eyes. I tried to pick up snippets of conversation, but most of it revolved around the fuckin’ Sox this and the fuckin’ Sox that.
I watched the final out as the Boston cleanup hitter grounded weakly to the pitcher. “Fuck!” I said loudly, and followed it with, “That cost me a grand.” I didn’t have to turn around to know my words had found their mark. As I downed the last of my beer, I heard chairs scraping over the wooden floor, then heavy footsteps, and finally two sets of eyeballs appeared on either side of me.
“You bet the Sox, kid?”
I turned around with a frown on my face, and made eye contact with the shorter of the two guys, the one I knew was named Ponts.
“Yeah. Shit. I know you should never bet your heart . . . but I had a
Ponts snorted. “Happens to all of us.”
The taller of the two, a bookie who I knew was named Gorti, jumped in with, “Shit, don’t it?”
“What you drinking, kid?” Ponts asked.
“Me?” I looked at the bottle like I didn’t know. “ Budweiser.”
Ponts called out to the bartender. “Three Buds, Seamus . . .”
“You don’t have to—”
“Christ, you just lost a grand on the goddamn Sox. It’s the least I could do.”
The beers appeared in front of us in a hurry. “Thanks, then . . .” I said.
“Who you bet with, kid?”
I pulled down the bottle from my mouth and looked at Ponts suspiciously.
“Bet with?”
“Who’s your bookmaker?”
“You guys cops?”
They looked at each other and started chuckling. “Nah, kid. We ain’t cops.”
“We are
“Well, just the same . . . thanks for the beer. But I should—”
Ponts didn’t let me finish the sentence, “Kid, the reason I’m asking is because Ben Gorti here and me, Stu Ponts, Ben and me run book right out of this bar.”
“Oh, yeah?” I tried to look pleasantly surprised.
“That’s right. And lemme guess, you’re still using your daddy’s bookie somewhere back wherever home is?”
I let out a smile like he was right on the money.
“Well, what d’ya say you let your old man run his own game and you start running one with us?”
“Really, I should—”
“Tell you what . . . what’s your typical lay?”
“How much you bet, kid?” added Gorti, as if to clarify.
“I usually go five hundred. Unless I’m feeling it. Then, who knows . . .” I tried to sound like a fish who had just bitten on the worm and gotten the hook.
Ponts’s grin widened. “Well, I’ll give you your first $500 bet on the house, and a five-thousand-dollar credit line. Does your dad’s bookie give you that?”
“No, sir.”
“Call me Ponts.”
“Okay. . . .”
He clasped me on the back with a beefy hand. “Now, who you like this week in the Miami game?”
THERE is a common misconception following a successful assassination. Often, the people closest to the target will say they never got a look at the hired killer, they don’t know how the assassin could have gotten close to their boss; the man came in like a ghost and put a bullet in their friend, husband, co-worker without disturbing the dust in the air. They’ll say someone in their midst must have betrayed him, they’ll look at each other with skeptical eyes, they’ll check over their shoulders every time a shadow moves across a doorway, every time they cross in front of a dark alley.
But the truth is they’ve often known the face of the trigger man, they’ve probably shaken hands with him, probably done business with him, hell, probably bought him a beer in a small sports bar in Little Italy.
If I couldn’t know Levine, if I couldn’t make a connection with him, I could watch his pigeons, I could get to know his roots, where he came from before he lived in the big house on the hill at the end of the street. He got to where he was by being the best at what Ponts and Gorti did now. My guess is he was more ruthless, less forgiving then the typical runner. I didn’t know if he demanded the same of his employees, but I intended to find out.
IT didn’t all go wrong on the day of the hit; it happened the night before I pulled the trigger. I was into the guys for most of my nut, the initial amount of credit they gave me to hook me. I played stupidly right off the bat; I didn’t have time to make casual bets. I started with sucker plays, parlays, rolling any wins I stumbled upon, pushing the limits, and Ponts lapped it up like a stray cat with a fresh bottle of milk. In three weeks, I flopped on enough games to be into the fat man for forty-eight hundred.
I met up with him as he was coming out of Antonio’s.
“Say, kid . . .”
“Hey, Ponts. Can I get on a parlay this weekend?”
“How much?”
“Double up, catch up.”
He let out a low whistle. “Forty-eight?”
“Might as well make it an even five.”
“What say you give me the forty-eight you already owe, and we’ll go from there?”
“Come on, Ponts . . . you said a five-grand credit line.”
“But, kid—”
“Forty-eight is not five.”
“Yeah, but you want to go in for ten—”
“Not if I win—”
“I don’t know, kid.”
“Fine . . . I’ll just put two hundred on a three-way parlay . . . B.C. getting three, the over, and Virginia Tech over Michigan.”
“You just want two hundred?”
“I want five dimes, but you said you’ll only give me two potatoes.”
He looked at me sideways and pulled out a small notepad. “The kid wants five dimes . . . I’ll give the kid five dimes. Five to win fifteen on the parlay. Let’s just hope your luck turns, buddy.”
“I got a feeling this time.”
He smiled and winked. “I hope so.”
I hit the B.C. game but lost both Tech and the over. Now, I owed Ponts and Gorti ninety-eight hundred and I would get my first impression of how they ticked when wound up. I stayed away from Antonio’s for two weeks, just to get their engines into the red. Maybe they thought I’d run out on them. Maybe they thought I wasn’t coming back.
When I showed up at the bar, Ponts’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. All hints of camaraderie and companionship were gone. I was not his friend; this was business.
“Where’s the ninety-eight hundred?” he said as I sidled up to the bar. Gorti took a position on the other side of me.
“Let me finish my beer.” I was playing the spoiled college kid for all it was worth.
