‘Listen here, Zipper, and listen good. I ain’t interested in your goddamn players. We’re talking about murder.’
Zipper looked startled.
‘That’s right,’ Livingston said. ‘Murder. Now you keep your fuckin’ yap shut until I finish. Cat I’m after is white. He’s an outfit hitman, can you dig that? Last night this son-bitch burned a very nice lady. He’s a fuckin’ lady-killer. And you givin’ me all this shit about protectin’ his ass?’
Zipper said nothing. He stared into his champagne glass. ‘This motherfucker woulda come into town a couple weeks ago. If he is a gamblin’ man, he’d be a big gamblin’ man. Sports, ponies, any national shit. Now you don’t know anything about such a cat, okay. But if you do, Zipper, I got to know about it, ‘cause man, we talkin’ about rough trade here.’
‘How come you so fuckin’ sure this dude gambles?
‘I’m not. It’s a hunch. But right now it’s all I got.’
The car was quiet. Zipper cleared his throat. Then the phone rang again.
‘Go ahead and talk,’ Livingston said, ‘I know you’re a bookie. What the shit you so shy about?’
Zipper yanked the phone off the hook. ‘Hello . . . Yeah, this Zipper. What it is?. . . It’s Dallas and seven. . . Well, that’s tough shit, turkey. That’s the fuckin’ spread and ain’t nothin I can do about it. . . . Listen here, motherfucker, I don’t make the odds. You don’t like it, put your fuckin’ money back in your goddamn shoe. Now, you want some action or don’t you? . . . Well, fuck you too, nigger.’ He slammed down the phone.
Silence again.
Finally Zipper said, ‘Only one possibility. Only one possibility. Cat can’t be your man. Can’t be.’
‘Who says?’
‘I say. He makes book in a fag bar out Cheshire Bridge Road.’
‘A fag bar?’
‘That’s right. This tough-nuts shooter you talkin’ about queer?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Shit, I told ya, nigger. I don’t have no truck with any of those fuckers personally. This joint, it’s called, uh.. . this stays with us, that right?’
‘C’mon, Zipper.’
‘This joint is called, uh, the Matador. Got this pansy. lookin’ bullfighter on the sign out front.’
‘I know the place.’
‘‘Bout five weeks ago my bookie friend out there, you know — he does nickel and dime shit out there, nothin’ big, mostly local games — anyways, he calls me, says, do I want to take a layoff on the Oakland and Miami game? Fucker took the spread for five grand and lost his ass. Next week he’s back again. Motherfucker doubles up, lays out ten grand on some NFL game and a basketball game, and splits. Been goin’ like that ever since. Five, ten g’s a clip. Right now I’m into him for about five thou.’
‘When’s the last time he bet?
‘Yesterday.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘You heard right, yesterday. He bettin’ on the playoff. Took Dallas and the points over Minnesota. Ten big ones.’
‘Zipper, I got to know who this player is.’
‘No fuckin’ way.’
‘Just the name, man.’
‘No motherfuckin’ way. Shit, I told ya. I don’t even know who it is. The bookie deals with the score and I deal with the bookie.’
‘Okay, who’s the bookie then?’
‘C’mon, goddammit. You lean on him, he’s gonna know I done it to him.’
‘I’ll cover your ass. Don’t you worry about that. I ain’t interested in the fuckin’ bookie. I want his mark.’
‘You got to cover my ass, Livingston. Tell you somethin’. You come clown on this little motherfucker, he gonna die on the spot.’
‘I’ll do it right, man. Who is it?
‘The bartender. Name’s Arnold.’
Livingston sighed. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that was worse than pickin’ cotton with your goddamn feet.’
‘Just don’t fuck me over on this, hear? And don’t come back with any more of this snitch shit either. I done made my contribution for life.’
Livingston started to get out of the car. ‘Shit, motherfucker,’ he said, ‘my eyes couldn’t stand any more of this pussywagon.’
Zipper’s eyes flared. ‘Pussywagon, Pussywagon! Shit, you fuckin’ no-class nigger, this car cost fifty grand. Fifty fuckin’ thousand goddamn dollars. Ain’t no goddamn Detroit pussywagon. Shit, I don’t even scratch my balls when I’m in this machine. You hear me, Livingston?’
