'Your idea,' I said. 'Never.' 'Probably not.' 'So who?'
'Somebody else. Probably the heavy-cuff-link crowd.' 'Those guys don't do that anymore, do they?' 'Don't ask me,' I said, 'you're Italian.' 'Come on,' she said. 'I mean to regular people.' 'This guy wasn't regular people, Brush. If you make book you've got to be connected.' 'Why?' she asked.
''Why?' Because this is
She stared. She still didn't see why.
'Here,' I said, 'it's like your insurance client. What's the name?'
She reminded me, a fair-sized outfit that sent her their coverage litigation in the Midwest. A significant piece of business, and even saying the name she had a hard time managing her pride.
'Let's say they have four billion in property and casualty coverage in California,' I told her. 'How do they make sure that they don't go under when the hills burn?'
'They reinsure.'
'Exactly. They find a few large, reliable companies and literally insure their insurance. And bookies do the same thing. A good bookie isn't a gambler. Any more than your insurance client is. Bookie makes 10 percent vig on your bet, if you lose. You bet 100, you owe him 110 when your team comes up short. That's where his money is. On any given game, he wants you to bet the loser and me to bet the winner. He gets $110 from you, keeps $10 vig, and gives ioo to me.' Brushy interrupted.
'No chance, Malloy. He'd use
'Very amusing.' I faked a little pop to her biceps and went on. 'Anytime his book puts him at risk, when he has a lot more win money than lose money or vice versa, he'll do like the insurance company. Lay off. Reinsure. Call it whatever. And in this business, you want to lay off, you better be part of the network. Otherwise no one's going near you. Besides, if you need Mr Large and Reliable, the outfit who can always handle your action, it's them.'
'So what did he do wrong? Archie?'
'Maybe he was screwing around with the street tax.' Guys had gotten fixed for less than that. With his gimmick with the credit cards, Archie might have thought he didn't need them. But even an actuary using the Vegas line was going to have to lay off. What I could use was a little heart-to-heart with somebody connected. At that moment Toots crossed my mind.
Having run out of answers, I asked Brushy about lunch.
'I can't,' she said. 'Pagnucci's in town. I said I'd have lunch with him.'
'Pagnucci?' This was not one of Brushy's known allies or liaisons, but remembering yesterday I bit my tongue. 'What's doing?' I asked. 'Groundhog Day?'
That was her guess. In our firm, a partner is guaranteed to make 75 percent of what he earned the twelve months before, drawing it out after each of the first three quarters of our fiscal year. Then on January 31 the Committee divvies up the remainder and announces the results on Groundhog Day. Everybody puts on a tuxedo and goes to the Club Belvedere for dinner. We are served in elegance and joke with each other. On the way out, we each receive an envelope listing our share of firm income. Nobody carpools to this event. Each partner returns home alone, full of the elevating light of success or in fitful depression. The carping begins the next day and often goes on most of the remaining year until the next Groundhog Day. Some people campaign with the Committee, listing all their good deeds and achievements, the many new clients, the great rate of collections. To minimize discord, Pagnucci, who does the first draft of the point distribution, makes the rounds of influential partners to be sure they can accept the Committee's view of their worth. At least, that's what I hear. Pagnucci has never made luncheon reservations with me. The only info I get generally is by gossip, before or after the event, since your share, like your private parts, is supposed to be known only to you. When I got my first cut three years ago, I was in enough of a snit that late one evening I took a peek in the drawer in Martin's credenza, where he stashes the point-distribution record. I just about opened a vein after seeing all the layabouts and losers making more money than me.
'How about if we do lunch tomorrow?' Brushy asked. Til get some place with tablecloths. I want to talk to you.' She touched my knee. Her round face was warm with feeling. Emilia Bruccia is probably the only person I know who feels any concern for my spirit.
B. Police Secrets
After Brush left, I got on the phone and called McGrath Hall, headquarters of the Kindle County Unified Police
Force. Twenty-two years, but I knew the number by heart. I reached Al Lagodis, who was now up in Records, and told him I was gonna swing by. I didn't give him a chance to say no, and even so, I could hear he was about as enthusiastic as if I'd told him I was selling raffle tickets for some charity.
The Hall is a big graystone heap the size of a castle on the south rim of Center City, just where the big buildings stop and the neighborhood turns littered and bleak, full of taverns with garish signs sporting mention of dancing girls, places where lushes and perverts, released from the big buildings at lunchtime, drink beside the hustlers. I was at the Hall in ten minutes. I had to check in at the front desk and they called Al to fetch me.
'How are you?' Al gave me both eyes, a look of dead sincerity, as he was walking me back.
'You know.'
'That good?' He laughed. Al and I go back to the time when I was in Financial Crimes and he thought I did the right thing on Pigeyes. Not that Al did anything himself, except, I always suspected, a little confidential muttering to the FBI — deep background stuff, a cup of coffee and some hard information that he'd refer to as 'rumors'. I always figured it was Al who put the Feebies onto me. He was one of the few folks here who would still talk to me afterwards — although he preferred to do it when nobody was around. Two decades and old Al was still going all shifty-eyed, hoping nobody saw him with Mack Malloy, legendary no-good guy. Around here not much changes. There were gals now, stepping through the dim old halls, wearing guns and ties and shirts that to my eye were not really designed for folks with tits, but even they have got that cop-roll, do-me-something stride.
'Nice digs,' I said. He had a cubicle, steel partitions painted police blue, that rippled plastic stuff for windows, and a door. No ceiling. Life where you keep your voice down and can literally touch each wall when you stretch. Al worked Financial fourteen years. When Pigeyes was transferred in, he transferred out — discretion and valor, you know how that is — and went to the Records Division, which anyway is a better end to the road. He is now one of those coppers whose hard-charging days are behind them, who've found their cul-de-sac on the police life map and can hide here till it's retirement time, pretty soon now for Al, come age fifty-five. The Hall is full of these types, guts like saddlebags and smoked-out voices. He works 8:00 to 4:30. He supervises the clerks and fills out forms. Nobody shoots at him, nobody kicks him in the ass. He has his memories to keep him warm and a wife to set him straight whenever he's had a brewski too many and begins that lamebrained talk about how nice it would be to get back on the street. A good sod, with features blown out by alcohol.
'Need you to check me out on a couple things,' I told him.
'Shoot.' I was seated right beside his little desk and he could reach out from there to shut the door, which he did.
'You worked Financial a lot longer than me. I've gotta get information from Pico Luan — i.d. on who controls a bank account.'
Al shook his head. 'No,' he said, 'forget it,' then asked, trying to be casual, 'Whatta we got here?'
I was dodgy. 'I'm not completely sure. I'm real confused. Here, let me try this one on you. Guy tells me he had a conversation with the General Manager of a bank in Pico Luan, long-distance telephone, and the GM sort of gives him between the lines whose account it is. How's that sound to you?'
'Not like any of them I ever talked to. Not on the telephone. Those guys got a patter. Go over to the Embassy. See your diplomat with the palm oil. Fill out a form. Wait an eon. Then another one. They'll send you a beautiful document back, honest to Christ, you never saw so many seals and ribbons, you'd think it was the fuckin VFW on parade, but it's spit, they won't tell you momma's first name when it comes to whose money's really in the
