“You right-handed or left-handed, Walter?” Sammy asked.
“The sinister hand,” Withers told him.
“What?”
“Left-handed, Sammy,” Withers explained.
“His left wrist,” Sammy ordered.
Chick grabbed his left wrist.
“That won’t be necessary,” Withers said. “I have the payment in full.”
“You do? Hold on. Let me tell Tinkerbell. Tink, Walter has the money,” Sammy said. He paused to listen, then said, “Tink doesn’t believe you, Walter. Let’s all clap and say we believe.”
“I can’t clap, Sammy. Chick has hold of my arm,” Withers said.
“And I don’t hear any snapping of bones or screams of agony, Chick,” Sammy chided.
Withers said, “It’s in the briefcase by my feet. Let me get it.”
“Okay, I’ll play.” Sammy sighed. “Let’s see what’s in the briefcase.”
“Unhand me, sir,” Withers said.
Chick let go of his arm. Withers took a hit of the Jameson’s, then reached down and picked up the briefcase. He turned on the stool so his back was to the bookie and his goon and dialed the combination. Then he opened the briefcase and set it on the bar.
Sammy Black’s eyes got big the way they always did when he saw a lot of cash. Then he got mad.
“You been betting with someone else?” he asked with the righteous indignation of a wronged spouse. “Walter, you munt, I carry you all this time and you get well with someone else? This is gratitude, Walter?”
“I didn’t win this money,” Withers said. “I found gainful employment.”
“Very gainful, indeed, Walter,” Rourke said as he looked into the briefcase.
“Now, my good sir,” Withers said, “how much do I owe you?”
“As of today, it’s twenty-two five,” Sammy said. “Walter, do you know there’s a very interesting line on Raiders-Pittsburgh tomorrow?”
Withers handed him two stacks of the cash and then counted three thousand dollars off another. He closed the briefcase, slid off the bar stool, and handed the money to Sammy.
“Keep the change,” he said. “Buy yourself some clothes that don’t make you look like a lounge singer at the Albany Ramada Inn.”
“You’re a loser, Withers,” Sammy said.
“Not tonight, my good man. Not tonight.”
Withers tossed Arthur a jaunty wave and strolled out the door.
“Don’t bet on it,” Sammy mumbled.
“The wife walked out on me again, Sammy,” Arthur said.
Sammy Black just stared out the door.
“Women, huh?” answered Chick.
“The missus still believe you?” Joey Foglio asked as he stood at the urinal.
“Candice is the least of my worries,” Jack Landis called out from his stall.
They were in the men’s room of Big Bob’s, one of Joey’s restaurants. Big Bob’s was a barbecue joint so basic, they didn’t even have plates. They just dumped slabs of meat on sheets of butcher paper and sent you out to the long picnic tables to gorge yourself.
“There ain’t no Big Bob really, is there?” Jack asked.
“You wanna see Big Bob?” Joey asked. “Come on out here!”
Joey, Harold, and the two guys guarding the door laughed. Harold was Joey’s personal assistant, which usually meant he personally assisted Joey in beating up people. The two guys at the door were bodyguards, just in case any of those people came back with a resentment coupled with a gun.
Jack Landis didn’t laugh, truly believing that Joey Foglio was egomaniacal enough to name an eating establishment after his own Johnson-which he guessed was preferable, anyway, to naming one after somebody else’s.
Joey shook himself off, zipped up, and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands.
“I got a lot of unhappy people out there, Jack,” he said.
“The sausage?” Jack asked.
“I mean my subcontractors,” Joey answered.
Jack hitched his pants up, took his jacket off the hanger, and put it on.
“I ain’t exactly delirious with joy, either,” Jack said.
He opened the door and walked over to the mirror to check his hair.
Joey Foglio came and stood beside him. It was not a comfortable feeling. Joey Foglio was a big man. He had a big broad head with a flat forehead you could sell advertising space on.
Foglio looked into the mirror and combed his own full head of silver hair straight back.
“What are we going to do?” he asked. “You ain’t been paying your bills.”
“Maybe it would help if your contractors would just overcharge me by, say, fifty percent instead of a hundred,” Jack said.
“That was the deal,” Joey reminded him. “You get your kickbacks.”
“Not lately,” Jack complained.
“Because you ain’t been paying your bills,” Joey said.
“Because contributions are down.”
“Because you tripped over your own dick,” Joey said. He put his comb back in his pocket.
Jack eased a stray strand of hair back over his ear. “Someone put her up to this. The bitch isn’t smart enough to do it on her own.”
“Smart or stupid,” Joey said, “she’s got you by the short and curlies.”
Jack always thought Joey sounded stupid when he tried to talk like a Texan. He was even dressed like one today, with Tony Lama boots, brand-new jeans, piped cowboy shirt, and a vest.
A greaseball cowboy, Jack thought. Great.
“Just find her,” Jack said. “Find her and pay her off.”
“I’ll find her,” answered Joey. “You pay her.”
“Half and half,” Jack offered.
“And I get the half that eats?” Joey asked. “You play, you pay.”
“I never touched her.”
“Jack, Jack, Jack. You’re like, what, a Baptist?”
“Yeah.” What was this greaseball talking about?
“You should be a Catholic, Jack,” Joe Foglio continued, “then you wouldn’t be consumed by all this guilt. Look at me. Do I look like I’m consumed with guilt?”
Jack Landis had heard that the very definition of a sociopath was a person who didn’t feel guilt, but he decided not to share that thought at the moment, so he said, “No.”
“Because I’m a Catholic,” Joe said proudly. “See, you Baptists are supposed to-what is it? — Accept Christ as your personal savior, right?”
“I guess that’s the basic idea,” Jack answered to get it out of the way. “Now, what are we-”
Joey continued. “See, that’s a mistake, that ‘personal’ part. What you need is a middleman, a fixer, a priest. I go to confession every day, Jack, every day. I go to confession, I rat myself out to the priest, the priest squares it with God, then I got the whole rest of the day to chase more pussy, skim more money-whatever-and the odds are still on my side I go to heaven. I couldn’t believe it when the nuns first told me about this, I thought it was so great.
“Believe me, Jack, this world was made for Catholic men. You want me to set you up with a priest? I think you gotta take a few classes, let him pour some holy water on you… no big deal.”
Jack wondered how on earth he got to be partners with a man who was obviously insane. He had to get Joey focused on the problem of Polly Paget.
“The gravy train’s derailing, Joe, you’re the guy who can get it back on the track.”
Talking to me like he’s on TV, Joey thought. Like I’m going to buy a time-share in Candyland. Like I’m a jerk.
