Atlantic City casinos want to muscle in on it.”
“Aren’t they pretty much owned by the same people?”
“Not all of them,” I said. “You said there were four players. What’s the last one?”
“Have you driven down I-95 today?”
“Not yet.”
“The AFL-CIO put up a bunch of new billboards overnight.”
“What’s on them?”
“Photos of a working man in a hard hat and a student hovering over a textbook. The message in big red letters urges everybody to ‘Save Our Pensions and Support Our Schools’ by supporting the governor’s plan for state-operated sports gambling.”
28
State Senator Mark Reynolds had a dandy idea. He wanted to anoint Mr. Potato Head the official mascot of the state of Rhode Island. By happy coincidence, the national headquarters of Hasbro, the toy’s maker, happened to be located in Reynolds’s district.
The senator was silent on what the duties of the state’s mascot might entail. Do a funky dance on the sidelines during legislative debates? Douse visitors with buckets of confetti at Green Airport? Mock Mr. Met? Stand on the state line and blow raspberries at Massachusetts?
I decided to play it straight and was writing it up when the opening riff of Johnny Rivers’s “Secret Agent Man,” my ringtone for McCracken, started playing in my pocket.
A Scourge of Vipers Page 13
