by Tim Green
Tony was torn between his desire to hurt her, to see real fear in her eyes, and fulfilling his plan to somehow get on the inside of her father's professional football team. If he beat her the way he wanted, it would be over, he knew. This girl wanted excitement, even a little pain, but a black eye or a broken rib would mean the end of any entree to the Titans organization. So Tony had to control himself, and oddly enough, he found himself drawn to her even more. Instead of waiting a week to call her, he called her after three days.
The next date went much the same way. He tried to treat her nicely by taking her to dinner at Palio and then a small jazz club. It soon became obvious that she wanted to skip the formalities and be taken back to his apartment and fucked.
"What do you think?" she asked at the jazz club, "that you're some kind of Romeo? Why don't we go home?"
Then she laughed out loud at his gallant efforts. He could see that she wasn't afraid of him. He let his rage loose on her when they got back to his place. Again she seemed to thrive on it.
And now, tonight, he was to see her again. He dressed himself carefully in the mirror, thinking that she would mock him with her eyes if she knew. He would have stuck with her though, even if he wasn't attracted to her. He wanted to meet the old man and get acquainted and search for a key to the Titans. Maybe he'd suggest dinner with her parents, he wasn't sure. He knew one thing, though. If he kept seeing her, he'd get a chance.
Tony had a vague plan to grease a trainer, or a doctor, or even a player or an equipment man if he couldn't get to anyone better. He knew it had been done before with other teams. It happened all the time. Of course, a trainer would be his best bet. He would know the most about which player was really hurt or who was having family problems at home during the week. Tony had been around gambling long enough to know that it was these seemingly minor details that affected the line on a game.
If Tony could get an inside line on the team, he could adjust his own line to take a little more money on one side or the other, depending on the quality of the information. Even if it was only ten or twenty thousand dollars that he allowed the books to be off, it would be like his own personal bet, and information like that would pay off throughout the course of a season. That's what gambling was all about, information. His uncle would be placated on two counts. First, Tony would appear to have taken his advice to focus on gambling. Second, to be seen around town with Grant Carter's daughter on his arm would make a real show of trying to forge new paths into legitimacy.
Tony checked his face in the mirror and bared his white teeth to admire their perfection. The best part about the whole thing was that he wanted to be with her. He wanted to see her toss her head at him in public, and then cringe and moan in pain and supplication later in the same night. She was beautiful and she was wild, and Tony Rizzo was determined to possess her whether she led him to a payoff or not.
When he arrived at her apartment building, the doorman said she wasn't ready. He cursed her. He hated when people weren't ready. Then he realized that his hang-up with promptness had come up in one of their conversations on their last date, and he wondered if she wasn't taking her time on purpose.
Tony was told by the doorman that she left instructions for him to wait in the lobby. The affluent of Manhattan flowed in and out. Tony watched them all, stripping the women with his eyes and assessing the wealth of the men by their clothes, their jewelry, and the kind of car that was waiting for them. There were other young lovers there like himself, waiting for rich and haughty young women. Camille made him wait for fifteen minutes, and he was livid until he saw her. She moved across the lobby like an empress. Her head was high and her splendor drew stares from everyone who saw her.
He stood and she kissed him. He forgot that he was mad. When they separated, she examined his face to see whether or not she had been worth the wait.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Are you afraid to go into a bad area?" he asked politely.
She huffed in response.
There's a little Italian place in Far Rockaway that has the best food in the city. Not many people know about it, and it's in a neighborhood that most people in this building wouldn't be caught dead in--garbage, bums, and criminals everywhere. If they were caught, they probably would be killed."
Her eyes lit up and she smiled. "Let's go," she said without hesitation.
Tony smiled at her and nodded OK.
There it is," he said as the car rolled down a dirty street near Far Rockaway Beach. Camille looked at the row of rundown shops that lined the darkened street. Most had boarded-up windows, and those that didn't were black on the inside. A small neon shamrock flickered from one window, and Camille assumed it was a kind of bar when she saw two grimy men stagger out of the door. The only other sign of commerce was a neon pizza sign that cut through a dirty window. Above the storefront was another sign that Camille could not read since it wasn't lit up. The closest streetlight was almost a block away. There was no place to park on the street. It was littered with old, rusted cars, some of which were up on blocks. They had to park down by the beach and walk back. Tony could have called ahead and had someone waiting to park the car for them, or even had a wrecker haul someone else's car from the street in front of the restaurant, but he imagined Camille would like the walk in the dark.
When they got out of the car, the surf was crashing loudly at high tide. The dark water licked at the beach below. Each bench that lined the boardwalk bore a tattered bum, some flopping lethargically, but most still as stones. Garbage was strewn everywhere, and they had to step carefully over a puddle to continue on the sidewalk. As they reached the row of buildings, a rat scrambled across the street and disappeared into a crack in the curb.
Tony laughed. "I warned you."
"I don't mind," she said casually, as he opened the door to a small restaurant.
They were seated at the biggest corner table by a fawning owner as soon as they walked in.
'The way I grew up," Tony said, "you have to be ready for the unexpected."
"Just how did you grow up, Tony?" Camille asked, leaning forward, obviously interested.
This attention made Tony happy. He had obviously impressed her. He was glad she was interested in him. This was the first time he had cared about that from a woman. But Camille was no ordinary woman. She broke all the rules.
He paused, frowning before he spoke.
"When I was ten I woke up to the sound of my mother screaming. When I got to the hall, I saw three men dragging my father out of his bedroom by his pajamas. I ran to help him. One of the men hit me with the butt of a pistol. See ..."
Camille leaned forward in the candlelight to examine the faint white scar above his eye.
"I woke up in the hospital. My mother was dressed in black. We never saw my father again. There was no funeral or anything. They never found him."
'Jesus," Camille said. "I'm sorry. . ."
"My father was the treasurer of a mason's union. He was a mason himself and he worked hard. Everyone respected my father, but he crossed the wrong people. I guess there were some crooked people in that business at the time; he didn't want to get mixed up with them. That's how that stuff goes. You either play or you pay."
Tony stared at a candle that burned in a bottle on their table. He seemed lost in the story. Much of it was true.
"After that," he said, "I grew up hard. You know, a kid without a father. I had an uncle who looked after me some, but mostly I looked after myself. I got into a bad crowd for a while, and fighting in the streets was part of our daily lives. After high school I started in business for myself. I was able to get a pretty successful construction company going. I straightened out and obviously stayed off the street, but I keep in tune by training in the martial arts."
Camille nodded. Thank God. This neighborhood scares me."
"Not you," Tony said. "I can't believe there's anything that could scare you."
She laughed. "Something new every day with you,
I guess."
"Good. I'm glad that I'm different."
"Yes," she said, "you are that."
Chapter 13
Let's go, Carl," Lonny said in a tone that reflected how tired he was of his muscle-bound companion.
'OK," Carl said through a mouthful of Big Mac, his dinner for the day. 'Just a second. Lemme finish this last bite."
Carl held up the remaining quarter of the sandwich. Lonny slapped Carl's hand, sending hamburger all over the dashboard.
"Hey, what the fuck did you do that for?" Carl demanded, his face turning red with anger.
Lonny slapped Carl's face, leaving a welt. Carl looked stunned. Lonny was half his size but almost twice his age and obviously mean as hell. Carl knew better than to hit Lonny. Lonny was in the family. That gave him power.
"You lose Metz and I'll personally watch Tony Rizzo cut your balls off," Lonny said with a nasty sneer. "Now move it."
Carl started the van and jerked away from the curb. Metz's Cadillac was already halfway down the street. They stayed three cars back and followed him down Peninsula Boulevard to the Sherwood Diner. The diner was a remnant from the fifties, complete with stainless steel siding and multicolored neon lights that wrapped around its exterior. Carl was able to park the van close to the window of the booth where Metz sat.
Lonny picked up his camera and fitted on a zoom lens. It was almost seven o'clock, but there was still plenty of light for him to get a shot if he needed to.
"How come you're getting the camera ready?" Carl asked, too dumb to be miffed at the slap he'd just received.
Lonny looked at him briefly, then directed his gaze back at the diner window.
"He's meeting someone, that's why," Lonny said flatly.
Carl furrowed his brow and thought for a minute. "How do you know?"
"He sat down and the waitress gave him a menu, right?" Lonny said.
Carl nodded. He guessed that was right.
"But the guy's just sitting there right? He hasn't even looked at it. So, he's waiting for someone."
Carl was impressed and he grinned to prove it.
Hunter Logan walked into the restaurant wearing thick prescription glasses, a gray sweatshirt, and a Yankees cap. Not even the hostess who seated him recognized who he was. When he sat down, Lonny shot off a few frames. Hunter's face looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. Metz pulled out the wad of hundred-dollar bills and held it up high. Hunter reached for it then shoved it into the front pocket of the hooded sweatshirt he wore.
"Perfect," Lonny murmured as the camera clicked and whirred. "You'd think Metz was working for us."
Lonny chuckled and clicked as Hunter peeled two of the bills off the stack and held them out to Metz. Metz's hand gobbled up the bills like a hungry dog under the table. Lonny wondered if his camera had been fast enough to capture such a brisk transaction.
Lonny and Carl sat through Metz's enormous meal, wishing he'd eat rather than stop every minute or so to gesticulate wildly at his companion. For his part, Hunter was obviously happy, but not as excited as his enormous friend. It was almost nine o'clock before Metz finally finished his second plate of pie and pushed the bill over to Hunter. They could see Hunter chuckle good-naturedly and pull some money from his wallet, leaving it on the table before they stood to leave. By the time Hunter stepped out of the diner it was dusk outside, and the red furnace sky in the west was being slowly cooled by a wave of purple darkness that left scattered twinkling stars in its wake.
"All we gotta do now is find out who this guy is," Lonny said to himself.
Carl nodded, not knowing that the comment wasn't meant for him.
"How we gonna do that?" Carl asked quietly.
Lonny looked at Carl to make sure he was serious. When he saw that Carl was really wondering, he snorted through his nose.
"We're gonna follow him. How else could you find out who the guy is?" Lonny said in disgust.
Carl twisted his head around and backed the van out. They followed the path of Hunter's Town Car as it made its way out of the parking lot.
"I know this guy," Lonny murmured to himself for the fifth time as they trailed Hunter through the winding back streets of Hewlett. Carl pulled up slowly to the driveway that Hunter had pulled into. Lonny gave a low whistle. From the road they could see one end of the large Tudor home. The dark shadows of its roofs were visible in enough places through the trees to give them an idea of where the other end of the house finally stopped. It was enormous.
This guy's some kind of big shot," Lonny said as the Town Car disappeared into the garage. "What's the number on that box?" he asked, squinting through the gloom at a cobblestone column that marked the end of the driveway.
"I think it's seven ninety-three," Carl said.
"You sure?"
Carl nodded.
"OK," Lonny said as he wrote on a pad, "you can take me back to Jimmy's to get my car. I'll meet you back here at nine tomorrow morning. We'll come back here and drive around these streets until we see the mailman. When he puts the mail in the box, we'll just take a peek. It's a little bit more of a pain in the ass, but it's quicker than going through Motor Vehicles."
Lonny raised his head to see that Carl was listening.
"In case you don't know it already," he said, "if you do something for Tony Rizzo, you do it fast."
Lonny paused to look back at the elegant home and said, "By tomorrow afternoon Tony will know exactly who this guy is." .
Rachel Logan glanced at her watch. She decided to finish one more chapter of her book before getting up. She tried to allow herself some quiet time every day, and these were her few moments for today as well as yesterday. The trees swayed overhead in the warm summer breeze, and she hung her foot over the edge of her chair, dipping the tip of her toe into the pool. Several minutes later, Rachel looked up from her book and scrambled out of her chair, pulling a soft robe around her, she'd lost track of time. It was three o'clock and Sara would be done with her tennis lesson. It was just down the road, but Rachel hated for her to have to wait. Inside, she pulled a pair of shorts and a T-shirt over her suit and then climbed into her dark green Jeep Cherokee. She backed out of the garage and started down the driveway.
Rachel jerked to a stop when she saw the man. He was enormous. The first thing she thought was that Hunter had brought home a new teammate. But Hunter was golfing this afternoon and wouldn't be home until dinner. When the man looked up and saw Rachel, he froze. He had a dark tan and wore red spandex shorts and a white, cutoff sweatshirt. A flat-top haircut made his thick neck look thicker than it actually was. Around his neck hung heavy gold chains. There was something not right with this man being in this neighborhood. He was out of place. He looked more like a comic book character, or someone you might see at Jones Beach, but not in Hewlett Harbor. Something was wrong. The man grinned foolishly at Rachel and stuffed something back into the mailbox. Then he held his hands up in the air. She couldn't see his eyes. They were hidden behind a pair of Terminator sunglasses. Rachel remained halfway up the drive, but rolled down her window.
"What do you want!" she said with a forcefulness she didn't feel. "Who are you?"
"Sorry," the man yelled back as he began to move sideways like a bloated ghost crab caught out of its hole. "I thought this was my friend's house, but I wasn't sure. I just thought I'd look at the mail to be sure, so that I didn't bother you. Sorry."
The man turned and began to walk, then disappeared down the street behind Rachel's hedgerow. She eased her car out slowly and peered down the street in the direction the man had gone. A blue van was disappearing around the bend. It gave her the creeps, but then again, as Hunter always said, she was a big chicken anyway. She couldn't help it, though. Growing up close to New York City had supplied her with more than enough horror stories to feed her fright of strange things and strange people. She made a mental note to discuss it with Hunter when he got home. Then, seeing that she was now truly late, she raced down the street in the opposite direction.
"Did you get it?" Lonny said again, impatient for Carl to stop his blathering and give him the name.
Carl had almost pulled the van door off its hinges as he jumped in, fired the engine, and raced off down the street, careening around corners in a way that thumped Lonny against his door. When they were three blocks away and nearly lost, Carl began excitedly to tell his story, none of which made sense to Lonny, and little of which he could understand.
"Did you get it?"
Carl stopped jabbering and looked at Lonny as if he were from Mars.
"Didn't you listen to me?" Carl said. "I told you she saw me. She saw me. She came out and caught me! I didn't know what the hell to do. You didn't say nothing to me about if she came out."
"Who? The wife?"
"I guess. It sounded like it. She started yelling at me, asking me what I was doing."
"You should have just killed her," Lonny said matter-of-factly.
Carl glared at Lonny. That's what I was thinking I shoulda done. I was thinking I should just try to get her out of her car and strangle her or break her neck or something."
Lonny was miffed. "You fucking lug-head," he said. "I was kidding. You don't kill someone because they catch you looking in their mail. It's no big deal. It was a mistake is all. That's all you had to say to her. If you didn't look like such a muscle-headed goof with those fucking clothes from outer space, she wouldn't have thought nothing of it."
"I did say that," Carl protested. "That's just what I said. I told her I was looking for a friend's place and I put the mail right back in the box."
"So, for the tenth fucking time, Carl. What's the guy's name?"
Carl pursed his lips and scowled. "I didn't get it," he finally said.
'Jesus Christ," Lonny muttered. 'Take me back there, you fucking idiot. I'll get it myself."
This time they didn't bother being careful. Lonny figured if they were going to draw attention to themselves, Carl had already done it in a banner way. He directed Carl to pull up alongside the mailbox. There was a gardener working on the lawn across the street and a Lexus sedan rolled by, but Lonny hopped out and pulled the mail from the box anyway. He fished through a couple of advertisement fliers that were addressed to "Resident" before he found a business letter.
