Titans

by Tim Green

  "Now, you know I'm not telling you," Cook said, "so why don't you just stop asking me, man?"

  "I'm just making sure," Duffy said. "I like testing you."

  "Hmmm," Cook said.

  "But seriously, man," Duffy said, "you better get at this stuff, whatever you're doing. This is the kind of backed-up paperwork that can get you retired from your supervisor status early in this bureaucratic Bureau."

  "If we don't come up with something on the Mondolffis soon," Cook said, raising a sheet of paper from his stack as evidence, "I'm not going to have to worry about supervising anything but Natasha's homework."

  "What's that?" Duffy said, innately distrusting any official-looking document.

  This is a letter from Miles Zulaff himself," Cook said in a serious tone. "It appears the director has asked Zulaff to make a personal assessment of the viability of the Special Task Force, or STS as they're calling it. I've got to meet with him and Duncan Fellows."

  "When?" was all Duffy could think of to say.

  "Next week," Cook said. "So I'm assuming that if we don't have something concrete real soon, I can simply put a match to all this paperwork, get a job as a Brinks armored truck guard, or a BATG as I'm sure the Bureau will fondly call me, and kiss my pension good-bye."

  "You wouldn't really leave the agency, would you?"

  "No," Cook said, tossing the letter back into its pile. "No, but I might as well leave. If this doesn't work, I'll be pulling some kind of guard duty in Podunk, South Dakota, somewhere with the KKK knocking on my door late at night and Natasha coming home with a white boyfriend when she's twelve."

  "My momma was white," Duffy offered.

  "I didn't mean it like that," Cook said. "I just meant I got plans, plans that end in D. C., man. If we could just get a hook into these bastards, just a start, I could get Zulaff to give me more time."

  "Well," Duffy said after a moment, "let me buy you a slice of pizza."

  Cook looked up with a surprised expression on his face. 'That ain't like you, Duffy," he said, "to talk about buying lunch before we even get the tab."

  "Yeah, well . . . remember that football pool?"

  "Yeah, don't tell me you won it."

  "Uh-huh," Duffy said, nodding his head. "I got nine of those games right. Can you imagine it? I oughta start taking action on these things for real. Victor got eight right, I got him on the Titans game. Every sap in this city went for the home team. Damn fools, though, it ain't often one NFL team beats another by nine points, you know. If you're gonna bet, you gotta bet your mind, not your heart. I can't say as I blame Victor, though, he grew up in the--"

  "Duffy," Cook interrupted, "what did you say just now? About the Titans?"

  "I said you got to bet your mind, not--"

  "No, not that, about nine points, what about nine points?"

  'Just that it doesn't often happen that one team beats another by nine points in this league since free agency," Duffy said.

  "I thought the spread was eight on that game," Cook said, rummaging through his desk drawer until he came up with his half of his losing parlay. "How come this is nine?" Cook asked Duffy, pointing to the +9 that appeared next to the Titans on the card.

  "Because that's what it was," Duffy said. "I get that parlay from a guy I know out in Vegas."

  "Could the line be different here in New York?" Cook asked.

  "Sure," Duffy said. "If you were betting with a different syndicate. It probably would be different here, too."

  This knowledge seemed to deflate Cook. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and put his fingertips to his lips. "Why's that?" he asked anyway.

  "Well, if you had some kind of local syndicate--" Duffy began.

  "Like the Mondolffis?" said Cook.

  'Yeah, like the Mondolffis, then you'd have a hell of a lot more action on the home team, the Titans, so you'd probably have to raise your line to balance your books."

  Cook dropped his hands and lifted his head. "They'd have to raise it, right?" he said excitedly.

  'Yeah, they'd probably raise the line anywhere from a half to a whole point higher. This way they'd get the same amount of money down on the Lions as they did on the Titans. They never lose money. Each bet on the Titans is covered by a bet for Detroit. The syndicate makes its money on the juice, the ten percent service fee from both sides, just for taking the bets. Why? What are you thinking?"

  "Nothing," Cook said, and was silent.

  "So, what about lunch?" Duffy reminded him.

  "I can't," Cook said. "I got something I have to do."

  "If I didn't think I knew you, sir," Duffy said, "I'd think you didn't like me anymore."

  That's not it, my man," Cook said as he got up, drained his coffee cup, and put on his jacket. "I just don't want to end up in Podunk."

  As Tony Rizzo entered Crab City, a trendy seafood restaurant on Park Avenue South, he never even noticed Ellis Cook watching him from the opposite sidewalk. Rizzo sat down at a table where Mike Cometti, Carl Lutz, and Angelo Quatrini were already waiting. Rizzo didn't acknowledge the other men but spoke directly to Angelo.

  "Anyone follow you here?" he asked.

  "Nah," Angelo replied. "I remembered what you said, Tony. Whenever I meet with you I toss those feds like a salad. I lose 'em in the subways. They hate those fucking subways."

  "Good," Tony said. 'They'll be gone before you know it, Ang. Just hang tight. It's probably no big deal, but you never know with those motherfuckers. They see us sitting here talking like this, they're liable to pop a bug in the salt shaker."

  "Isn't that illegal?" Carl said, knitting his brow as though he were trying to recall one of the finer points of the legal system. "Isn't that like entrapment or something?"

  "Holy shit," Tony said to Angelo, "where the fuck did you get this guy, Ang? Is he for real?"

  "Nah, he's just fucking around," Angelo said, signaling his protege to shut up.

  Tony looked at Carl suspiciously and signaled the waiter to come take their order. As the waiter left, Tony leaned forward and said, "OK, here's the deal. We made over four million on the game yesterday." Here Tony paused for the proper effect. "Everybody big in our organization knows about it. In fact, my uncle wants to see me tonight at his house, and I know that's what it's about. I'm going to recommend that he cut each of you guys in for a hundred grand.

  "That's above the share of the business you already get, Ang," Tony said, making sure that Angelo knew he wasn't being treated the same as Cometti and Carl, both of whom looked as though they might swallow their tongues.

  "What I want to work on is this," Tony continued. "Ang, I want you to arrange a meeting with me and Scott Meeker."

  Meeker was the owner of The Star casino in Atlantic City. He always comped the big Mafia bosses when they came into town. He was on excellent terms with everyone and was one of the few men who could arrange meetings between men of different families without raising eyebrows.

  Angelo looked at Tony with a questioning expression.

  "You just tell him I need to see him about something important," Tony said. "I'm going to have him set up a meeting between me and Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone. There's no way I can talk to both of them at the same time without getting Scott to set it up. What I'm thinking is this: I want to throw a bone to these guys, let them in on the action for our next game."

  Tony saw three puzzled faces. It was what he expected, but he wanted to run this by his men to see if he'd considered all the angles. Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone were the heads of New York's other two prominent Italian crime families. The Bronx belonged to Ianuzzo, and Gamone ran Staten Island. They were the capos, the bosses. They were like corporate CEOs whereas Tony was only a capo regime, which was akin to a corporate VP. Normally the lines of communication weren't open between the two different ranks. But Tony, whose father had dealt with these men and whose uncle was currently dealing with them, and whose reputation in the city was growing every day, was close enough to the top to request such
a meeting. But without the intervention of Scott Meeker to keep the whole thing under wraps, Tony's uncle would be sure to find out. If he did find out, he would see what was coming and probably have Tony knocked off.

  But if Tony was going to whack his uncle, he would need to have already established a good relationship with Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone. Once Tony made the bold move, it would be up to the commission, the governing body made up of the heads of all the crime families, as to whether he would be allowed to take over the family, or be a marked man for upsetting the order of things without their prior consent. Since his uncle was not a controversial member of the commission, it would be foolish to approach the capos with the idea of eliminating him. But if he did it on his own, he would then have the right to ask the commission for their approval to take over the family and thus become a member of the commission himself. If Tony could ingratiate himself to Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone beforehand, his chances of success would be excellent.

  The cooperation of Scott Meeker would be the key to keeping these men's mouths shut. Once the meeting took place, Tony would rely on the lure of money to keep things quiet. For the privilege of giving these men an NFL football game, and thus millions of dollars, Tony would be asking only for their silence in return. In the process, however, he would undoubtedly be softening these men for when they had to make their future decision regarding his fate. It would be his peace offering. Beyond that, the manipulation of something as big as an NFL game would be a signal to these men that they were dealing with a man of power and vision.

  "First of all, Tony," Angelo finally said, breaking the stunned silence, "your uncle won't like you meeting with these guys without him knowing, and second, what makes you think they'll meet with you anyway? They don't deal with anyone but your uncle, and when we go to them, they'll probably just laugh in our faces."

  "First of all," Tony said, "Uncle Vinny isn't going to know that I'm meeting with them. You guys are going to keep this real quiet. Second, the key is Meeker. He can set it up and keep it confidential. I'll let him in on the action to make sure he does. Third, as far as Ianuzzo and Gamone are concerned, after they get in on the action, they'll be damn glad they met with me, and they'll look forward to doing business with me in the future."

  "Why not tell your uncle?" Angelo persisted.

  "Because, Ang," Tony said, knowing that although Angelo was his most valuable weapon, at the same time he was possibly his most dangerous obstacle, "I want to surprise Uncle Vinny like I did with this four million dollars. I don't want my uncle getting in the way of what I'm doing when it's ultimately the best thing for him. I want to help him position the family in a role of leadership among all the families. Once we do that, if we all work together, we can take back the drug trade from the Colombians and the Jamaicans."

  "But your uncle don't want anything to do with drugs," Angelo pointed out.

  Tony sighed, "Yeah, Ang, but that's just for now. My uncle will change his mind about that. I know he will. Believe me, he'll see the value of it.

  "I've already talked to my cousin Vinny, Jr., about it," Tony lied, "and me and him know that between the two of us we can bring Uncle Vinny around. Once we do, we'll have everything with the other families in place. You gotta think ahead in this world if you want to make it big."

  "It's fucking brilliant," Mike said, and Carl nodded.

  "OK," Angelo shrugged. "I just know how your uncle is, Tony. He won't like not knowing about something like this . . . but he's your uncle ..."

  "That's right," Tony said, "blood's thicker than water."

  All the men nodded their heads at the wisdom of this remark.

  "So when we gonna do it again?" Mike asked.

  "Always thinking ahead," Tony said to Mike as their food was laid down before them. Then to Carl he said, "You can learn something from Mikey. See how he's thinking ahead? That's just what I was talking about

  "We'll wait until the Tampa Bay game," Tony said, slurping down raw oysters with red sauce between each sentence. "That'll give me time to set things up with the big guys, and I want to give Logan a couple of weeks to settle down. I want to let things get back to normal for him. This guy right now is like a . . . like a racehorse to us. We want to rest him up good before running him again. Otherwise, he might crack and do something stupid. The head game I'm playing with this guy is the key to everything.

  "By the way," Tony said, "so I don't forget. Mikey, remind me tomorrow to have you take a hundred thousand dollars in cash and dump it in Hunter Logan's savings account. I want you to go in there and make a lot of fuss too, demand to see the manager and all that, so people remember you were there."

  "You gonna cut Logan in on this?" Mikey said, mystified.

  Tony slurped down his last oyster and chuckled. "Yeah, you could say that. That's exactly what I'm gonna do. This way, if Logan gets any ideas about not coming our way in the Tampa game . . . Well, it looks kinda bad for him that someone's dumped a big load of cash in his account. It looks real bad in fact."

  The others nodded and fell into their food. Tony Rizzo was handling Hunter Logan masterfully. It thrilled them all to be a part of something so big and so daring. They knew that one day everyone in their world would know the story about how they rigged the NFL games with a big-time quarterback. They each fancied that the part they played in it would give them a place in mob history.

  Chapter 27

  Hunter Logan spent his week preparing for the Titans' second game. It was hard work, concentrating on the upcoming game with Cleveland. It seemed that each time he got himself mentally into the Browns' defense, Tony Rizzo would pop into his mind. When he finally boarded the team plane at Kennedy Airport, Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. If Rizzo had planned on talking with Hunter, he'd have done it already. During the flight, Hunter delved into the intricacies of his game plan that he'd overlooked during the week. When they arrived at the hotel in downtown Cleveland, Bert wanted Hunter to go out for dinner with him and some other Titans players.

  "No," Hunter said, looking up only briefly from his notes. Upon entering the hotel room, he'd thrown his bag on the bed nearest the window and planted himself at the small desk that sat opposite. "I'm gonna stay here and go over this stuff."

  "Come with us," Bert said. "You gotta eat anyway."

  "I'll get some room service," Hunter mumbled.

  "Man, you're acting weird as hell," Bert said. "You can't let that bullshit in the media get you down."

  "I'm not," Hunter said honestly. "I just want to make sure we win this game tomorrow. I want to make sure I'm ready."

  "Hunt, we been doing this stuff all week. You're as ready as you'll ever be."

  "Nope," Hunter said.

  Bert knew his friend well enough to give up.

  Hunter studied for a full hour before his phone rang. It was his mother.

  "Where are you, Ma?" Hunter asked.

  "In the lobby downstairs," she said. "We wanted to surprise you! We drove out this morning."

  Cleveland was only about four hours from where Hunter had grown up. With everything that had been going on the past few weeks, he had forgotten to call and see if his family was coming and whether or not they needed tickets. He should have. The Titans weren't playing in Pittsburgh this season, and this was the closest he'd get to his hometown. Now he was in a vise. He wanted to study. He needed to study. But his mother had made the long drive to surprise him.

  "Is Henry with you?" Hunter heard himself ask without thinking.

  "No," his mother answered quietly, "he had some things to do. I came with Julia and Freddy. I hope it's all right."

  "Of course, Mom," Hunter said. Freddy was his sister's husband, a quiet, husky farmer whom Hunter had known since he was a kid and whom he had always liked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to come out that way. I'm glad you came. It was really nice. I should have called you this week to see if you needed tickets."

  "We got them from cousin Frank. He's a season ticket holder."


  "Sure, I know," Hunter said. "Well, let's see . . . it's six. I've got a meeting at eight, so how about if I come down and take the three of you to dinner?"

  'That's fine, Hunter, but we didn't want to disturb you--"

  "Come on, Ma, I'll be right down."

  Hunter hung up and pulled on his jeans and his boots. He'd been studying in his undershorts and socks. In the lobby, he was swarmed by kids. Each one had a page or two filled with at least a dozen different types of football trading cards bearing his image. Hunter could see his mom, his sister, and her husband over the throng. He smiled apologetically to everyone and said, "OK, guys, one card each. I'll sign one for everybody, but just one."

  The kids looked at this as a boon and cheered their hero. Hunter could see his mom smile with pride and settle down to wait until he'd finished. "That was a nice thing you did," she said when she was on his arm and walking out the door with him. "That's why things have gone so well for you, Hunter, you've never changed."

  This prompted Hunter to think of the precariousness of his current situation. Had it not been his mother who'd made the remark, he would have laughed openly and bitterly at the irony of what she'd said.

  There was a good restaurant close by that Hunter knew from his many trips to Cleveland with the NFL. It was also casual enough so that his family wouldn't feel uncomfortable. Freddy was wearing his work boots and a flannel shirt, and Hunter knew that any place that was fancy enough to have a maitre d' would have made them uneasy. Hunter's presence created a stir the instant they walked into the place. He did his best to act like people weren't ogling him, despite the fact that their young hostess couldn't keep her mouth from hanging open as she led them to a corner booth that Hunter had pointed out to her. They talked about things from home; how the crops were looking, Freddy's bull that won a blue ribbon at the fair in August, and how much money its sperm would bring in. Hunter was painfully aware of how distant his own world was from these people who had once been at the center of his universe.

  When their food came, the conversation lagged. They ate like people who worked outdoors for a living. By the end of the meal, Hunter felt the silence draw him, like a rabbit to a snake's eyes, to the familiar subject that any thought of home inevitably brought him to.