Сasino Moon
Peter Blauner
For my son, Mac,
and my mother, Sheila
Some people never learn to be good.
One-quarter of us is good. Three-quarters is bad.
That’s a tough fight, three against one.
—MEYER LANSKY
In dreams begin responsibilities.
—W. B. YEATS
1
AS THE COLORS in the sky faded, the red casino lightsalong the shore came up to replace them. Slowly, dozens of seagulls began to circle the glowing sign on top of Trump’s Castle, like bits of paper caught in a cyclone.
I was watching from the parking lot of a club called Rafferty’s, on the other side of Gardner’s Basin. It was a short boxy car-battery of a place with a blue neon Schaefer sign in the window. I’d stop by once or twice a week in those days to help total up liquor receipts and invoices. But on this night, my father had called me to a special meeting and I knew it wasn’t to count any invoices.
I lingered outside awhile, trying to think of a reason not to go in. I checked my Filofax three times, hoping I had the wrong night. But there it was, 7:30 p.m., June 3. A little stretch of pink showed under the dark skirt of the night. I saw a light cross the sky and thought it might be a shooting star. But before I had a chance to make a wish, it turned into a plane and went blinking off toward Philadelphia. There was no sense putting off the inevitable. I buttoned my jacket and went in to see my father.
Inside, the club was what my old man would call a real
My father was sitting in a booth near the back, talking to Richie Amato and a guy named Larry DiGregorio, who had a carting business over in Brigantine.
As soon as I saw Larry sitting there, my head started tothrob and my heart began to race. I knew he was in some kind of trouble with my father’s crew. He was a nice, mild-mannered guy with a slight stammer. I’d known him since I was a kid. Always fastidious. Never a hair out of place on the steel gray helmet of a wig he wore, and never a stain on his crisp white shirt. He had absolutely no chin, though. His neck pretty much began at his mouth.
Driving over, I’d been praying that he wouldn’t come tonight. But with him already sitting there, nursing a beer next to my father, I wasn’t sure what I could do. I’d hoped to get my old man alone to talk him out of this craziness.
“Look who decided to show up,” said my father.
“It’s the Great Pretender,” Richie chimed in.
My father—who was actually my stepfather, if you want to get technical—was named Vincent Russo. He was sixty then, but he moved around like someone twenty years younger. His muscles weren’t the kind you got from lifting weights, but from ripping open shipping containers with your bare hands. His face was a record of every beating he’d ever caught in a police station or a prison yard without breaking down and giving someone up. When he smiled, he showed rows of broken, snaggled teeth on the top and bottom. He was the most loyal man I’d ever met. If he liked you, he’d take a nail through the heart for you. If he didn’t, he’d never rest until he got you around the neck with chicken wire.
He’d been my real father Mike’s best friend until Mike disappeared. After that, Vin came in and took care of my family. He courted my mother with Black Label scotch and chrysanthemums and played war games and boccie with me in the backyard. In the fall when it finally dawned on me that my real father wasn’t coming back, and the whole world seemed strange and frightening, Vin was the one who took me by the hand and led me back into the schoolyard. When bullies taunted me about losing my old man, he’d stand outside the fence and stare at them with eyes like ball bearings until they slunk back to their dodgeball games. He raised me like I was his own flesh and blood and looked after my mother when she started taking pills and stopped being able to tell the difference between her dreams and real life. I knew he loved me, but in the last few years I’d realized I didn’t want to be part of his world.
“You’re late,” he said in a voice like a manhole cover being picked up. “You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”
“I ran into traffic on the Expressway. I think one of these buses turned over that was carrying old people to the casinos. They had it backed up all the way to Camden.”
“You could’ve taken the White Horse Pike. You would’ve been here in five minutes.”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“You didn’t think of it because you didn’t want to think of it,” my father said.
Larry DiGregorio raised his beer glass to me and smiled. I turned away quickly and caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar.
I’ve been lucky enough to inherit my real father’s high cheekbones and dark eyes, but tonight my suit was letting me down. A blue silk double-breasted Armani knockoff that cost three hundred dollars at the Italian Dimension on Atlantic Avenue. It was a kind of clean-cut
“No respect, no respect,” said my father, taking out a comb and trying to smooth back the wild shock of gray hair that was always jumping from the top of his head.
The other two laughed and tilted back their beer mugs.
“Sit down a second, Anthony, you look like sh-sh-shit,” Larry DiGregorio said.
I could barely look at him, knowing what was expected of me. I remembered Larry taking me with his son Nicky to a Phillies game when we were kids. I can still see him climbing over the people in the next box, trying to get us a foul ball hit by Mike Schmidt. But he was too slow. Afterwards, he was so depressed he could barely talk to us. Even as a kid, I felt sorry for him.
“I don’t know, Larry,” I said, rubbing my fingers together and trying to figure a way out of this. “I don’t know. Lot of stress these days, lot of stress. I oughta have my head examined, starting a contracting business in the middle of a recession.”
“Recession!” Richie smirked like he’d never heard a word with more than two syllables before. He spent all
