Gorilla Beach (18 page)

“What did you think of Will?” asked Bella with stiff lips as her mask hardened.

The manicurist painted on the last coat of clear polish and started blowing on Gia's tips, holding her fingers up close to her lips. “Oh, jeez. I just got excited.” The manicurist stopped blowing. “No, I like it.” Turning to Bella, Gia said, “Will is a good kid. But he's not exactly your type. He's small, no tattoos, and he's so white! Like a piece of chalk rolled in glue with baking soda sprinkled on top.”

“He's definitely different. But I haven't had so much luck with
gorillas. Bobby turned into a stalker. Tony turned on me when I was at my lowest point ever. All of my boyfriends were cut from the same cloth, and I'm thinking it might be a good idea to try something new.”

Gia rolled her eyes under the brand-new peacock-feather lashes she'd glued on earlier. “I know you, Bella. You're attracted to gorilla juiceheads. The kookah wants what the kookah wants. You can't convince yourself to fall for someone.”

“Will has real talent. I can learn from him. I want a man to inspire my soul, not just my kookah.”

“Okay, okay. Take it easy, or you'll crack your face. I'm just saying … you had a rough year, and you might latch onto the first person that comes along. You might not be seeing things as clearly as you think you are.”

“Can I get this off?” Bella rapped on her face mask. The facialist peeled off the honey mask. “You want to be treated like a queen? Well, I want to be treated like an equal. I expect you to back me up, no matter what, even if I made a horrible mistake. That's what best friends do.”

Then Bella stormed off. Gia's stomach sank. It was the first bad feeling she'd had since she arrived in AC. Well, second, if she counted being left by Ponzi last night. That really wasn't so terrible. A guy who wanted to take it slow? Obviously, he respected the hell out of her. She liked
that
feeling. But now she had to soothe Bella's hurt feelings. Was it wrong to send up the warning shot about Will? What did that kid have to offer Bella? It was too early to tell. She had a blinding flash of insight—or maybe that was the UV lamp the manicurist just switched on to dry her nails. Whatever. The point was …
Mmmm, the foot massage feels really good,
she thought. What was she thinking before? Something to do with Bella wanting to be treated like an equal.

In Gia's eyes, no man was Bella's equal. That's what Gia should've said, and would.

The facialist seemed to be reading her mind. “Your friend is very sensitive. Very tender. I could tell by her thin skin. Tan, but thin.”

“I'm worried about her,” said Gia. “I don't want her to get hurt. She's shaky right now. I had to say what I was thinking! It'd be wrong to keep it to myself. In some ways, having psychic power is a pain in the ass.”

The manicurist said, “I'll tell you a joke, take your mind off your friend.”

“I love jokes!”

“Okay. Did you hear about the gambler who came to Atlantic City in a fifty-thousand-dollar car and left in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bus?”

All the women laughed, including Gia. “That's awesome! But why would he rather drive a bus than a slick car?”

The manicurist said, “Not driving the bus. A passenger on the bus.”

“But why take the bus if he had his own wheels?”

“No, he lost the car.”

“Like, in a parking lot?”

The manicurist and facialist lifted their pencil-thin, arched eyebrows at each other. The pedicurist said, “Yes. He lost the car in a parking lot.”

Gia beamed. “That
is
funny.”

Fredo's rickshaw was parked
on the boardwalk outside Nero's Palace. He'd been taking an afternoon spin daily while the girls did … well, actually, he had no idea how Gia and Bella spent their afternoons. They slept all morning. God help the poor slob who interrupted Gia from her glitter dreamworld. Fredo once crept into their room and nudged her shoulder to see if she wanted to go with him to La Dolce Vito for an almond croissant. She nearly tore his hand off.

Lesson one of living with guidettes: Do not disturb their beauty sleep. You might lose a limb.

For the week they'd been at Nero's, Fredo, Gia, and Bella had fallen into the routine of doing their own things during the day, rendezvousing in the suite at nine to go out to dinner. Sometimes, their boys came along. Fredo had mixed feelings about Ponzi. On the upside, he often paid. On the downside, he acted like a prick whenever Gia wasn't there. Will was cool, though. After dinner, they'd play roulette until Gia's win percentage started to dip. Then they'd go to Providence or Midnight for dancing and drinks.

Meanwhile, the safe was filling up with stacks of cash. They put in more every night. They had to be closing in on Fredo's magic number, the amount he needed to return to Seaside Heights in triumph. If Gia's “gift” stuck around for another few days, he'd be golden.

His skin was golden, too, approaching bronzed. He spent part of every day on Gorilla Beach, soaking up sun and the vibes. Just being around the guido population was making him feel like a part of it. The gorillas had started to nod at him when they saw him. He nodded back with the same cool nonchalance. They accepted him, maybe even liked him. And not only the dudes. He'd caught girls looking at him, too. Erin, the cute pit boss, watched him at the table every night, closely. She was supercute, and her gaze made him nervous. A few times, he'd wondered what she'd look like out of that boxy, unflattering yellow jacket she wore.

“To the Taj, Juan,” said Fredo, settling into the seat of the wicker rickshaw. His regular pilot, Juan, a three-hundred-pound, forty-year-old Puerto Rican in cargo shorts, a safari hat, a purple wifebeater, black socks, and Teva sandals, greeted him as usual with a growl and his hand out. Fredo forked over a twenty, and they were off.

Although he felt a bit anxious being pushed from behind, Fredo enjoyed his daily tour. He envisioned himself as a pasha in robes, carried by servants in a Roman litter.

They rolled passed Fralinger's candy store. Fredo asked, “You want taffy, Juan?”

Without speaking, Juan pulled to a stop at the door of the store. Fredo hopped out, ducked under the rickshaw canopy, and went inside. He selected a brick of peanut-butter fudge and a bag of assorted taffy for Juan. He returned to find his rickshaw occupied.

“Hello, Mr. Lupo,” said a redhead in an orange halter dress.

Fredo glanced at Juan, who shrugged. “Erin!” said Fredo. “So that's what you look like out of your uniform!”

Juan coughed and shook his head every so slightly.

Then Fredo noticed the girl was blushing. “Oh! I didn't mean … you look pretty, that's all.” She looked red-hot, to tell the truth. “Can I, er, give you a lift?”

“That's be great, thanks,” she said, smiling.

Fredo slipped in next to her. Their rickshaw was designed to fit up to three people, or two fat tourists from Texas. There was plenty of room for a skinny guido and a slight ginger. But Erin sat close enough to Fredo to touch thighs.

“I hope you and your friends are having a pleasant stay at Nero's,” she said.

“Were you following me?” he asked, suspicious. Growing up Lupo would do that to anyone.

Her cheeks had bright red splotches by now. “I wanted to talk to you, get to know you better. You kind of stand out.”

Was Erin flirting with him or calling him a human ostrich? Not to say that she couldn't be doing both. “It's just that pretty girls don't usually jump into my rickshaw.”

Erin smiled. “I can't imagine why.” She put her freckled hand on his thigh.

He almost jumped through the canopy. “Now I
know
you're playing me. What's really going on here?”

Erin hesitated and removed her hand. He missed it terribly. They stared at each other. Fredo tried to concentrate on looking tough, and not crumbling in those green eyes—especially when they filled up and Erin started crying.

Instant flashback to the thousands of times his mom defeated him by crying. Donna Lupo would turn on the waterworks, and Fredo would give in to whatever she wanted. He felt his defenses start to crumble, but then he got a grip.
Not this time.

“My boss accused me of helping you cheat. I have to prove I'm clean, or he'll … he'll … they have this room in the basement. The Boom Boom Room … I'm scared, Fredo.” She cried louder.

Tourists on the boardwalk peeked under the rickshaw roof to see why a girl was crying. They glared at him, like he was some kind of monster.

Juan shook his head at Fredo. A warning?

“Who is this scumbag boss of yours?”

“Vito Violenti,” she blubbered. “He said he wouldn't hurt me if I figured out how you and your friends were doing it.”

He felt terrible for her. Almost on the verge of confessing to
something
just to help her. But they weren't cheating. “Gia thinks she's psychic. Maybe she does have powers, or she's just lucky. But she's square as a pizza box, and so am I. Your boss can make threats, but he can't bust us for gambling in a casino.”

“This is humiliating,” said Erin, wiping her tears. “I told him you're okay. But Mr. Violenti refuses to believe it. People have come up with some inventive ways to rig roulette. We caught one operator who planted a magnet under the table and switched a standard ball with one that had a ball bearing in the middle. He had a crew of three partners who placed bets.

“The casino lost a lot of money until we figured out what was going on. I don't know what happened to the operator and his partners. He was called away in the middle of a shift and disappeared.”

Fredo swallowed hard. “What does your boyfriend think about all this?”
Whoa! Where did that come from?

Juan made a strangled sound.

Erin did a double take at Fredo and smiled. It was like the first light of dawn after an endless night. “I don't have a boyfriend, or a husband. I haven't been on a date since I started working for Nero's. If you're hitting on me to distract me, it might work. But I'm not supposed to socialize with guests.”

In the past, this would be when Fredo retreated or popped an Ativan or limped into the woods like a wounded animal. “Have dinner with me,” he said, spitting a bit. “When's your shift over tonight? I can do early, late, whatever.”

“I have the night off.”

Not denied! Not rejected! Fredo's spirits soared like a seagull on crack. “Say yes. Just one syllable. You can do it.”

The cutest nose in the world crinkled. After a few beats, Erin said, “Okay.” She gave him her number. “Getting off.”

Juan stopped the rickshaw. Erin stepped out, stumbling a bit as she exited, and headed back toward Nero's Palace. Fredo and Juan watched her for a while.

Fredo said, “I've got a friggin' date.”

Juan said, “Nice work,” and pushed on.

“I'm having dinner with
him tonight,” said Erin.

“How'd you manage that?” asked Mr. Violenti.

“I cried,” she said guiltily. Erin felt uncomfortable about this whole recon business. Using tears to manipulate the kid? It was like playing with loaded dice, or a stacked deck. She'd cheated to flush out an alleged cheater. Didn't seem right. “My gut tells me Fredo's a decent guy. Kind of shy and weird, but okay.”

“He's a lying, cheating scumbag. Watch this. Look at 'em claw for scraps of meat.”

Mr. Violenti, fifty-five years sleazy, spoke to her through the railing around the Jupiter statue. He was inside, feeding his pet gators. He flung a purple lobe of raw chicken liver into the moat. Writhing reptiles with yellow, snapping teeth broke the surface of the water. The pygmy alligators—only two feet long, but scary as hell—attacked the chunk. The water bubbled, then settled to eerie stillness. Erin had to keep herself from shuddering at the sight.

“Did you tell him we've got eyes on him?” asked her boss, hurling more chicken into the moat.

“Uh, I'm sure he knows the cameras are always on.” A smoked-glass bubble hung overhead. Erin knew that one of the security slobs who lived, ate, breathed, and shat in front of the wall of
monitors was ogling her right now. “Fredo's father is Luigi Lupo, by the way.”

“I don't care who his father is. He's not in Seaside anymore. This is
my
town, and I call the shots. What do you know about the two skanks he's shacking up with?”

“They're just friends, actually. Nothing romantic.”

“Do I look like I give a crap who's bangin' who?”
he ranted. A pair of older women walked by at the moment. They gasped at his language. Mr. Violenti smiled and said, “Evening, ladies. Hope you're enjoying your stay. All-you-can-eat king-crab legs at the buffet tonight. Only twenty dollars per person!”

Erin noticed that Mr. Violenti's toupee was askew. It looked more than ever like a hit-and-run raccoon that dragged itself off the highway and crawled onto his head to die. Add to that the five o'clock shadow, loose jowls, and eyes filled with bloodlust, and the guy came off as batshit insane,
batshit
being the technical term.

“What're you looking at?”

“Nothing, sir.”

He pulled a phone out of his pocket and found a photo of a man loitering in the lobby by the newsstand, reading a copy of the
New York Post
. “Who is he?”

Only the man's profile was visible, but Erin recognized him. “Goes by the name Arthur Ponzirelli, aka Ponzi or the Ponz. He's been staying in the hotel for two weeks now. Settles his bill in cash every day. A close friend of Giovanna Spumanti, Fredo's friend. Ponzirelli is most likely an alias. Our facial-recognition software program hasn't flagged him yet. He's good about keeping his face partially or completely away from cameras.”