A Touch of Greed (11 page)

“Hallelujah,” Fisk said. “Now . . . can we find something to eat around here?”

Chapter 13

Just one look at the outside of the off-track betting place and Tommy knew he wasn’t in Baltimore anymore. There was a large patch of desert with some sort of beat-up cactus and a few wilted shrubs along the front wall. Along the side of the building an asphalt parking lot had a half-dozen pickup trucks and a couple of small foreign cars. Tommy parked in the back by himself, giving the rental a chance to survive a door ding.

As soon as he stepped inside, however, he felt right at home. It was a struggling sports bar whose owner probably decided to lure degenerate gamblers to bolster his lunch business. The rectangular bar was centered in the middle of the room with a scattering of round tables around the perimeter. To the right was the restaurant with booths and tables. To the left was the wall of OTB tellers.

Tommy took a seat at the bar and gestured to the bartender. “I’ll take a bottle of Bud and a Form please,” he said.

The guy behind the bar seemed bored as he placed the beer on the bar and handed Tommy the Racing Form.

“Seven-fifty,” the guy said.

Tommy gave the bartender a ten and told him to keep it. He took a swig of beer and examined the room. He spotted his mark instantly. The guy was sitting in a booth on the restaurant side, a pretty girl snuggled up next to him wearing the shortest shorts he’d ever seen. The guy stuck out because the crowd was mostly gray-haired men straining to see one of the dozen TV monitors hanging from the ceiling. He also stuck out because he was pushing three hundred pounds of pure fat. 

Tommy glanced at a TV and discovered it was seven minutes to post time for the third race at Hollywood Park. He opened his Form and studied the charts. After a minute he glanced back up at the TV and said, “Shit.”

There was an older guy sitting two stools down from him who noticed Tommy’s mild outburst. He was a burly guy with a two-day stubble and a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck.

“You okay?” the man asked.

“Aw, sure,” Tommy said, pointing to the TV, disgusted. “It’s just that the four horse is scratched.”

The guy looked down at his Form on the bar in front of him. “Of course he’s scratched, he’s a pig. Should be pulling a plow out in a field.”

Tommy nodded at the old-timer. “Yeah, but he’s the only other speed in the race. Who’s gonna wear down the chalk?”

The guy kept reading the paper in front of him. “What about the eight?”

“The eight?” Tommy laughed. “Shit, I could outrun that horse to the first turn.”

The guy put his reading glasses on and placed his index finger on the Form next to the eight horse’s past performances. While staring at the Form, the guy’s face broke out into a sheepish grin.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “So I shouldn’t bet on the five to close up on him, huh?”

“Not without the four to force the pace.”

Tommy noticed the man’s beer glass was nearly empty. He waved at the bartender and said, “Please pour another beer for my friend here.”

The guy looked over to be certain Tommy was talking about him. “You sure?”

“Of course.” Tommy slid over one stool to sit next to the guy. He held out his hand. “Tommy Bracco.”

“Ben Westfall,” the man said, shaking Tommy’s hand.

“Hey, I hate know-it-alls,” Tommy said. “Bet whoever you want. I’m just a big mouth sometimes.”

“Don’t worry, I always do.”

“You’ve spent a few afternoons down here betting the ponies, eh, Ben?”

“A few,” Ben said, as he took his beer from the bartender and held it up to his new friend. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Tommy said. He looked up and saw a line forming at the teller. “You better get your bet down on the third.”

“Nah,” Ben said. “I’m not betting the favorite at that price. It’s not worth getting up twice to make twenty cents.”

“Twenty cents? You’re a two-dollar bettor?”

Ben sipped some of the foam off his beer. “Yes, sir.”

Tommy smiled. “My uncle was a two-dollar bettor as well. He used to bet just for the thrill of knowing he was right.”

“He still around?”

“Naw, he died when I was a kid. He was an ex-cop, Baltimore PD.”

Ben put his glass down. “I’m ex-Chicago PD. Your uncle and I would’ve gotten along great.”

“I’ll bet you would’ve,” Tommy said. “Once he died, my cousins Nick and Phil ended up living with us. Nick followed his footsteps as a Baltimore cop, then went on to become an FBI agent.”

“How about Phil?”

“He’s in Vegas gambling his way to bankruptcy.” Tommy shrugged. “You just never know.”

“No, you don’t.”

A distant bell rang and both men instinctively looked up to see the horses break from the gate at Hollywood Park. A low murmur filled the room as the favorite settled into an easy lead.

“You’re right,” Ben said. “He’s going to run away with it.”

As the favorite came down the stretch, the banter and cheering swelled. The moment he crossed the finish line two lengths ahead of the field, the cheering stopped and a handful of men slapped their hands with their Forms, trying to cash in on a long shot which was never going to make it.

Ben looked at Tommy. “How come you didn’t bet?”

“Too much on my mind.”

“Like what?”

Tommy stood and faced Ben. “You see this big guy over my left shoulder.”

Ben gave a cursory glance, then took another sip of his beer. “Yup.”

“You know him?”

Ben gave Tommy a cautious look. “You a friend of his?”

Tommy chuckled. “Hardly. I just want to make sure I got the right guy. His name is Jerry Lemke, right?”

Ben nodded. “That’s him. Why?”

Tommy gave Ben a surreptitious grin. “My cousin’s an FBI agent and he needs some info from this guy. We don’t have time for a formal question and answer session, so I’m going to need to speed up the process a bit.”

“You going to play rough with him?”

“Very.”

Ben gave a satisfied smile. “Good. The guy’s an asshole. Comes in here every day and sits in that booth and makes out with that slut all afternoon. He’s rude to the staff, cuts in line at the teller’s window right at post time, and then he does that.” Ben shot the large man an angry glare. The guy was lighting up a cigarette without a care in the world.

Tommy cringed. “You kidding me? He gets away with that?”

Ben returned his attention to the Form. “They’re all afraid of him. He must be with some drug cartel, or maybe a gun runner, because he comes with an entourage.”

Tommy nodded to the two burly men sitting in the booth next to Lemke, nursing martinis and acting bored. “Yeah, I’ve seen the muscle.”

“That’s just part of the team. They’re all over the place, maybe half a dozen, maybe more. I’m not sure, I’m seeing a lot of unfamiliar faces today.”

Tommy peeked down at the windbreaker draped across the back of Ben’s stool. “You carrying?”

Ben lifted his glass of beer and examined it. “Never leave home without it.” Then he swallowed half the glass in one long pull.

Tommy placed a gentle hand on Ben’s back. “You’re a good man, Ben Westfall. Can you do me one favor?”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to go over there now and make a scene. Don’t get involved. Let the bartender know to be cool as well. It should be over pretty quick.”

“I can do that.”

“Thanks.” Tommy turned to go, then paused and looked back at the ex-cop. “Listen, should I do something stupid and get myself shot. Would you do me a favor and kill the fat fuck for me?”

Ben held up his glass of beer in a mock toast. “Be glad to.”

Tommy slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter for Ben’s beer, then adjusted his toothpick and headed toward the restaurant seating. As he approached the booth, the burly gentlemen next door straightened up. Tommy slid into the booth next to Lemke and across from the skinny girl with the short shorts.

“Hey, Jerry,” Tommy said, affably. Then he pulled the cigarette from Lemke’s hand and dunked it into the guy’s beer. “There’s no smoking allowed in this establishment.”

Lemke jerked back in surprise, never expecting insubordination like that in public. He glanced to his right, but the two thugs were already out of the booth and on top of Tommy, tugging him from his seat, a tight grip on each arm. Tommy hung limp in their grasp. By now the entire posse had formed a semicircle around the booth, maybe eight guys in total, seeming anxious to engage in battle.

“What do you want to do with him?” one of the thugs said.

Tommy looked over his shoulder and saw Ben fumbling with his windbreaker. Tommy gave him an angry shake of his head to warn him off.

An arrogance blossomed over Lemke’s face. He looked at his cigarette floating in his beer and slashed an index finger across his throat.

“Got it,” the guy said.

That’s when the restaurant was swarmed with a group of dark-skinned men who seemed to appear from the shadows. Men with vowels at the end of their names. They had filled the remainder of the restaurant and flanked Lemke’s crew. Maybe twenty guys, with serious expressions and no need to show their guns to make it known they were packing.

“Let him go,” an authoritative voice growled. Coming forward was a square-jawed man with thick eyebrows and a penetrating glare. Dino Manato elbowed one of the thugs holding Tommy and both men let go of their grips. Tommy smoothed out his shirt, then returned to his seat in the booth. Dino stood at the head of the table, stone-faced.

Lemke’s crew knew they were outnumbered and waited on their boss for direction. The large man appeared interested in the situation but not quite convinced it was a serious event in his day.

“Get out of here, Trixie,” Tommy told the girl.

With a look of shock, the girl glanced at Lemke, who nodded his approval. As she began to slide out of the booth she said, “How’d you know my name?”

“Your name is really Trixie?” Tommy asked.

She bobbed her head in a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Then go home and call your mother and apologize for everything you’ve ever done. Capisce?”

With the girl gone, Tommy examined the contents of the table with a disgusted expression. A half-eaten burger next to a giant plate of fries and two empty chocolate milk shakes with a thin film of grime on the glasses.

“You’re a real piece of shit, Gerald,” Tommy said. “You realize in Nairobi, there are young kids who would feast on that crap for a month just to keep alive.”

Lemke’s face scrunched up into an angry scowl. “Who the fuck are you?”

Tommy scratched his head and glanced around to make sure his coup hadn’t upset too many customers. “I’m the guy who gets what he wants. Every time.”

“And exactly what is it you want?” the obese counterfeiter growled.

“I need to know where Garza’a safe house is here in Tucson. Maybe he’s got a few. I want the one where he might be keeping a kidnapped thirteen-year-old girl.”

A couple of Lemke’s crew didn’t take kindly to being shoved in toward the booth and they shoved back, but a quick punch in the face from a ‘family friend’ stopped the struggle quickly.

“Garza?” Lemke asked, looking sincere. “Who the fuck is Garza?”

Tommy nodded, ready for the ignorance card to be played. “Okay, so you’re here in an OTB playing kissy-face with some bimbo while your daughter Chelsea has a half-day of school. You do know Chelsea, right?”

At the mention of his daughter’s name, the blubber on the guy’s face tightened into confusion.

“And,” Tommy continued, “you probably don’t know she’s been taken hostage as well. Some very dangerous men picked her up twenty minutes ago.”

Lemke looked around at his crew as if searching for confirmation, but no one could give him anything.

“Call her,” Tommy said.

Lemke didn’t move.

Tommy picked up the beer with the floating cigarette and threw it into Lemke’s face. “Call her, asshole.”

When Lemke’s fat fingers wiped the beer from his face, he seemed to realize he wasn’t in control anymore. He picked his cell phone off the table, pushed a button, then held it to his ear.

Tommy lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair. While waiting, he looked at Dino Manato and shrugged. “Guy’s not all there, is he?”

Dino didn’t move a muscle. He seemed experienced at this type of warfare.

After a minute, Lemke said into the phone, “Hi, honey, this is Dad. Call me.” He returned the phone to the table, then said to Tommy. “Do you know who I am?”

Tommy scoffed. “You mean, are you the guy who prints funny money for certain cartels so they can pay for their weapons with worthless paper? That guy?”

Tommy felt the table rise as Lemke leaned his girth forward and shook his head with disdain. “No, jerkoff, I’m the guy who owns the southwest. I snap a finger and people are motivated to make things happen.”

“Uh, huh.” Tommy leaned back in the booth. “Go ahead and snap . . . I’ll wait.”

Lemke didn’t remove his stare from Tommy’s poker face.

“All right,” Tommy said. “I’ve had enough. Call Vivian and ask her where Chelsea is. She’s waiting to pick her up at Washington Junior High. They had a half-day today because of teachers’ conferences. Of course you wouldn’t know that because you’re here eating unhealthy food and smoking cigarettes.”

Lemke appeared uncomfortable with the ease in which Tommy rattled off his personal information. He picked up the phone again and pushed a button.

Tommy waited. A hostess came over to check on the crowded restaurant, but Ben pulled her aside and explained things. Tommy motioned with his hand that he needed something to write with.

Lemke said, “Hi sweetie,” into the phone. “What’re you doing?”

While he listened, his face lost its color and his eyes grew into soft round plates of distress.

Tommy pulled the toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it between a couple of molars, always keeping his gums vibrant.

When Lemke put his phone down, he looked around to see if there was an out. Tommy knew the guy needed to compromise without his crew seeing him cave. He’d lose respect.

Tommy motioned to Dino. “Get rid of these mongrels. They’re causing too much of a scene. Have them wait outside.”