plopping into the gutter. He moved toward the balcony railing, then squinted through a fat-barreled telescope, aiming down Government Cut toward the S.S. Norway, wondering if he could hit the damn thing with a shoulder- mounted rocket launcher. He was letting the sun simmer his imagination, and in his mind's eye, he saw the vapor trail, heard the whoosh, and watched the orange flash, followed by streams of black smoke curling in the easterly breeze. LaBarca was wondering if he'd be able to hear the screams of the passengers on deck-probably not, the wind was against him-when dumb shit Dino slid open the screen door and told him the bookie was here.
16
Bobby and Scott stood uncomfortably in a hallway of mirrors. After an hour of saying 'no,' Bobby had grown tired of arguing and agreed to bring his son along. Now, staring into the mirrors, Bobby saw a dozen brooding images of himself ricocheting from the walls and ceiling.
'Neat place, Dad,' Scott said, walking down the hallway, watching his own reflection, his sneakers squeaking on the Italian marble floor.
Dino Fornecchio led them through the apartment, toe-walking, bouncing along as if the floor were hot under his feet, each step a swagger, his dark hair greased into duck tails in the back.
LaBarca leaned against the balcony railing in the afternoon sun, his black pelt of chest hair glistening with oil. A pitcher of iced orange juice, or maybe mimosas, sat on a glass table. The sun was bright and warm, but Bobby was chilled, his hands clammy. He'd heard stories about LaBarca, everything from having pistol-whipped liquor store clerks in his youth to, more recently, extorting protection money from cargo shippers at the Port of Miami.
Before they could exchange greetings, a cellular phone rang, and LaBarca picked it up from the table. 'Tony! Mio Figlio!
The great equalizer. Vinnie LaBarca might have been a ruthless gangster but he had something in common with Bobby. They both had sons. A break, Bobby thought.
LaBarca listened to his son for a moment, then held the phone away from his ear. 'Hey Gallagher,' didn't you play some college ball?'
'Penn State. Walk-on Q.B.' Bobby made a motion as if throwing a pass, even though he'd never played one down at quarterback since high school. As an unrecruited walk-on, he earned his letter as a holder for kicks.
'My boy Tony's a freshman at Gainesville,' LaBarca said. 'No scholarship, either. He's getting the crap kicked out of him on the whadayacallit.
'The foreign team,' Bobby said.
'Right. He ran up against the first string. Now, they're in winter conditioning drills, and he wants to quit the team. Give him a pep talk, yeah?'
Bobby spent three minutes on the phone with the homesick kid, a nose guard, which figured, given his father's fireplug build. Young Tony probably still had cleat marks on his chest from being run over by the Gators' first-team offensive line in practice every day. Bobby spouted a few cliches about how the tough get going when the going gets tough, and told Tony he'd look back on his freshman year with the same nostalgia as a soldier recalling boot camp. So just hang in there, and go Gators, rah, rah, rah.
LaBarca took back the phone, said a few words in Italian, then hung up and gave Bobby a friendly smack on the shoulder that momentarily displaced his scapula.
'Vinnie, this is my son, Scott.'
'Hey kid, how they hanging?'
'Depends whether Dallas covers,' Scott said, without missing a beat.
'Hey, me too.' The gangster's smile was two rows of tombstones. 'Gallagher, you got a good kid there.'
'Thanks. I'm sure your boy will be okay upstate.'
'Hey, don't say 'upstate.' Upstate is Raiford or maybe Eglin if the feds get you.'
'Sorry, I mean at Florida.'
'Yeah, he'll be fine if he don't flunk out, crack up his Corvette, or knock up any more cheerleaders. I'm just hoping to get some inside dope on injuries and game plans from him.'
'Smart,' Bobby said, figuring it was better than saying, 'Whoa, that's illegal.'
'Ah-choo!' LaBarca sneezed, leaving a trail of phlegm down his chest.
'Bless you,' Bobby said.
'Fucking A,' LaBarca said in thanks.
LaBarca wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shifted his bulk to train the telescope down toward the pool deck. 'So what's up, Gallagher?' he asked, peering into the lens.
'I couldn't lay off your six hundred large. The line moved, and I'm holding all of it.'
'So?' LaBarca looked toward the pitcher, and from nowhere, Dino appeared and filled a large glass. Ice cubes clinked, but no one offered the guests a drink.
Bobby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. 'Well, you knew I wasn't good for it. I mean we didn't discuss it, but it was sort of implicit that if I couldn't lay it off-'
'Im-pli-cit?' LaBarca rolled the syllables around on his tongue and didn't seem to like the taste. He swung the telescope away and looked directly at Bobby, his squashed nose looking even more pugnacious. 'I'll tell you what's implicit. A bookie's gotta pay off when he takes a bet or he ain't gonna be taking no more bets if you get my drift.'
The drift Bobby was getting was the northerly flow of the Gulf Stream where wannabe wise guys did the dead man's float. His mind raced.
'Vinnie, hear me out. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have taken the bet. I'm just doing this 'til I get my license back. I've petitioned for reinstatement to the Bar, and this was something I had to do for the money, but I'm no damn good at it. The limo business has been lousy, so I tried to go for one big score on the vig. I just want you to let me off the hook before something bad happens.'
His face reddening, LaBarca leaned toward Bobby as if to get a better look. 'Something bad? Like Dallas winning by more than seven.'
'Yeah. Exactly'
'But something bad for you is good for me. It's not like I can go out and duplicate the bet, right. Today, I gotta give nine points, so if the Mustangs win by eight, I lose. Why the hell should I let you off the hook when I made a good bet?'
'Because I can't pay if I lose.'
'I hear you got a real rich father-in-law,' LaBarca said.
'Ex-father-in-law.'
'So? Would he want anything bad to happen to the father of his grandson?'
'It's his fondest wish.'
'C'mon, Gallagher. Families have problems, but would he want you to take a dirt nap?'
'He'd turn the first spadeful,' Bobby said.
Scott couldn't believe it. Dad was fouling everything up. This wasn't the way to get to Vinnie LaBarca.
'I still haven't heard one good reason why I should cancel the bet,' LaBarca said.
'Because you'll get bricked if Dallas doesn't cover the seven,' Scott piped up. 'The underdog is the smarter bet.'
LaBarca's laugh spilled out of his stocky frame like water overflowing a tub. 'The kid's a handicapper. Say, kid, do you use a system? C'mon, give me a tip.'
'I like the dog when I can get more than five points,' Scott said. 'The American Economist did a study that proves you can go over the break-even point of 52.38 per cent just by following that system.'
'No shit?'
'It's solid. Since you bet eleven dollars to win ten,' Scott said in a grown-up tone, 'you've got to win eleven
