The Matlock Paper (21 page)

“It amounts to the same thing, Mr. Bartolozzi.”

“What amounts? Who’s in San Juan?”

“Several people. One fellow’s a dentist in West Hartford. Another’s got an accounting firm in Constitution Plaza.”

“Yeah.… Yeah?” Bartolozzi was trying to associate people with the professions and locations Matlock described. “What’s the names? They members here?”

“I guess they are. They gave me
your
name.”

“This is a swim club. Private membership.… Who are they?”

“Look, Mr. Bartolozzi, it was a crazy night at the Condado casino. We all had a lot to drink and …”

“They don’t drink in the Puerto Rican casinos. It’s a law!” The Italian spoke sharply, proud of his incisive knowledge. He was pointing his fat finger at Matlock.

“More honored in the breach, believe me.”

“What?”

“We drank. Take my word for it. I’m just telling you I don’t remember their names.… Look, I can go downtown on Monday and stand all day outside the Plaza and I’ll find the CPA. I could also go out to West Hartford and ring every dentist’s doorbell. What difference does it make? I like to play and I’ve got the money.”

Bartolozzi smiled. “This is a swim club. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“O.K.,” said Matlock with a disgruntled edge to his voice. “This place happened to be convenient, but if you want to show three lemons, there are others. My San Juan friends also told me about Jimmy Lacata’s down in Middletown, and Sammy Sharpe’s in Windsor Shoals.… Keep your chips, fink.” He turned to the door.

“Hold it! Wait a minute!”

Matlock watched the fat Italian get out of the chair and stand up. He’d been right Bartolozz’s feet couldn’t have been touching the floor.

“What for? Maybe your limit’s too small here.”

“You know Lacata? Sharpe?”

“Know
of
them, I told you.… Look, forget it. You’ve got to be careful. I’ll find my CPA on Monday and we’ll both come back some other time.… I just felt like playing tonight.”

“O.K. O.K. Like you said, we gotta be careful.” Bartolozzi opened his top drawer and pulled out some papers. “C’mere. Sign ’em. You got an itch. Maybe I’ll take your money. Maybe you’ll take mine.”

Matlock approached the desk. “What am I signing?”

“Just a couple of forms. Initiation’s five hundred. Cash. You got it? No checks, no credit.”

“I’ve got it. What are the forms?”

“The first is a statement that you understand that this is a nonprofit corporation and that any games of chance are for charitable purposes.… What are you laughing at? I built the Church of the Blessed Virgin down in Hamden.”

“What’s this other? It’s a long one.”

“That’s for our files. A certificate of general partnership.
For the five hundred you get a classy title. You’re a partner. Everybody’s a partner.… Just in case.”

“In case?”

“In case anything good happens to us, it happens just as good to you. Especially in the newspapers.”

The Avon Swim Club was certainly a place for swimming, no doubt about it. The enormous pool curved back nearly two hundred feet, and scores of small, elegant cabanas bordered the far side. Beach chairs and tables were dotted about the grassy edges beyond the tiled deck of the pool, and the underwater floodlights made the setting inviting. All this was on the right of the open-air corridor. On the left, Matlock could see fully what was only hinted at from the outside. A huge green-and-white-striped tent rose above dozens of tables. Each table had a candled lantern in the center, and patio torches were safely placed about the whole enclosure. At the far end was a long table filled with roasts, salads, and buffet food. A bar was adjacent to the long table; scores of couples were milling about.

The Avon Swim Club was a lovely place to bring the family.

The corridor led to the rear of the complex, where there was another sprawling, white-bricked structure similar to the main building. Above the large, black-enameled double doors was a wooden sign, in old English scroll:

This part of the Avon Swim Club was not a lovely place to bring the family.

Matlock thought he was back in a San Juan casino—his only experience in gambling rooms. The wall-to-wall carpet was sufficiently thick to muffle sound almost completely. Only the click of the chips and the low-keyed but intense mutterings of the players and the board men were heard. The craps tables were lined along the walls, the blackjack counters in the center. In between, in staggered positions to allow for the flow of traffic, were the roulette wheels. In the middle of the large room, raised on a platform, was the cashier’s nest. All of the Avon Spa’s employees were in tuxedos, neatly groomed and subservient. The players were less formal.

The gate man, pleased with Matlock’s crisp fifty-dollar bill, led him to the half-circle counter in front of the cashier’s platform. He spoke to a man counting out slips of paper.

“This is Mr. Matlock. Treat him good, he’s a personal friend.”

“No other way,” said the man with a smile.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Matlock,” muttered the gate man quietly. “No markers the first time around.”

“Naturally.… Look, I’m going to wander about.…”

“Sure. Get the feel of the action.… I tell you, it ain’t Vegas. Between you and me, it’s Mickey Mouse most of the time. I mean for a guy like you, you know what I mean?”

Matlock knew exactly what the gate man meant. A fifty-dollar bill was not the ordinary gratuity in Avon, Connecticut.

It took him three hours and twelve minutes to lose $4,175. The only time he felt panic was when he had
a streak at the craps table and had built up his reserves to nearly $5,000. He had begun the evening properly—for his purposes. He went to the cashier often enough to realize that the average purchase of chips was $200 to $300. Hardly “Mickey Mouse” in his book. So his first purchase was $1,500. The second was $1,000; the third, $2,000.

By one in the morning, he was laughing with Jacopo Bartolozzi at the bar underneath the green-and-white-striped tent.

“You’re a game one. Lots’a creeps would be screaming ‘ice pick’ if they went for a bundle like you did. Right now I’d be showing them a few papers in my office.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll get it back. I always do.… You said it before. My itch was too much. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Make it Monday. Tomorrow it’s only swimming.”

“How come?”

“Sunday. Holy day.”

“Shit! I’ve got a friend coming in from London. He won’t be here Monday. He’s a big player.”

“Tell you what. I’ll call Sharpe over in Windsor Shoals. He’s a Jew. Holy days don’t mean a fucking thing to him.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I may even drop over myself. The wife’s got a Mothers of Madonna meeting, anyway.”

Matlock looked at his watch. The evening—his point of departure—had gone well. He wondered if he should press his luck. “Only real problem coming into a territory is the time it takes to find the sources.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I’ve got a girl over in the motel. She’s sleeping, we
traveled most of the day. She ran out of grass—no hard stuff—just grass. I told her I’d pick some up for her.”

“Can’t help you, Matlock. I don’t keep none here, what with the kids around during the day. It’s not good for the image, see? A few pills, I got. No needle crap, though. You want some pills?”

“No, just grass. That’s all I let her use.”

“Very smart of you.… Which way you headed?”

“Back into Hartford.”

Bartolozzi snapped his fingers. A large bartender sprang into position instantly. Matlock thought there was something grotesque about the squat little Italian commandeering in such fashion. Bartolozzi asked the man for paper and pencil.

“Here. Here’s an address. I’ll make a phone call. It’s an afterhours place right off the main drag. Down the street from G. Fox. Second floor. Ask for Rocco. What you couldn’t use, he’s got.”

“You’re a prince.” And as Matlock took the paper, he meant it.

“For four grand the first night, you got privileges.… Hey, y’know what? You never filled out an application! That’s a gas, huh?”

“You don’t need credit references. I play with cash.”

“Where the hell do you keep it?”

“In thirty-seven banks from here to Los Angeles.” Matlock put down his glass and held out his hand to Bartolozzi. “It’s been fun. See you tomorrow?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll walk you to the door. Don’t forget now. Don’t give Sammy all the action. Come on back here.”

“My word on it.”

The two men walked back to the open-air corridor,
the short Italian placing his fat hand in the middle of Matlock’s back, the gesture of a new friend. What neither man realized as they stepped onto the narrow causeway was that one well-dressed gentleman at a nearby table who kept punching at a fluidless lighter was watching them. As the two men passed his table, he put his lighter back into his pocket while the woman across from him lit his cigarette with a match. The woman spoke quietly through a smile.

“Did you get them?”

The man laughed softly. “Karsh couldn’t have done better. Even got close-ups.”

If the Avon Swim Club was an advantageous point of departure, the Hartford Hunt Club—under the careful management of Rocco Aiello—was an enviable first lap. For Matlock now thought of his journey to Nimrod as a race, one which had to end within two weeks and one day. It would end with the convocation of the Nimrod forces and the Mafiosi somewhere in the Carlyle vicinity. It would be finished for him when someone, somewhere produced another silver Corsican paper.

Bartolozzi’s telephone call was effective. Matlock entered the old red stone building—at first he thought he had the wrong address, for no light shone through the windows, and there was no sign of activity within—and found a freight elevator at the end of the hallway with a lone Negro operator sitting in a chair in front of the door. No sooner had he come in than the black rose to his feet and indicated the elevator to Matlock.

In an upstairs hallway a man greeted him. “Very nice to make your acquaintance. Name’s Rocco. Rocco Aiello.” The man held out his hand and Matlock took it.

“Thanks.… I was puzzled. I didn’t hear anything. I thought maybe I was in the wrong place.”

“If you had heard, the construction boys would have taken me. The walls are eighteen inches thick, sound-proofed both sides; the windows are blinds. Very secure.”

“That’s really something.”

Rocco reached into his pocket and withdrew a small wooden cigarette case. “I got a box of joints for you. No charge. I’d like to show you around, but Jock-O said you might be in a hurry.”

“Jock-O’s wrong. I’d like to have a drink.”

“Good! Come on in.… Only one thing, Mr. Matlock. I got a nice clientele, you know what I mean? Very rich, very cube. Some of them know about Jock-O’s operation, most of them don’t. You know what I mean?”

“I understand. I was never much for swimming anyway.”

“Good, good.… Welcome to Hartford’s finest.” He opened the thick steel door. “I hear you went for a bundle tonight.”

Matlock laughed as he walked into the complex of dimly lit rooms crowded with tables and customers. “Is that what it’s called?”

“In Connecticut, that’s what it’s called.… See? I got two floors—a duplex, like. Each floor’s got five big rooms, a bar in each room. Very private, no bad behavior. Nice place to bring the wife, or somebody else, you know what I mean?”

“I think I do. It’s quite something.”

“The waiters are mostly college boys. I like to help them make a few dollars for their education. I got niggers, spics, kikes—I got no discrimination. Just the hair, I don’t go for the long hair, you know what I mean?”

“College kids! Isn’t that dangerous? Kids talk.”

“Hey, what d’you think?! This place was originally started by a Joe College. It’s like a fraternity home. Everybody’s a bona fide, dues-paying member of a private organization. They can’t getcha for that.”

“I see. What about the other part?”

“What other part?”

“What I came for.”

“What? A little grass? Try the corner newsstand.”

Matlock laughed. He didn’t want to overdo it. “Two points, Rocco.… Still, if I knew you better, maybe I’d like to make a purchase. Bartolozzi said what I couldn’t use, you’ve got.… Forget it, though. I’m bushed. I’ll just get a drink and shove off. The girl’s going to wonder where I’ve been.”

“Sometimes Bartolozzi talks too much.”

“I think you’re right. By the way, he’s joining me tomorrow night at Sharpe’s over in Windsor Shoals. I’ve got a friend flying in from London. Care to join us?”

Aiello was obviously impressed. The players from London were beginning to take precedence over the Vegas and Caribbean boys. Sammy Sharpe’s wasn’t that well known, either.

“Maybe I’ll do that … Look, you need something, you feel free to ask, right?”

“I’ll do that. Only I don’t mind telling you, the kids make me nervous.”

Aiello took Matlock’s elbow with his left hand and walked him toward the bar. “You got it wrong. These kids—they’re not kids, you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t. Kids are kids. I like my action a little more subdued. No sweat. I’m not curious.” Matlock looked up at the bartender and withdrew what was left of his bankroll. He removed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the bar. “Old Fitz and water, please.”

“Put your money away,” Rocco said.

“Mr. Aiello?” A young man in a waiter’s jacket approached them. He was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, Matlock thought.

“Yeah?”

“If you’ll sign this tab. Table eleven. It’s the Johnsons. From Canton. They’re O.K.”

Aiello took the waiter’s pad and scribbled his initials. The young man walked back toward the tables.

“See that kid? That’s what I mean. He’s a Yalie. He got back from Nam six months ago.”

“So?”

“He was a lieutenant. An officer. Now he’s studying business administration.… He fills in here maybe twice a week. Mostly for contacts. By the time he gets out, he’ll have a real nest egg. Start his own business.”

“What?”