“I didn’t offer you a layaway plan. You knew the terms of the deal. I did what I could to help you. Now you help me.”
“I’m not able to do that, Mr. Dante. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I feel terrible.”
“As well you should. How do you propose to raise the rest of it? You’ve got no credit left.”
“I was hoping you’d give me an extension.”
“I already did that and this is what I get. You told your parents about the money you owe me?”
“Oh, no, sir. Absolutely not. I promised to give up gambling after they bailed me out last time. I’ll tell ’em if I have to, but I’d prefer not.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
“I told her I was going camping with a friend.”
“You call this camping?” Dante shook his head. “What am I going to do with you? You’re a moron, you know that? Big ego, hot talk, but in the end you’re a putz. You pissed all your money away and now it’s my money you’ve blown. And for what? You think you’re a poker champ? There’s no way. You don’t have the skill, the talent, or the brains. You owe me twenty-six grand.”
Phillip said, “No, no. That’s not right. Is that right?”
“You’re on the hook for my expenses getting over here.”
“Why?”
“Because I came on your account. How else am I going to talk to you when you don’t show up when you said you would? You missed our appointment so I had to come on short notice, which meant chartering a flight. Plus, I got these two goons to pay.”
“I can’t do it. You told me twenty-five dollars per hundred on ten grand…”
“Per week.”
“I understand, but that’s only five grand. You just said so yourself.”
“Plus interest on the interest, plus the late fees, plus expenses.”
“I don’t have it.”
“You don’t have it. You have nothing of value anywhere in the world. You own nothing. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I could give you my car.”
“Do I look like a guy who owns a used-car lot?”
“Not at all.”
Dante stared at him. “What’s the make and model?”
“1985 Porsche 911, red. It’s worth over thirty thousand dollars. It’s in pristine condition. Perfect.”
“I know the definition of ‘pristine,’ you asshole. What do you owe on it?”
“Nothing. It’s paid for. My parents gave it to me for graduation. I’ll sign the pink slip right now and hand it over to you.”
“And it’s where, this fancy paid-for car of yours?”
“In the parking garage.”
“Valet?”
“I parked it myself to save the expense.”
“Well, aren’t you the frugal one. How far up?”
“The top.”
“I ought to have my head examined.” He glanced at his brother. “You two go up with the kid here and take a look at his car, tell me what you think. I want it checked out. Find a local mechanic if you have to.” He turned to Phillip. “The car better be as advertised. I’m running out of patience.”
“I swear it is and thank you.”
“Take a good look at yourself. Time to give up this poker shit and get a job. You’re wasting your life. Are you hearing me?”
“Absolutely. Yes. This will never happen again. It’s been a valuable lesson. I’m out of here. I’m gone. No more poker, I swear. This has been a wake-up call. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Cappi, you take care of this.” Dante dismissed Phillip with a gesture. “Jesus, put some clothes on. You look like a girl.”
All three men looked on without comment as Phillip gathered his clothes. He’d have preferred going into the bathroom to dress in privacy, but he didn’t want to risk another round of verbal abuse. Three minutes later, Cappi, Nico, and Phillip traversed the hotel, bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs. Phillip said, “Why can’t we take the elevator?”
Cappi stopped so fast, Phillip nearly stumbled into him. Cappi poked him in the chest with his index finger. “Let me tell you something. I’m in charge now, you got that? We do it by the book, no ifs, ands, or buts.”
“I didn’t hear him say we had to walk up.”
Cappi was in his face with his beefy breath. “You know what your problem is? You’re always thinking someone has to make an exception for you. Do it your way, on your terms. That’s not how it works. He says take you up. I’m taking you up. He wants to see how the car drives, okay? He wants to know what kind of shape it’s in. You say pristine, but we only have your word for it. All he knows, it’s a piece of shit.”
Phillip dropped the protest. Ten more minutes and this would all be over with. He’d cash in his four hundred dollars’ worth of chips and buy a bus ticket home. The two began to climb, Phillip clearly out of shape. After two flights he was winded. He had no idea how he’d explain what had happened to his car, but he’d deal with one problem at a time.
They reached the top level of the parking garage. While only six stories high, the night view was dramatic, lights as far as he could see. He spotted the Lady Luck two blocks over, the Four Queens across the street, so close he felt he could reach out and touch the sign. The lot was jammed with vehicles, but the Porsche stood out, gleaming red in the light, not a speck of dust on it. Cappi snapped his fingers. “Lemme see the keys.”
Phillip fumbled in his pants pocket and came up with the car keys. Nico didn’t seem interested. He stood with his arms crossed, looking off to one side like he had better things to do. Phillip thought he’d be the one who looked under the hood, but maybe he didn’t know anything about cars. He doubted Cappi was any kind of expert.
Three guys stepped out of the elevator. Phillip thought they were mechanics or parking attendants until he noticed they wore blue latex gloves. This struck him as odd at first, and then as alarming. He backed up a step, but no one said anything and no one made eye contact. Without a word, they approached and picked him up, one grabbing him under the arms while another was lifting his feet. The third man pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped off his shoes. The two men hauled him closer to the parapet and began to swing him back and forth.
Phillip struggled, thrashing, his voice shrill with fear. “What are you doing?”
Irritably, Cappi said, “What’s it look like? Dante says take care of it. I’m taking care of it.”
“Wait! We had a deal. We’re square.”
“Here’s the deal, Fuck Face.”
The men swinging him had built up momentum. He thought they might not be serious. He thought they were trying only to scare him. Then he felt himself hoisted over the rail. Suddenly he was airborne, falling so fast he couldn’t make a sound before he hit the pavement below.
Cappi peered over the wall. “Now we’re square, you little prick.”
2
So this is how it went down, folks. I turned thirty-eight on May 5, 1988, and my big birthday surprise was a punch in the face that left me with two black eyes and a busted nose. Contributing to the overall effect were the wads of gauze in both nostrils and a fat upper lip. My medical insurance sported me to the services of a plastic surgeon who repaired the old schnozz while I was blissfully sedated.
On my release, I retreated to my studio apartment, where I lay on my sofa, keeping my head elevated to minimize the swelling. This allowed me time to brood about my ill treatment at the hands of a virtual stranger. Five or six times a day, I’d check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching handsome red-and-purple bruises
