IT took Vince over a week to get to Carmine Giardelli, and during that time he cooled his heels at the Royal Buccaneer Hotel in Atlantic City. The gambling czar was unavailable. He was in Vegas for the weekend. He was in Miami on urgent business. He had to go to San Juan for a day. And so on. Mr. Giardelli would be back in Atlantic City shortly, Vince was told, just be patient.
Patience was too much to expect, but Vince had played the game, he had waited, and now Giardelli was back. Vince paced the length of the living room as he waited for the summons to see the big man, his shoes sinking into ankle-deep carpet, his fingers curled around a pony of brandy that was almost as old as he was. His suite at the Royal Buccaneer was middle-America's vision of what Atlantic City was all about. It had a sunken marble bath, a sunken marble living room, and sunken marble windows that opened onto a sunken marble sea. It had a candy-cane couch, a heart-shaped waterbed, and a spiral staircase that went nowhere. It had black and red flocked-velvet wallpaper, crimson drapes, and a walk-in closet big enough to hide a hippo. It had a faux Monet in the bathroom, a faux Van Gogh in the bedroom, and a lithograph of Elvis over the chrome and onyx bar. It had the style and warmth of a scream in the night, and it was all on the house.
Everything was on the house; Vince was comped. The suite, his food and drink, the services of a butler should he wish them, all came to him with the compliments of the management. Only the highest of rollers were comped that way, high credit, low risk players who could be counted on to drop a bundle at the tables two times out of three. For the Royal Buck, as for any other casino hotel, it was simply good business to comp the heavy hitters, and it was good business to comp a distinguished visitor, as well. Vince was distinguished. He had been sent by Lewis Whitney, he was there to see Carmine Giardelli, and that was enough to get him the same sort of treatment that would have been lavished on an Oklahoma oil man who bet with both hands.
Giardelli's man arrived promptly at nine. His name was Anthony, and he was young and round-faced. His suit was made of shantung silk, his shoes had been made on the bench, and his cologne was a breath of fresh mint. He smiled easily.
"Are you comfortable here?" he asked. "Everything to your satisfaction?"
"Everything's fine," Vince assured him.
"Mister Gee wants you to be comfortable. Anything you want, just ask for it."
"I'll do that. When do I see him?"
"In a minute, I have to go over you first. Nothing personal, just part of the routine."
Vince moved his feet apart, and held out his arms. Anthony's fingers probed quickly and expertly for weapons or wires. Close up, his minty cologne had an overtone of freshly cut grass. "You're hard as a rock," he said. "You work out?"
"When I can."
"I never seem to find the time,"
"What's the cologne?"
Anthony looked surprised and pleased. "Kentucky Spring. You like it?"
"It's you. It is definitely you."
Carmine Giardelli was the lay-off man for every major sports book between Washington and Toronto. Anything that the local book couldn't handle, anything too big or too complex, went to Giardelli, and "laying it off with Carmine" was a stock expression in the business. He didn't handle horses, but in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey Giardelli was to the local bookmaker what Lloyds of London was to the insurance underwriter. He was the specialist, he handled the overflow, he made the books balance.
Giardelli kept a penthouse apartment at the Royal Buck. It was soberly decorated, with none of the glitz of the luxury suites downstairs. Anthony led the way to a room that was bare except for a Ping-Pong table. Giardelli and a woman were playing, both standing back from the table and slamming power shots mixed with cute little slices. They grunted when they hit the ball, their faces ran with sweat, and their Reeboks squeaked on the floor. Giardelli wore only shorts. He was a tall man in his sixties with a lined face and lively eyes. The woman wore shorts and a halter top. Her lithe body said that she was about twenty, but her face swore that her body was lying. They both saw Vince come into the room, but they didn't stop playing. They were good, reminding Vince of the films he had seen of the Chinese masters of the game. The rally went on until Giardelli's backhand clipped the edge of the table, and fell away for the point.
"Seventeen-sixteen," he announced. He glanced at Vince. "Be right with you. I'm on a roll here."
"Roll, my ass," said the woman. Her voice was hard and edgy.
"Take your time," said Vince.
The action surged back and forth, and the score went to twenty-nineteen, Giardelli up. He said to Vince, "Just another minute while I put her away."
"Put your money where your mouth is," said the woman. "Fifty says you don't make it."
"We already got fifty on the game."
"Another fifty on the point."
"Sucker bet. You got it."
Giardelli stepped back to serve. The woman reached behind her back, and untied her halter top. She pulled it over her head, and let it drop to the floor. She moved up and down on her toes, ready to receive, and her breasts bounced with the motion. Anthony, beside Vince, made a sound deep in his throat. Vince glanced at him. His lips were tight with disapproval.
Giardelli grinned, and said, "Forget it, Shelley, it's not gonna work."
Shelley snapped, "Shut up and serve."
"They're cute, but I've seen 'em before."
"Serve."
"Take more than that to…"
"Serve, God damn it."
Giardelli served. The ball broke sharply away from Shelley's forehand for an ace. She waved at it futilely, then slammed her paddle on the table in disgust.
"Bingo," said Giardelli. "Pay me."
Shelley threw her paddle at him. It hit him in the forehead, and bounced to the floor. She marched out of the room.
Giardelli called after her, "Hey, you owe me a cee," but she was gone.
"You're bleeding," said Anthony.
There was a cut over Giardelli's left eyebrow, oozing blood. Anthony grabbed a towel from a hook on the wall, and dabbed at the cut. Giardelli pushed him away roughly.
"It's nothing," he said.
"There's blood all over your face." Anthony tried to dab again.
"Leave it alone," Giardelli ordered. He took the towel, and pressed it to his forehead. "That is one hell of a woman, but she sure is a lousy loser."
"Better let me put something on that cut."
"I'll take care of it. You think I never saw my own blood before?"
Anthony said in a prissy voice, "You should wash it out, and then get some iodine."
"Christ, you sound like an Italian grandmother."
"It could get infected."
"Anthony, she cut me with a Ping-Pong paddle, not a rusty knife." Giardelli held out his hand to Vince. "Sorry you came in on the middle of this."
"Happens in the best of families," said Vince.
"Give me a minute to clean myself up, and I'll be right with you."
"Take your time, and take care of that cut."
"Another Italian grandmother. You got some Italian blood in you?"
"You never know, do you?"
"Anthony, take Mister Bonepart into the living room and give him a drink." Giardelli took the towel away from his forehead, and looked at the red stain. "Christ, she got me good."
Vince followed Anthony into the living room, and found a comfortable chair. Anthony asked him what he wanted to drink.
"There was some dynamite cognac in my room."
Anthony nodded his approval. "Napier, thirty years old. You've got the palate."
Anthony went to the bar, and Vince said to his back, "Do they always play for blood?"
"The boss is a good player. Shelley just thinks she is."
"She's quite a girl."
"Girl? Did you see that face? That's wrinkle city."
"That's also a great body."
"From the neck up, she's gotta be forty. She is also a dumb cunt with no class."
"You always talk that way about your boss's women?"
Anthony brought the cognac. "I've been with Mister Gee for eight years. The women, they come and they go. This one, she'll be gone before the robins come home."
"You comfortable?" asked Giardelli from the door. He had put on a terry cloth robe, and there was a strip of plaster over one eye. He took a glass of mineral water from Anthony, and settled into a deep sofa. After a thirsty sip, he said, "So tell me about my old friend, Lewis Whitney."
"He's fine. He sends his best."
"I never see him anymore. He used to come down here for the weekend with that lovely wife of his, but now I never see him."
"He's a busy man."
"That's no excuse, we're all busy. You gotta make time to enjoy, you tell him I said that."
"I will, and I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"Hey, for a friend of Lewis, I got all the time in the world. He said I should listen to you, so I'm listening. Something about a fix on a basketball game?"
"That's right, next Saturday night."
Giardelli shrugged. "So what else is new?"
"You don't seem surprised."
"Listen, my friend, you know how many college games get shaved every week? Team is favored to win by seven, but they only win by three. The team still wins, but a couple of players make a payday, and some wiseguy wins a bundle. Happens all the time, it's as American as pepperoni pizza."
"I didn't say anything about a shave. It's a dump."
Giardelli leaned forward. "An actual dump? You mean the favorite is gonna lose?"
"That's it."
"I don't get it, why bother? A shave is just as good, and the team doesn't take the loss."
"That's the way it's going down."
"Crazy, that's crazy." Giardelli took a cigar from the humidor on the table beside him. He offered one to Vince, who shook his head. Giardelli lit the cigar carefully, and blew smoke. "I don't understand people any more. Maybe it's me, but I don't understand. What teams?"
"Polk and Van Buren."
"Never heard of 'em."
"Division Two."
"That's why I never heard of 'em. Anthony, call Caruso and check it out."
Anthony went to the telephone, and spoke briefly. He hung up, and said, "Polk over Van Buren by five and a half."
"Any heavy action?"
"Not so far. Caruso wants to know, should he put a flag on it."
"Not yet. We'll see."
Shelley came into the room, and the conversation stopped. She had changed into tapered slacks and a frilly blouse. Both men watched as she went to the bar. Anthony did not move to help her. She poured gin and tonic into a glass, and stirred with a finger. She licked the finger, and walked over to Giardelli. She threw two fifties in his lap.
"Does your head hurt?" she asked.
"No." Giardelli put the money in the pocket of his robe.
"Next time I'll use something heavier."
"You do it again, and I'll show you what really hurts."
"You ever do that, and I'm out the door."
"I don't have to do it. Anthony'll do it for me."
"Him?" She stared at Anthony, who was leaning against the wall. "I don't think so, Carmine, I really don't. If he ever touched me, he'd never sleep easy again."
"I'd sleep," said Anthony. His voice was cold. "I never have trouble sleeping."
"Hey, loosen up, the two of you," said Giardelli. He looked uncomfortable. "We got a guest here. Shelley, this is Mister Bonepart."
Shelley looked at Vince with interest. "You play table tennis?"
"I used to. We called it Ping-Pong."
"Table tennis," she insisted. "You want a game? Dollar a point."
Giardelli said admiringly, "What a hustler. She's gotta make her money back."
Vince smiled, and shook his head.
"I'll spot you three points," said Shelley.
Vince shook his head again.
"And I'll keep my clothes on."
"Some other time."
"Shelley, we're talking business here," said Giardelli.
"Pardon me for breathing. You want me to go?"
"No, it's nothing you can't hear."
"Can I order something up?" Her voice lost its hard edge, and turned little-girl sweet. "I'm hungry. Losing always makes me hungry."
"So does winning. Order whatever you want."
"I think maybe lobster."
"This time of night? You looking for indigestion?"
"I can eat lobster anytime."
Giardelli nodded to Anthony, who moved to the telephone. "Order a lobster, and steak for the rest of us."
"Not for me," said Vince.
"Order for four, maybe he'll change his mind." Giardelli turned his attention to Vince. "So, go ahead, what's this fix got to do with me?"
"The people that I represent…" Vince paused, and Giardelli nodded an agreement that the people did not need to be named. "These people would be very happy if the scam doesn't go down."
"Very noble, very civic-minded. All they got to do is blow the whistle."
"Vince shook his head. "My people don't want publicity. They are very anxious to see that the game gets played, but that it gets played straight."
"How do you expect to do that?"
"I want to get to whoever put the fix in. I want it called off."
"And you think I can do that?"
"I was hoping that you could point me in the right direction."
Giardelli spent time with his cigar. He inspected the length of the ash, he drew, he inspected it again. He sighed. "After a while you get a kind of a reputation in this business. People say 'lay if off with Carmine. ' They say 'Carmine, he knows everything.' They say a quarterback in some jerkwater school in Oklahoma gets a sore elbow, and Carmine knows about it. They say the goalie in Calgary has a fight with his wife, and Carmine hears about it. They say all kinds of crazy things, but to tell you the truth, most of that is bullshit. Sure, I hear things, everybody hears things, but I don't pay much attention to that kind of talk. I can't afford to. I got enough to do just running my business, and this thing that you're talking about, it's not my business."
"You've heard nothing?"
"Nothing."
"And there's no way you could find out?"
Giardelli said patiently, "Let me explain something. If the fix is really in on this game…"
"There's no question about that."
"Okay, you come to me from Lewis, so I know that you're not some kind of a kook. So it's real, but if it's real there's only two ways it could happen. Either the guys who are pulling it are connected, or they're free-lance. If they're connected, I would know about it, and if they're not then there is no fucking way I would know who they are. So there it is. I got nothing for you."
Shelley went to a console against the wall, and flipped a switch. Loud music filled the room. She snapped her fingers, and swayed to the music.
Giardelli said, "Turn that off, we're talking."
Shelley ignored him. She did a little dance step, and twirled around.
Anthony went to the console, and turned off the music. Shelley glared at him, and kept on dancing.
Vince asked, "And there's no one you could send me to?"
"No one who would know more than I do. Look, Vince… okay to call you Vince?"
"Sure."
"Vince, even if I could do something like this, which I can't, once a deal gets started it has a momentum, you know? People put in the money, and you can't reverse something like that. Not once the money is in."
"My people understand that. They know that the bottom line is always money, and so they've authorized me to make you an offer."
Giardelli threw up his hands. "I just finished telling you…"
"Please, hear me out. They'd like you to act as broker on this deal. They're willing to guarantee a lump-sum payment to cover everybody's losses if the fix doesn't happen. The money would be paid directly to you, and you would see that it reached the proper parties, no questions asked. Your fee would be included. The only stipulation is that the game is played on the level."
Giardelli did his cigar routine again. When he was satisfied with the ash, he asked, "How much of a sum?"
"Half a mil."
"That's an impressive figure. Your people must be anxious."
"They're very… concerned."
"I can see that." Giardelli stared at the ceiling. "It's tempting, very tempting."
Vince waited.
"And I'd like to oblige Lewis."
"He would be grateful, and he'd show his gratitude."
"But I have to say no. I wouldn't know where to start. There's nothing I can do for you, Vince, nothing at all."
"That's final?"
"Final. No hard feelings?"
"Certainly not."
"Then that's it."
Not quite, thought Vince. It's time to tap.
He went into Giardelli's head. The old man was playing it straight. He knew nothing about the fix.
He went into Shelley's head. She was Domino.
He stood up, and said, "I want to thank you for taking the time to see me."
"You going? Those steaks'll be up in a minute."
"Sorry, but I have things to do."
"Whatever you say. I wish I could have helped you."
Shelley came dancing over, still without the music. "You going?"
Vince nodded.
"Come back any time," said Giardelli. "You'll be welcome."
"Table tennis next time," said Shelley. "I promise to take it easy on you."
"It's a deal, "said Vince, "but we'll have to play by my rules."
"You got special rules?"
"That's right. Gibraltar rules."
Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. "I play American rules. That's good enough for me."
"We'll see," said Vince. "Maybe you'll like mine better."
He went back to his room. He stripped the top sheet from his bed, put it in the bathtub, and let the cold water run. When the sheet was soaked through, he wrung it out, and brought it back to the bedroom. He went to the bar, made himself a drink, and settled down to wait. He figured to wait at least an hour, but the knock on his door came after only twenty minutes. She stood in the doorway dressed for the street, a cape thrown over her shoulders. The cape hid her hands.
"We have to talk," she said. "Do I come in?"
"Of course."
He stood back to let her pass. As she came by him, he chopped at the base of her neck with the edge of his palm. She went down noiselessly, and the pistol in her hand slid out from under the cape. He picked it up, kicked the door shut, and carried her into the bedroom. He put her on the bed, and checked her eyes and pulse. She was still out, but not for long. He stripped her clothes off, and found another pistol tucked in the back of her waistband, and a thin blade taped to her thigh. He wrapped her in the wet sheet, rolling her over and over.
He left her head free, but the rest of her was trussed as tight as a Christmas turkey.
He waited again, watching her, and again he was struck by the apparent disparity between a youthful body and a middle-aged face. After a while, he decided that it wasn't just age. It was the face of a woman who had seen too much, and who had been marked by what she had seen.
Her eyelids flickered. Her eyes opened. Her eyeballs rolled wildly. She tried to move, and found that she could not. She strained silently against the wet sheet once, again, and then stopped trying. She breathed in deeply, and breathed out slowly to relax herself. She looked up at Vince, and her eyes were calm. It was an impressive performance. She had gone from unconsciousness to full awareness, and an acceptance of her situation, in a matter of seconds. It was more than impressive, it was wholly professional.
"Who are you?" she asked in an even voice.
"Just a messenger."
"You said something upstairs."
" Gibraltar rules. That was just to get your attention. Your mission is aborted. Your instructions are to discontinue the operation at once, roll it back. The fix is off, that game has to be played on the level."
"What are the chances of getting out of this straitjacket?"
"After a while. Right now I want you immobile. You came in here carrying."
"What did you expect?"
"Exactly that. Do you understand the message?"
"You're starting in the middle. I don't even know who you are. How about some ID?"
"You know better than that. I could show you all the ID in the world, and it wouldn't mean anything. Your code name is Domino, your mission is to kill the bulldog, and your orders came from David Ogden. That's all the ID I need."
She accepted that. "You said abort?"
"More than that. I don't know how you set up the fix, but you're going to have to unfix it, make it like it never happened."
She managed to shake her head. "You said something about Gibraltar rules. If you know the words, you know what they mean. The mission can't be aborted. We're in the time frame."
"The man who gave you the mission is dead."
The lines in her face deepened. "I read the papers."
"Other people are running the show now, and the decision is to abort."
"That's their decision, not mine."
"You're not in a position to refuse."
"I have no choice. Gibraltar rules."
"Screw the rules, your job is dead." Vince felt his anger flaring, and he throttled it down. "Look, I can roll this thing back without you, but it would be a lot easier if you worked with me. How did you set up the fix?"
She said nothing.
"Come on, we're talking about a lousy basketball game, not nuclear weapons."
Again nothing.
"This doesn't make any sense. No matter what the rules are, this is crazy."
"It doesn't have to make sense. David Ogden wanted it, and that's all that matters."
"David Ogden had tumors eating at his brain when he gave you those orders. He wasn't responsible."
"David Ogden with half a brain was more responsible than any man I ever knew. This is what he wanted, and this is what he gets."
"You're going to have to tell me, Shelley, one way or another."
She smiled. It was a hell of a time to smile, but there it was. She said, "What do you know about the Mukhabarat?"
"The Iraqi Security Service."
"Number Ten Flowering Square?"
"Their interrogation center in Baghdad."
"I was in there for eleven days. Do you know what it's like in there? There's nothing refined about the Iraqi technique, nothing sophisticated. I was beaten every day, over and over. I was raped every night, over and over. I took it for eleven days, and I didn't talk."
"Everybody talks."
"I didn't. On the twelfth day, David Ogden got me out."
"Nobody gets out of there."
"I did. An exchange, the kind you don't read about in the newspapers. David Ogden brought me back from hell. So if David Ogden wants something… wanted… he's going to get it. No matter what."
"You're still going to have to tell me."
She shook her head and he saw the look in her eyes. He had seen that look before in the eyes of the righteous and convinced. He had seen it in the eyes of a backwoods preacher shouting down sin. He had seen it in the eyes of a twelve-story leaper at the moment when she knew that she was really going to jump. He had seen it in the eyes of an Afghani guerrilla about to charge a Soviet tank with a hunting rifle in his hands. He had seen it, and he knew what it meant.
She was still smiling. "Do you think you can beat it out of me? You're welcome to try."
"No, I'm not going to do anything like that. I don't have to."
He prepared himself for a Delta tap, a deep probe on all levels for as far as he could go. He went into her head, entirely focused on what he was doing. He never heard a footstep behind him, or any other sound. Later, all he could remember from the moment were the odors of fresh mint and newly cut grass, just before the world fell in on him.
He came up out of it with a bitter taste in his mouth, and his head throbbing like an angry pulse. He opened his eyes, and tried to focus. He was lying on the bed, and there was someone lying next to him. The someone felt like a sack full of sand that was pressing against his back.
"He's coming around, lieutenant."
There were two uniforms standing over him, and two more in suits. He tried to put a hand to his aching head, but his hands wouldn't move. They were cuffed behind his back.
"Keep still," said one of the uniforms. "Don't go moving around."
The other uniform was talking into a mouthpiece, and someone on the other end squawked back at him. He clicked a button, and announced, "Wagon's on its way."
Vince tried to shift his weight away from the sack of sand. The first uniform bent over, and slapped him across the face. "I told you to keep still."
"Lay off," said one of the suits. He squatted next to the bed. "Can you stand up?"
Vince mumbled, "What's happening?"
"Can you stand?"
"Why should I?"
"I'm gonna read you your rights, and I want you standing when I do it."
"What did I do?"
"Come on, get up. Big guy like you can stand on his feet."
The suit put a hand under Vince's elbow, and pulled him up. He stood next to the bed, swaying. The other suit was down on the floor. There was a pistol lying on the carpet, and he was trying to poke it with a pencil into a transparent bag. The first suit read Vince his rights, and said, "Did you understand that?"
"I heard it, but I don't remember it. What's happening here?"
"Turn around and take a look."
Vince stood without moving. He did not want to turn around. He knew now that there was a body on the bed, and he did not want to see it. He thought about the Mukhabarat and Number Ten Flowering Square. He had known her for only a few hours, but he still did not want to see it.
The suit grinned at him. "What's the matter, got the jumps? Big guy like you got the jumps?"
Vince took a deep breath, and turned around. The body on the bed was what was left of Carmine Giardelli. He let out his breath, and said, "When do I get to make my phone call?"