From the maps and photos, he saw that water surrounded and crisscrossed the city, from the oceanfront with its line of protecting dunes, to the tidal bays and broad wetlands that wrapped around it and spread inland to the north and east. There was a toll road and two highways that came down from Philly along a wide neck of land and a thin chain of islands that extended down the coast to the southwest. Basically, all that water turned the city into a cul-de-sac, which any good infantryman knew to avoid. He turned to some online aerial photos he had printed back in the office and took a close look at the Bimini Bay. It had its own large boat marina that fronted on one of the inland bays, and he saw a freshly painted helipad on the roof of the tallest hotel tower. Those were worth noting, he thought.
Turning to the online articles he had been reading, Crazy Eddie’s Atlantic City turf was “small potatoes” compared to New York, Chicago, or even Philly. Still, he was careful to build alliances with the larger “families” through personal relationships, avoiding making enemies, and passing generous cuts “up the food chain.” As he reportedly told his son Donatello, “Remember, kid, pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered, and everybody loves a freakin’ cash cow.” Perhaps he picked up animal husbandry doing three to five at Dannemora, Bob wondered.
To protect his growing operations, he also became actively involved in local politics, paying particular attention to the city council, the county board, the local judges, and the sheriff, making generous campaign contributions to ensure only the “right” people got elected, or hired as police chief. As he told Donatello, “I don’t give a rat’s ass if da moke’s a Democrat or Republican. He’s either a friend of ours, or he ain’t.” That’s why they all came to see Crazy Eddie, hat in hand, and why his “associates” from New York, Philly, and Chicago could come down on a vacation, knowing they could enjoy themselves with no police to worry about. As the custodian of one of the mob’s “playgrounds,” Eddy maintained Atlantic City as an “open” territory, like Las Vegas, where they all could party or invest. If they did, he always earned them a handsome rate of return, further cementing his usefulness.
Unfortunately, his little world could not continue forever. With wiretaps, informers, and a relentless full-court press, the Feds took down one New York crime family after another, putting a legion of “wise guys” in the federal pen. As the dominoes fell, they ratted each other out, putting an end to the old mob credo of “Omerta.” Eventually, the Feds even reached down to the second and third tier cities like Atlantic City, and Crazy Eddie found himself in a Federal Supermax prison. That left Atlantic City to his then thirty-two-year-old son, Donatello. While he was very young to be handed such a responsibility, he was the fourth generation of this quintessential American mob family, and it was “in the blood.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Bob thought as he leaned back in his seat. “It’s in his blood.”
Linda finally woke when the 737 bounced a time or two on the runway.
“Are we in the air yet?” Linda mumbled and snuggled closer.
“No, we just landed.”
“Must have dozed off,” she added as she sat up with a glassy-eyed stare.
“Yeah, something like that,” he chuckled, wiggling his fingers to get the circulation back in his arm.
“When’s the next flight?”
“There isn’t one. We’re renting a car and driving. With all that cash in the briefcase, I’d rather not take another chance with a TSA security check. Besides, Atlantic City is only an hour away, and it would take a lot longer than that to deal with two airports.”
Being recently acquainted with car chases, while that was extremely unlikely, he chose a full-size, six-cylinder Buick at the rental car counter.
Hands on hips, Linda took one look at the big, gas-guzzling road hog and turned up her nose. “If the Sierra Club sees me in a thing like this, they’ll burn my membership card. Don’t they have a Prius?”
He laughed. “The first time you get in trouble out there, you’re gonna want something big and powerful underneath you when you need it.”
She turned toward him, let her sunglasses drop to the bridge of her nose, and looked over the top at him. “God, I love it when you talk dirty… but I still hate the car.”
They were on the road and headed south toward the toll road in twenty minutes. An hour and fifteen minutes later, the toll road ended in Atlantic City and he turned northeast on Atlantic Avenue. Better safe than sorry, he thought as he used the opportunity to examine the battleground up close and personal. Tactics might only be a hobby or a habit to him now, but he always viewed new ground as an infantryman would — topography, obstacles, cover, fields of fire, and distances. He never thought he’d need to resurrect those old skills when he put away the uniform, but the three days of going head-to-head against the DiGrigorias taught him otherwise.
The Bimini Bay Casino, “the crown jewel of the Boardwalk,” as the receptionist had called it, was located on a low hill at the northeast end of the island facing Absecon Bay. He continued to the end of Atlantic Avenue, where it reached the water. Rather than head for the tall buildings of the casino complex, perhaps a mile away, he turned away and headed south to Pacific Avenue. He then turned southwest, passing the former Revel and Showboat casinos, now closed, and the Trump Taj Mahal, Resorts, Bally’s, Caesars, the Wild West, the closed Trump Plaza, and finally the Tropicana. Pink, blue, white, or gray, they all showed their age.
He turned back north and then east again, slowly circling the area, familiarizing himself with what it looked like on the ground. As he did, he passed streets named Maryland, Virginia, Vermont, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and Mediterranean and thought he’d been dropped onto a Monopoly game board, which he guessed he had. The old board game was based on an Atlantic City street map. As he continued northeast, he passed block after block of older three-story houses, liquor stores, 7-11s, bodegas, T-shirt shops, and pawn shops, demonstrating that the city’s long slide hadn’t ended yet.
“Depressing,” Linda commented. “Where’d all the money go?”
“Probably to the tax collectors in Trenton, and the Luccheses and the Genoveses in New York.”
“Well, none of it stuck here,” she commented as he continued to circle. “Are you headed anywhere specific, or just driving around aimlessly?”
“Tryin’ to tell me how to do my job, again?” he asked. “Actually, I’m looking for a good place to stash you, before I go to the Bimini Bay.”
“Haven’t you learned that I don’t ‘stash’ very well? Just take me to the casino and I’ll camp out in the slot room and blend in. No one will even know I’m there.”
“Blend in? Looking like that?” he laughed. “You’d need a walker, an oxygen bottle, and a few less teeth to pull that off.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Is there a compliment hiding in there somewhere?”
“Of course, but I really didn’t want you anywhere near that place.”
“I’ll be fine. You’re giving them the money. Why would there be a problem?”
“There shouldn’t be, but it’s New Jersey. It's their turf, not ours. So, until I have it figured out, I’d prefer you keep a very low profile.”
Satisfied with his preliminary reconnaissance, he finally headed back north toward the Bimini Bay. It was hard to miss. The four- and six-story turquoise and chrome buildings stood out like a mountain peak and towered over the northeast corner of the city. The tallest building in the group was the main hotel tower, sitting on a low hill with the other buildings kneeling around it like a nativity scene. When you add the glittering palm trees and bright red letters on the two-story neon sign that hung on its end wall, the Bimini Bay was hard to miss. To the right, they passed the old black-and-white spire of the Absecon Lighthouse. It was a historic tourist attraction now, not that a lighthouse was necessary here any longer. The gaudy, flashing neon palm trees atop the Bimini Bay could probably be seen halfway to Boston or Miami, safely marking the boat channel and even serving as
an outer beacon for Philadelphia International Airport.
The Bimini Bay was surrounded by large surface parking lots containing the majority of the healthy trees left in the city, or so it seemed. In front and to the right stood a new forest of tall sailboat masts in the Bimini Bay’s marina on Absecon Inlet. Continuing along the curved entry road to the casino, he noted the security cameras on the buildings and light poles, so he turned his face away and followed the signs to the main casino entrance.
“I’m dropping you at the front doors,” he said. Work your way back to the Self Park exit, find a slot machine you like, and wait for us there. Here,” he said as he opened the briefcase, took out $15,000, and handed it to her, decreasing the amount in the briefcase to the $285,000 that Van Gries wanted. “That’s to hold, not to use. We may need it later.”
“Gotcha boss,” she said. As the car rolled to a stop, she opened the door, kept her hand over her face, and was gone.
He quickly drove away toward the entrance to the Self Park ramp. Once inside, he circled the half-empty garage and found an empty space near the casino entry doors. They were hard to miss, ringed with flashing lights and a big neon sign that read “CASINO” in red, white, and blue. He backed the rental car into the parking space, in the event he had to make a sudden departure later. That was highly unlikely, but when you’re dealing with “wise guys,” it’s a smart idea to be prepared for anything really stupid.
Bob looked at his watch. It was 4:10 p.m., just about right, he thought, roughly on time, but sufficiently late to demonstrate he really didn’t give a damn.
Briefcase firmly in hand, he walked through those big double doors and onto the casino’s main floor where he was assaulted by flashing lights, loud rap music from a nearby bar, and the irritating jingle of 4,000 slot machines. The décor was a tasteless blend of Jimmy Buffett “Margaritaville” and schlock, Bob Marley Caribbean done in turquoise and flashing chrome. The high ceiling had been painted a rich medium blue, with blinking stars and billowing white clouds rotating and changing shapes as he watched. Clever, he thought. They make everything seem so make-believe, you might think your money is make-believe, too. The colors and flashing lights also distracted attention from the security cameras and beefy guards posted discreetly around the casino floor. The cameras were hidden inside small, upside-down black-plastic domes mounted on the ceiling above the entrances and above every bank of slot machines, gaming tables, the doors to the restaurants and restrooms, the ticket cashing machines, and the cashier cages. Bob walked to the closest one and smiled at the bored young woman leaning on her elbow behind the wrought iron bars.
“Hey, darlin’,” he asked, “can you tell me where I can find the casino’s administrative office?”
The girl leaned forward, pointed to her right, and snapped her gum. “Down that corridor over there, you can’t miss it.”
“Second star to the right and straight on till morning?”
“Yeah, something like that,” she shrugged and turned away. The corridor took a dogleg right. At the far end, he saw a wooden door with “Business Office” stenciled on it in gold. More significantly, there were two barrel-chested, baby-faced “Hulks” in blue blazers and gray slacks, flanking the door. They had their hands clasped in front of them, eyeing him as he approached. Must be Hulk One and Hulk Two, Bob thought. Too much time in the weight room, and too many steroids, but he now knew where the old offensive linemen from Rutgers ended up after they flunked out or blew a knee. Looking at them, he noted that one had a black eye, and the other one had bruises on his cheek and ear. You might as well put out a sign that said, “Vinnie was here,” he thought.
“Can we help you, sir?” Hulk One on the right asked with a frown.
“The name’s Burke,” Bob answered. “I have an appointment with Mr. Van Gries.”
“Raise your arms, please,” Hulk Two said as he quickly patted Bob down, not really caring what his answer would be, or how hard he patted. “And what’s in the briefcase, sir?”
“A really big bomb,” Bob replied. “See, I’m a suicide gambler and I’m going to blow this damned casino halfway to Delaware,” he added, trying to keep a straight face. Hulk Two blinked and retreated a step until Bob said, “Just kidding. The briefcase is full of money. What else would I be bringing up here?”
“Uh, yeah, well, mind opening it?” Hulk One finally asked, still not sure.
Bob shook his head, raised the briefcase, and popped the top open. Hulk One leaned forward and poked his finger between several stacks of $100 bills. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said as he opened the office door behind him and stepped back. Bob snapped the briefcase shut and the Hulk said, “Have a nice day, sir,” as Bob walked past. The two Hulks then followed him inside and posted themselves on each side of the doorway, arms crossed, with smug expressions.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bob strode to the center of the office. To his right, against the wall, stood two conference room chairs. Vinnie sat in one, his right wrist handcuffed to the chair arm, and Patsy sat in the other, crying. Vinnie’s face appeared bruised, and he had dried blood on one ear and his cheek. His polo shirt was torn and it had dirt marks on the shoulder. Clearly, he had ended up on the wrong end of a fight, which was very unusual, not that Vinnie didn’t get in fights, but he rarely lost them. Must have been really long odds, Bob thought as he nodded at them.
“Major,” Vinnie mumbled, too embarrassed to look Bob in the eyes.
“Tell me you didn’t let the football team get the best of you,” Bob asked him.
“I got sucker punched… and they had a lot of help.”
Bob was already on high alert. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, he felt his face flush, his breathing slow, and his muscles tighten, ready and waiting, not that anyone else in the room would notice except Vinnie, who had seen him go into action more times than either of them could remember. For the moment, though, he did nothing.
Straight ahead of him sat a mahogany desk, large enough to land a small plane on. Behind it sat a thin man with red-framed glasses, trendy, spiked hair, and a Harris Tweed jacket with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He was leaning back in his leather desk chair with his feet propped up on the corner of his desk, his hands clasped behind his head, and a smug expression. Standing to his left beyond the corner of the desk stood a stocky black man with a shaved head, dark Oakley sunglasses, and a ton of gold chains. That pretty much matched Patsy’s description of Shaka Corliss.
“Major?” the man behind the desk asked in a high, grating voice as he sat up. “Why did he call you that?”
“I was his commanding officer. He was one of my sergeants,” Bob answered as he glanced back at Hulk One and Hulk Two. “What do the boys call you, Marty? Coach?”
“No, simply Martijn,” Van Gries answered with a thin smile. “However, my younger brother was a lieutenant in the Royal Dutch Marines, the Korps of Mariniers.”
“The Black Devils? They’re an excellent unit.”
“Yes, I wondered if your paths might have crossed over there, trudging across one trackless desert or another.
“We worked with Dutch and other NATO troops on several occasions and did my share of trudging, but there was a lot of desert over there and the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, I wondered, since you career military types run to form,” Van Gries said with obvious distaste.
Bob had enough of Van Gries, and looked over at Corliss and the twin Hulks. “Looks like you should’ve hired your brother instead of these clowns. They might be okay to chase a few drunks out of the bar on a Saturday night; but if only one of my guys did that much damage, Marty, they’ll end up getting your ass kicked.”
Van Gries glanced at the two beefy ‘Risk Management Associates.’ From his expression, he got it and probably agreed, but they didn’t.
Shaka frowned and finally spoke up as Burke's words sank in. “Wait just a damn minute, who you callin’ clown?” He turned and glared at Bob. “A major? Well,
kiss my ass. You sure don't look like no Marine. Must’a been the goddamn Army,” he snorted and put his hands on his hips. “Figures!”
Bob slowly looked him over. Corliss wasn’t much taller than he was, but the black man was broad, musclebound, and probably had him by sixty or seventy pounds. “Don’t tell me, another Marine Corps washout?” Bob asked. “I guess that figures, too.”
Corliss’s eyes flared and he started toward Burke, until Van Gries raised his hand and stopped him. “Not now.”
“Enough games, Marty,” Bob turned back toward the Dutchman. “Time’s short and we have some business to conclude,” he said as he put his briefcase on the desk. “Or would you rather we stand here and keep pissing on each other’s shoes?”
Van Gries smiled as he leaned forward, pulled the briefcase across the desk, and opened the top. He looked inside and poked a delicate finger around between the stacks of money. “The count appears a tad light… Major,” he said as he looked up and leaned back in his chair.
“There’s $110,000 in cash in there.”
“Unfortunately, your friend owes us $285,000, not $110,000; and the former is what you told me you were bringing.”
Bob reached into the briefcase, pulled out the envelope, and laid it on the desk. “This is from Citibank — it’s a certified cashier’s check for the rest with one of my business cards inside. That’s all the cash I could raise on short notice.”
Van Gries picked up the business card and studied it for a moment. “Toler TeleCom? What is that? A Chicago telephone company?”
“Hi-tech telecommunications, mostly for the government. I’m good for it.”
“Like he was?” Shaka snorted. “And you can shove that ‘cashier’s check.’ Any Nigerian with a color printer can make ’em a whole lot prettier than that.”
Burke's Gamble Page 4
