Sal looked at the fur comforter, ran his bare foot over it, and wondered about Nashe’s assets. Rich people can be funny. They’ve got a lot of things, but they don’t always have cash. No liquidity. That day at the construction site he said his money was all tied up. Is that what he’s gonna tell me after the fight? What if I get Walker to throw it and Walker does, then Nashe stiffs him? Then what? Is Walker gonna run to the cops? Tell them the big bad mobster Sal Immordino made him do it? Fuck.
He looked over at her. “Your husband really as rich as they say he is?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is what I read in the papers.” The sly little grin again.
Sal frowned. He needed real answers, not cute ones. “He can’t be worth that much, c’mon.”
“One point five billion. According to New York magazine.”
“What do you think?”
Another shrug. “I’ve never had to wait for a check to clear.”
Very funny. Did this broad ever get serious?
Sydney scratched more cream out of the little jar and went back to her nails. Sal’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. There was a kitchen on this tug, but Sydney probably didn’t know where it was. Those hands didn’t do dishes. They could call the butler, or whatever the hell you call him on a boat, to bring some food, but Sal didn’t want anyone else to know he was here. Bad enough that the bodyguard she’s got watching the boat saw him coming aboard. And this wasn’t the first time the guy’s seen him here. Sydney says don’t worry, he’s okay, he works for her, not Russ. But who knows? Nashe is the kind of guy who’d drop a grand on a bodyguard now and then just to let him know what’s going on with the wife. Yeah, he probably does that a lot, with all the help. That’s money for you. Course Sydney doesn’t seem to give a shit one way or another whether Russ finds out about them or not. And what the hell does he care who she’s sleeping with? He doesn’t sleep with her. Strange people. That’s what too much money does to them, makes ’em strange.
Yeah, I should be so strange.
Sal sat up and opened the liquor cabinet built into the headboard. Maybe there was something to eat in there. He rummaged around behind the bottles of booze nobody drinks and found a can of smoked almonds. You could see from the picture on the can that they were the kind loaded with salt. Very bad for you. He kept feeling around behind the bottles until he found a big jar of macadamia nuts. These were good, but he knew he shouldn’t have them. Lot of cholesterol in these things. Expensive too. Four, five bucks for just a little tiny jar. Sal unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Fuck the cholesterol. You gotta live sometime. He poured out a handful and shot a few into his mouth. They were good. He settled back against the headboard, popping macadamia nuts, staring at the lavender-dyed fur comforter hanging off the foot of the bed, wondering if it was mink or fox or what.
“You want a nut?” He held out the jar to her.
“No thanks.” She shook her head, still concentrating on her goddamn nails.
“Go ahead, have one. Russ paid for them.”
She shook her head, swishing all that great blond hair over her shoulders. He wished to hell he could think of some way to get her to talk about Russ’s money without being too obvious about it, but he couldn’t think of anything. Besides, when Sydney didn’t want to talk, you could ask till you were blue in the face. She talked only when she wanted to talk.
Sal settled back down into the pillows and started thinking about the fight deal again, wondering whether he should pull out of it. If anything went wrong, Mistretta would go bullshit, might even do a Tommy Ricks number on him. It was possible. The old man was strict and losing money made him crazy. He could get that mad. But on the other hand, deals like this don’t come along every day. When would he be able to make a score like this again? Maybe never.
He traced invisible figures on the sheet with his finger, multiplying in his head. If the odds are five to one at fight-time—five times thirty—we make one hundred fifty million. I get twenty percent . . . that’s thirty mil. If they’re six to one, we make one eighty and I get . . . thirty-six mil. I could buy two of the cement factories with that. Get something going with Frank Bartolo and the unions. Make sure we get a few contracts for some nice big buildings. It would be all right. Wouldn’t make billions, but it would be all right. Could even buy a nice purple boat if I wanted one. Not a big stupid yacht like this thing, no. One of those speedboats. What do they call them? Cigarette boats. Nice. Sal popped another couple of macadamia nuts. Life is nice when you’ve got money, money like this. The cops couldn’t have heard anything the other day. This fight scam is too good to give up. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hell, it would be stupid to back out now. Sal poured out another handful of nuts. He grinned and chewed, running his bare toes through the soft lavender fur. This was practically a sure thing. Just about a sure thing. Hey, what the hell—
“So are you going to tell me?” Sydney suddenly asked, still working on her cuticles.
“Huh? Tell you what?”
“What you and Russell are cooking up together?” She didn’t lift her eyes from her work.
“What do you care?”
She looked at him. “I like to know these things. You know that.”
Sal shrugged. “I don’t know nothin’.” He popped a few more macadamias and grinned at her. She’s really something, this broad.
She turned on her side, reached over, and started twirling the hair on Sal’s chest. “Why are you so suspicious of me? All I want is to save my marriage.” She even said it with a straight face.
“Give me a break. You hate his guts.”
“So? That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be Mrs. Russell Nashe anymore.” She exposed one leg and ran her little toes through the lavender fur and up Sal’s foot. “Face it, Sal, alimony could never match this. I wouldn’t be poor if I divorced him, but all the excitement would be gone.”
Sal shrugged again. “Money isn’t exciting?”
“Not by itself, no. I like getting written up in the papers, getting invited to fabulous dinner parties, going places, meeting important people. That’s exciting. My first husband had money—not nearly as much as Russell—but he had money. He was a farty vice president at Drexel Lambert, the classic Brooks Brothers type. When we were divorced, he was making something like a million a year with bonuses. We lived in a big house in Bedminster, threw boring dinner parties for boring people, went to boring dinner parties thrown by boring people. I mean, our big social event of the year was Malcolm Forbes’s annual Christmas party. The last one I went to, Malcolm himself had the good sense not to show up. You can’t imagine how dreadful that life was for me. I redecorated the house twice a year, and no matter what I did, the place always looked like a mausoleum. I had affairs, but that was boring, too, because my husband knew and he didn’t care. All he cared about was his damn prostate. I felt like I’d died.”
“So what’s so great about being married to Nashe? He doesn’t even sleep with you.”
“Yes, he does. Once a year. Usually around Christmas. But that’s not the point.”
Sal poured out some more nuts. “So what is the point?”
She brought her face up close to his and opened her eyes wide. “The point is that being Mrs. Russell Nashe is a whole . . . lotta . . . fun.”
Sal made a face. “Get outta here.”
“It’s true. Anybody can be rich, but not everybody can be celebrity-rich, superrich. I don’t want to be locked up in some lonely mansion, staring at my bankbooks. I want to be where the action is. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I want to swim in money.”
“You’re a wack, you know that? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Sydney sighed and fell back into her pillow. “Russell would love to divorce me, but I know too much about how he operates. Not always aboveboard.” That sly little grin again. “He doesn’t tell me anything about his business, but I find things out. And he knows I’m the type who’ll ki
ss and tell. I think he’s stuck with me.”
Madonn’, some Lolita. Sal shook his head and probed the back of his mouth with his tongue where a piece of macadamia nut was lodged in his molars. “You’re a real wack.”
She put her head on her shoulder and looked at him sideways. “How do you think I got this yacht?”
Sal thought about it. It’s possible. Nashe supposedly doesn’t even like boats. She could’ve squeezed him for it. Rich people are all fucking nuts.
“So are you going to tell me what you and Russell are up to?” she repeated. “It has something to do with the fight, doesn’t it?”
Sal had his finger in his mouth, trying to dislodge that piece of macadamia nut. “Who says we’re doing anything with the fight?” Jesus, how the hell—?
“I have my sources.” She grinned and moved the hair away from her face with her pinkie.
“So who told you?” He already had a pretty good idea. That bodyguard, the one who was feeling her up in the elevator . . . that tall fuck with the Dudley Do-right face, the one who looks like a cop. Tomasso. “Who told you I got a deal going with Russ? That’s not true.”
Sydney shrugged, then sat up and went back to her cuticle cream. Now she was gonna get cute.
“Who told you we got something going with the fight? That bodyguard your husband’s got? The one who thinks he’s such a hot shit? Tomassi, Tomasso, whatever his name is.”
Sydney shrugged and kept rubbing her nails, still with the little grin.
“You fucking him too? He tells you what you want to hear in bed? Is that how it goes?”
“You sound jealous, Sal.”
“Jealous? What are you, kiddin’? What do you think, you’re my girlfriend?” Sal shoved his finger into the back of his mouth. He couldn’t get that fucking macadamia nut loose. He wasn’t jealous. She’s a whore, for chrissake—what’s there to be jealous? It was that fuck Tomasso. He knew there was something wrong with that guy the minute he saw him. He could be a cop, sure. He’s sleeping with her, pumping her for information, same way she must do with everybody else. Tomasso could fuck everything up, depending on how much he knows. Shit. What if he knows about the fix? Oughta break his goddamn back, shut him up for good. Fucking Tomasso, he’s gonna screw me up here. Bastard! If it is him who told Sydney, he’s dead. Definitely.
“So what’s the story with this guy Tomasso? He got a baseball bat in his pants or what?”
“Mike’s a nice guy.” Her eyelashes were on her cheeks again. She was gonna be shy and innocent now.
“Whattaya mean ‘nice guy’? I’m not a nice guy?”
“Mike tells me little things.”
“What little things?” He reached way back with his pinkie, but he couldn’t get the nut out of his teeth. Goddamn it.
Sydney grinned and kept her eyes on her nails, then she started to hum a little tune.
Sal rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Here we go with the singing. Madonn’. “This must be a new one. I don’t recognize it.”
“Sal . . .” She just looked at him. “It’s the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies.” She said it as if he was supposed to know.
She started humming again, and he knew she’d keep it up until he told her what she wanted to hear. She thinks she’s clever when she pulls this crap with the TV songs. The last time it was the song from Mr. Ed. The time before that, The Flintstones. Yabba-dabba-doo, for chrissake. He hated it when she did this with the songs. But he had to know if it was Tomasso.
He waited, hoping she’d stop humming, but she didn’t. He was going to have to play along with her, so he bit his bottom lip and rolled his eyes like Ralph Kramden. “All right, stop with the humming, will ya?”
She switched from humming to singing da-da-da, a little louder now.
“Shut up now, I’m asking you.” Making like he was really getting mad.
She kept singing as she rubbed cream into her nails, the little grin turning into a smile.
“Come on, stop now.” He put a little pleading into his voice.
She didn’t stop.
“Hey, listen to me, listen to me. Your boyfriend Tomasso is right. Okay? You satisfied?”
She looked over at him, still singing, still rubbing her nails. She wanted more.
He clasped his hands together as if he were praying and looked up at the ceiling. “I swear to Christ, if this was my wife, I wouldn’t divorce her, I’d kill her.” This was what Sydney liked, the WASP version of an Italian. Guido in his guinea T-shirt, hanging out on the corner. Ha-ha-ha, very funny. Bitch.
She laughed and kept singing. The Beverly Hillbillies. Look at her. She’s unbelievable. Superrich, my ass. Lee Iacocca’s wife doesn’t watch The Beverly Hillbillies, you can bet on that. Maybe when she was married to the other guy, she sat home all day watching television. She’s weird enough. She’s weird enough to keep this up all night and not tell him about Tomasso too.
“You know, it’s no big deal,” he said. “It’s not what you’re thinking. Yeah, yeah, Russ and I are doing business and it does involve the fight. Okay? You wanna know what it is? I’ll tell you. It has to do with the unions.”
She looked skeptical.
“Yeah, the unions. The janitors and the sanitation workers. Your husband wants to make sure the place is cleaned up right after the fight, that night. That means people will have to be working early Sunday morning and, by rights, they don’t have to work then if they don’t want to. That’s why he came to me. For a price, I keep the unions in line so that the place gets cleaned up right away, no problem. There, that’s the big deal we got going. You satisfied now? Now, who told you about it?”
That sly little grin. Very proud of herself. She reached over for the jar of macadamia nuts, took one, stuck it between her teeth, and crunched down loud enough for him to hear. She chewed a little, then started humming again.
Jesus Christ Almighty, this woman! He twisted his tongue and worked on that goddamn nut stuck in his teeth. Tomasso told her. Had to be him, had to be. But how did he know? Sal contorted his tongue and finally got the piece of macadamia to come loose. He guided the tiny piece to the tip of his tongue and crushed it with his front teeth. “So what else did your friend Tomasso tell you?”
She screwed the cap on the small jar of cuticle cream and put it on the night table. “I didn’t say it was Mike who told me. Besides, I never reveal my sources.” She turned over on her side and started rubbing his crotch through the sheet.
“It was him. I know. It had to be.” The son of a bitch. Thirty-six million. No one’s gonna fuck me out of that. Cop or no cop. I want my own life-style of the rich and famous.
She started humming again as she got to her knees and dangled those tits of hers right in front of his face.
“Enough with the hillbillies! You’re giving me a headache.”
She threw back the sheet, clutched his stiff dick, straddled him, and used it on herself like a dildo. All greased and ready to go. Unbelievable.
“Ummm . . . ‘black gold, Texas tea.’” Her eyes half closed, grinning.
He pulled her hands away, arched his back, and gave her the whole thing, right up to the hilt. She squirmed and twisted, but she wouldn’t stop with the goddamn humming. “Hey, Sydney, do me a favor, will ya?”
“What would that be?”
“Just shut up and fuck.”
She moaned and grinned—Lolita on a bucking bronco—but she didn’t stop humming. He linked fingers with her and decided to give her a good ride. What a weird bitch. Weird and nosy. He wondered what the hell she sang for that bastard Tomasso.
verybody was watching the action up in the ring, everybody except Tozzi and the other bodyguards. Tozzi was in position, standing a few feet behind Russell Nashe, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared across the crowded gym. He didn’t like what he saw. The double doorway across the gym was open, bright with sunlight from outside. He could make out two silhouettes, one of them a huge figure, easily as big as the big man up in the ri
ng, Charles Epps. Tozzi couldn’t make out the faces, but the big guy was big enough to be Sal Immordino, Sal standing there with his brother Joseph. But what would they be doing here at Charles Epps’s training camp with all these reporters and TV people? Much too much exposure for a slug like Immordino. Unless he was here for a reason, to make sure something was done maybe. To make sure a certain fed who was working undercover was taken care of? Tozzi stared at the silhouettes. He didn’t like this. Sud denly he felt exposed. He squinted, trying to make out the faces, but it was no use. The sun was too bright.
Tozzi turned away from the doorway and glanced up at the ring. The harsh gymnasium lights were gleaming off Charles Epps’s shaved head as he stalked his anonymous sparring partner, a black guy whose face was obscured by the headgear. The sparring partner bore more than a passing resemblance to “Pain” Walker in size, physique, and complexion. No coincidence. But Tozzi had gotten a good look at the guy’s face before this demo bout started, and there was one big difference between him and the champ: he was a lot closer to Epps’s age than to Walker’s. The guy wasn’t feeble, but he wasn’t twenty-six either. Like Epps, he fought in bursts, on again, off again, pacing himself so he wouldn’t run out of gas, punching in flurries, then backing off and circling to get a breather. Epps was doing that right now, circling backward with heavy loping steps that might’ve been mistaken for footwork once upon a time. He was still credible as a contender, though, because of his hard punch. Tozzi could tell from that keen homicidal look in his eye that he was looking to use it. It was the same look Sal had when he had his big paw around Tozzi’s throat in the elevator the other day. Wonderful.
Epps circled back toward his opponent now and started throwing left-jab, right-cross combinations, still looking for that opening. Tozzi heard the hiss of tired lungs and saw sprays of sweat against the lights as Epps kept punching doggedly, hoping to get lucky. Then out of the blue he threw a freight-train right that just missed, grazing the sparring partner’s headgear and whipping his head around as if it had really connected. The restless crowd woke up and took notice. Tozzi was surprised and impressed himself. Apparently so was the sparring partner because he wasted no time backpedaling out of range. By all indications, Epps’s legendary killer right hadn’t aged a bit.
Bad Luck Page 9
