House Odds (7 page)

Ted parked in front of Al Castiglia’s house, then looked at his watch. He was five minutes early. He closed his eyes, centering himself, and rehearsed in his mind how he was going to behave and what he was going to say. His life might depend on how he acted at this meeting.

He checked his watch again. He wanted to be right on time, not a minute earlier, and definitely not a minute later. At 8:59 a.m., he stepped from the car. As he walked up the sidewalk toward the front door, he shook his head, amazed as he always was, at the way Al’s place looked.

The house was in a working-class neighborhood in Philadelphia. It was three stories tall, had a big front porch, an expensive oak door, and hurricane shutters on the windows. It was a nice, respectable-looking house; not ostentatious, just roomy and comfortable. The thing that was amazing about it was all the damn lawn statues. There were two big lions by the front door; a doe and two fawns under a tree; a family of plaster rabbits in one of the flower beds. And that was just on one part of the lawn. The backyard looked like a staging area for Noah’s ark. Ted knew Al’s wife was the nut who bought all the statues, but didn’t he ever tell her no?

And it was Al’s wife who let him in, a little gray-haired bird of a woman who weighed maybe ninety pounds. She gave him a hug, asked how he was doing, acting oblivious as to why he was there. Ted had always suspected that Al’s wife knew a lot more than she let on.

“He’s in the kitchen with Pat,” she said. “And with that . . . that one with the eye.” Then she made the sign of the cross.

Oh, shit. Delray was there. Al’s superstitious twit of a wife thought Delray—because of his eye—was a devil. Or maybe
the
devil. And maybe she was right.

Ted put on his game face—an expression that said he was madder than hell—and walked aggressively into the kitchen. Al was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, eating a danish, cream cheese smeared on his upper lip. McGruder sat next to him like a malignant toad, wheezing, his fat hands around a coffee cup. Delray was standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, his butt resting against the kitchen counter. His face was expressionless and, as always, regardless of the time of day or the lighting in the room, he was wearing sunglasses. The good thing about the sunglasses was that they hid the eye.

Ted had never been able to figure out Delray’s race, and his name didn’t give an indication. He had a dark complexion, close-cropped dark hair, a big nose, high, hard cheekbones, and a strong chin. He wasn’t huge—only six two or six three—not much taller than Ted—but he was powerful looking, with a serious weight lifter’s pecs and biceps. Blue barbed wire tattoos circled his upper arms; he got the tats in prison and the workmanship was crude, the ink faded over time. And prison was where he got the eye.

His right eye was a normal shade of brown but the left one . . . The iris was white instead of brown, about the same shade of white as the normal white part of the eye. And when Delray took off his sunglasses, which wasn’t often, you couldn’t focus on anything but that dead, milk-colored eye. Delray’s eye just creeped Ted out.

“You motherfucker!” Ted screamed the minute he stepped into the kitchen, pointing his finger at McGruder’s bloated face.

“Hey! Watch the language,” Al said, his mouth full of pastry. “The wife’s in the next room.”

Yeah, like that would make a difference if Al was the one who lost his temper.

“I’m sorry,” Ted said. “But I just can’t believe what he did.”

“Why was Greg talking to the cops?” McGruder said. “And why’d he run?”

“He was talking to the cops because he was trying to hold down security costs for the ZZ Top show. You know, seeing if he could get the bastards to provide a few more uniform guys for free so we wouldn’t have to hire so many off-duty cops. If you don’t believe me, call the chief.”

“Yeah, but why’d he run?” Al said. His tone was casual, as if Ted’s answer didn’t matter at all. It was like he’d said:
Is it still raining outside
? But Ted knew better.

“He ran because Pat came to the casino the other day and did this Pauly No-Thumbs number on him. And then he sees Pat with Delray there in the car, and he thinks they’re takin’ him for a ride, like he’s going to end up in landfill somewhere.”

McGruder started to say something, but Ted cut him off. “This all happened because you’re a paranoid, suspicious prick.” Turning to Al, he said, “Did he tell you what he said to me, the other day when he came to look at the books?”

“Of course, he told me,” Al said.

Al was sixty-eight years old. He was six foot four, mostly bald on top, had a good-size paunch and the biggest upper arms Ted had ever seen on a man. He looked like a retired stevedore. And he was insane. One minute he’d be perfectly calm, acting like he was getting a big kick out of Ted and McGruder going at it, but in an instant he could turn into a foaming-at-the-mouth fucking maniac.

Ted had seen him go nuts on a guy one time using a stapler. Not the kind you use to staple papers together, but the kind for putting up posters—the kind that sounds like a gun going off when you squeeze the handle. The guy had pissed Al off, so while Delray held his arms, Al started shooting staples into the poor bastard’s face. He looked like he had zippers on both cheeks when Al was done.

“Well,” Ted said, “did he also tell you that he didn’t find anything wrong? Did he tell you that we walked him through where every fuckin’ nickel went? But he still gave us this something-don’t-smell-right bullshit, and he scared the hell out of Greg.”

“But not you,” Al said, the corners of his mouth pulled up slightly.

“That’s right. Not me. And he didn’t scare me because I didn’t do anything wrong.” Ted hesitated, then with a little catch in his voice, he added, “He killed my best friend.”

Then he wished immediately that he hadn’t said that; that was maybe just a little over the top.

Al studied Ted for a moment. There was no twinkle in his eyes now. “You know,” he said, “when I met you there in Vegas the first time, I was impressed. You were a smart kid, not a fuck-off. A serious kid. And that’s why I sent you to school and that’s why you got the job you got. But you remember what I told you about being smart?”

Ted nodded.

“What did I tell you?” Al said.

“You said to never start thinking that I was smarter than everyone else.”

“That’s right.” Al paused a beat before he said, “You don’t think you’re smarter than everyone else now, do you, Ted?”

“No,” Ted said.

Al studied Ted’s face, maybe to see if Ted would squirm or something, like he was such a wise ol’ guinea that he’d be able to tell if Ted was lying. Finally, thank God, he nodded and said, “Good. I’m real glad to hear that.”

Al stood up and lumbered over to the coffee pot. “You wanna cup?” he asked. Ted shook his head no.

“A danish, maybe? They’re from Costello’s. They’re good.”

“No, I’m all right,” Ted said.
Let’s just get this over with.

Al poured himself a cup of coffee then sat back down at the table, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Now, I didn’t tell Pat to pick up Greg the other day,” Al said, “but I don’t mind that he did. Pat’s worked for me for a long time. He’s got good instincts.”

“Jesus, Al! Are you saying you believe him? That you think I’m—”

Al held up his hand. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that I don’t mind that Pat wanted to have a little talk with Greg, one-on-one. And in a way, maybe it’s okay what happened to Greg. It’s not good to have a guy around who panics that easy.” Then Al chuckled. “But I can kinda understand why he did. Delray, over there, he can be kind of . . . Oh hell, what’s the word?
Unsettling
, yeah that’s it.”

The comment elicited no reaction from Delray.

“Anyway,” Al said, “Pat’s sorry for what happened to Greg. Ain’t you, Pat?”

McGruder, his eyes boring into Ted’s, nodded.

Bullshit he was sorry
.

“So it’s time to move on,” Al said, “and here’s what we’re gonna do. Pat’s gonna help out at the casino for a while, you being shorthanded and all.”

Ted started to protest but restrained himself.

“You guys will get to know each other better, develop some confidence in each other. That sorta thing. And Pat, he’ll help you find a guy to replace Greg.”

Oh, this was just great. Not only would McGruder watch him like a hawk, eventually he’d have his own handpicked spy in Ted’s casino. This also meant that although Al didn’t think Ted had done anything wrong, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Maybe ninety-nine percent, but not a hundred percent. But what could he do?

“Sounds good to me,” Ted said. Looking at McGruder he asked, “You want a room in the casino or do you want me to find you an apartment someplace in town?” Before McGruder could answer, he said to Al, “Oh, but there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” Al said, his brow wrinkling, thinking maybe Ted was going to give him an argument, maybe want it clarified as to who was in charge.

“If the amount Pat eats affects the bottom line,” Ted said, “don’t go blaming me.”

Al tipped back his head and laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

McGruder just looked at Ted, his eyes narrow slits in the layers of fat, glittering like a pig’s.

* * *

Ted started his car and drove away from Al’s house. A block later, he slammed on the brakes and slammed his hands against the steering wheel.

He felt like his head was caught in the jaws of a vice—and McGruder was the one cranking the handle. When McGruder had looked at the casino’s books the other day, he’d been skeptical about their losses. So Ted had proved to McGruder—by sacrificing that poor bastard Gleason—that the story about losing money on a load of hijacked fish had been true and, by extension, that everything else they had told him was true as well. And it had slowed McGruder down with the time spent for Delray to go up to Portsmouth, confirm the story, and get back to Philly. But McGruder obviously still believed—data be damned, listening only to his oversize gut—that Ted was hiding something.

On one hand, Greg getting killed—or killing himself—was a blessing. If Delray had just
stared
at Greg for a couple of minutes, Greg would have told McGruder everything. But Greg’s death was also a potential disaster. McGruder hadn’t been able to figure out how Greg had doctored the books to hide a half-million-dollar loss—a loss that should never have happened—but he’d only spent two hours trying. If McGruder was there every day, and started playing with the spreadsheets. . . . Well, Greg had built a mathematical house of cards and it just might collapse if McGruder pulled at it hard enough.

He was running out of time. He had to get the money back, but more importantly, he needed to get federal funding for the project. If he got the project moving again, Al wouldn’t give a damn about how he’d lost the half a million—that is, he wouldn’t give a damn provided Ted got the money back. But to do either of those things—to get the money back or get the project restarted—he had to get the politician on board.

He’d go see the lobbyist tomorrow. He’d called the damn guy two days ago but he’d been out of town, plus, after thinking about it, Ted had decided this wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to talk about on the phone. So tomorrow he’d go see him in person, and if the guy didn’t come through for him, maybe he’d have Gus give him a beat down. Not that beating the lobbyist would solve his problems; it would just feel good to make someone else feel some pain.

10

“Come on, Emma. Help me out here.”

Emma was pulling weeds, her butt pointed rudely at DeMarco, as she uprooted offending flora. She was wearing shorts, an old T-shirt from the New York marathon, and a long-billed baseball cap that had a piece of cloth attached to the back to protect her neck from the sun. On her knees were padded knee protectors, the type carpet-layers wear. She pulled the weeds rapidly, and DeMarco would swear that each time she yanked one she muttered a little curse as if she was condemning the unwanted plant to a hot green hell.

Emma had a large yard surrounding her spacious home in McLean and by early summer her place would look like the grounds at Versailles. But to reach this state of horticultural perfection, each spring Emma went berserk, planting and reseeding and pruning—and doing whatever else it was that fanatic gardeners did. And during this period she reminded DeMarco of the
Star Trek
episode about Spock’s sex life.

Vulcans, according to Gene Roddenberry, had sex about every seven years and just before they mated, they went mad—not an unexpected outcome considering the period of abstinence. At the peak of their mating cycle your typical pointy-eared, unemotional Vulcan became this crazed loony who would decapitate his friends if they frustrated his need to procreate. And this was Emma in the spring—except it wasn’t celibacy that made her insane; it was the need to revitalize her yard, and she wouldn’t return to normal until the job was complete.

“I just told you,” Emma said, still not looking at him. “Neil’s on vacation and I don’t know where he is.”