Bad Luck

  Also by Anthony Bruno

  BAD GUYS

  BAD BLOOD

  ANTHONY BRUNO

  A Novel

  For Barbara

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  he steel I-beam sailed through the clear blue sky, so nice, like a bird. Sal Immordino stood there facing the yellow-beige aluminum wall of the trailer, looking straight up at the towering crane and the rust-colored I-beam on the end of its cable, pleased to see that something so big and heavy could be so graceful. He followed the long metal beam’s flight high over the construction site, grinning a little as he pulled down his zipper and fished around in his underwear.

  “Hey! Whattaya doing over there?”

  “Leave him alone, Mike.”

  Aaaahhhhh . . . A dark blot spread through the sand on the ground. It made a nice sound, Sal thought, the steady stream hitting the sand. Sorta plopped when you poured it. He stared up at the sky, smelled the salt air on the breeze, and ignored the two stupid bodyguards standing over by the trailer door.

  “Go use the Porta Pottie, for chrissake.”

  “Shut up, Mike.”

  “Whattaya mean, shut up? He’s out in the open, peeing against the wall, for crying out loud. That’s not right.”

  “Just shut up, Mike.”

  “What? You think he understands me? Lemme tell you. That guy’s not right in the head. He’s a friggin’ dummy. He doesn’t understand what you say. That’s why he’s standing there with his thing hanging out, doing it like nobody can see him.”

  “Mike, shut up.”

  “Hey, what’s he gonna do, beat me up?”

  “Shut up, will ya? He’s gonna hear you.”

  “I’m supposed to be afraid of him because he’s big, because he used to be a pro boxer, a heavyweight? I don’t give a shit. Look at him. He’s all fat. He must weigh two sixty, two seventy. At least.”

  Two fifty-five, Sal thought, shaking himself off. Two fifty-five and six foot four, asshole.

  “I don’t get it. What the hell could Mr. Nashe want with this big jerk? I mean, look at the way he’s dressed. Mr. Nashe doesn’t even let the janitors at the hotel go around looking like that.”

  “Mike, will you just shut the fuck up?”

  Yeah, shut the fuck up, Mike.

  Sal zipped his pants and headed back inside, deliberately dragging his feet in the dirt. As he came up to the steps leading to the trailer door, he got a good look at this Mike character. Sal didn’t like his looks. Tall, built like a light heavyweight, the type who thinks he’s good-looking. Straight dark hair falling over his forehead, deep-set eyes. Probably thinks he looks like Tom Cruise or something. Suspicious eyes. A real wiseass. Sal didn’t like his looks at all. He looked like a fucking cop. Prick.

  As Sal lumbered by he deliberately bumped into the guy’s shoulder, hard. He stared the asshole in the eye. “You my brother? You Joseph? You ain’t Joseph. No . . . Where’s my brother Joseph?”

  The guy shook his head and stared right back at him. “In there, genius,” and he jerked his thumb at the door. Real arrogant little prick. Typical bodyguard, all balls and no brains.

  Sal climbed the steps and opened the metal door. It was like a piece of cardboard in his hand. He shut the door behind him and turned the bolt, glanced at Joseph and the Golden Boy, then went back to his chair, the metal folding chair. He didn’t like the other ones in here. They all had arms. He usually didn’t fit into chairs that had arms.

  “Sal, why don’t you take one of these chairs? They’re more comfortable,” the Golden Boy said.

  Sal looked at the floor and shook his head. He never risked getting stuck in a chair with goddamn arms when someone was watching.

  “Okay. Whatever makes you happy, Sal. So where were we?”

  Sal reached into the pocket of his warm-up jacket and pulled out a black rubber ball. As he started to squeeze it, he stared at Nashe, the Golden Boy, standing behind that drafting table.

  Russell fucking Nashe. Mr. Cash. He better be. Jesus, please, he better be.

  Sal pulled a pack of Dentyne out of his other pocket. He stopped squeezing the ball long enough to unwrap two pieces and stick them in his mouth. He looked at Nashe blankly as he rocked back and forth in his seat, chewing his gum and squeezing the rubber ball, giving the man a good show. Nashe was smiling at him, leaning over the drafting table in his two-thousand-dollar banker’s suit, his knuckles on the blueprints, smiling with his eyebrows, like he was posing for the cover of Time magazine. Sal kept rocking back and forth. Russell fucking Nashe. Bright blue eyes—probably bright blue contacts. Wavy dark hair slicked back with that mousse crap they use now. A skinny guy but with a big head—too big for the rest of him. Chubby cheeks, like he always had something stuffed up his mouth. And those stupid buckteeth. Sal switched the ball to his other hand. Billionaire, huh? Nashe looks like a goddamn rabbit. He looks like Bugs Bunny. How can you trust a guy who looks like Bugs Bunny?

  Nashe crossed his arms, rubbed his chin, shifted his smile over to Sal’s older brother Joseph, who was sitting in one of the good chairs, the chairs with the arms. “Twenty-nine million . . . That’s a lot of money. I can’t just write you a check, just like that. What do I look like? Donald Trump?” Nashe flashed that wiseass smirk of his with the rabbit teeth sticking out.

  No, not this time, you fucking jerk. Don’t wanna hear the song and dance anymore. Time’s up. For both of us.

  Sal looked at his brother, waiting for him to say something, but Joseph just sat there, stroking his silver-gray pencil-thin mustache, glaring up at Nashe. Another fucking jerk. Joseph thought he was tough. He thought he looked like Burt Reynolds too. Maybe Burt Reynolds with a potbelly and without the wig. Maybe. Joseph thought he was being real cool now, but his red face gave him away. He was pissed as shit, ready to explode. He wasn’t saying anything now because he knew he’d start screaming like some kind of cuckoo bird if he opened his mouth. Burt Reynolds, huh? How about Elmer Fudd? These two were a fucking pair. They deserved each other.

  Sal turned away and looked out the window, biting his bottom lip. He scanned the muddy construction site outside—the big hole they’d dug last November, the cement trucks revving their motors and spinning their drums, the construction guys yelling at each other, telling each other what to do, the big sign down by the boardwalk with the twelve-foot redhead in a Hawaiian-print sarong: “The BIGGEST name in Atlantic City is building the BIGGEST casino hotel in the world. NASHE PARADISE. Coming Soon.” Sal lowered his head so he could see the giant silver letters on top of Bugs Bunny’s other casino down the other end of the boardwalk. He wanted to see if Nashe was using the same typeface for the new casino. The letters were blinding in the sun, so it was hard to tell. C’mon, Joseph, say something, for chrissake.

  “Twenty-nine million, four hundred thousand,” Joseph finally said, struggling to hold his temper. “Today.”

  Nashe was grinning at him. “I made my original deal with Seaview Properties, Joseph. I think it’s only proper that I continue with them.”

  Joseph kept stroking his mustache. “We represent Seaview Properties. Two weeks ago you could’ve dealt with them. Now you’r
e late, so you deal with us.” Joseph sucked on his teeth. Must’ve seen that one in an old gangster movie. Cagney, maybe. What a jerk.

  Nashe shook his head, still grinning. “You know, Joseph, you come here to the construction site to find me, no appointment, no warning, nothing. This isn’t my office. I’ve got no papers with me, no files. You expect me to just give you a check right here? Is that what you think? Be real. I have to review the contract. I don’t have the exact terms of the contract in my head.”

  Joseph straightened his tie. Now he was gonna be Rodney Dangerfield. “You don’t remember the terms, huh? Well, I’ll remind you. Down the other end of the boardwalk you happen to have a casino—you remember that one? Nashe Plaza? Well, under that big casino of yours, there’s land. And that land under your casino was leased to you five years ago by Seaview Properties. Is it coming back to you now? The terms of that deal were that you’d put down five mil—which you did—pay two million a year for the first five years—which you also did—then in the fifth year, you’d make up the balance in a balloon payment, which you haven’t done yet and which is now two weeks overdue. That was the deal. Okay, now? Anyway, you should know the terms, because you were the one who came up with this balloon-payment idea in the first place.”

  Sal chewed the cinnamon-flavored gum with his front teeth and squeezed the ball harder. Bugs Bunny knows all this, Joseph. He’s just jerking you around, for chrissake. Stop playing around and just put it to him.

  Nashe rolled up the blueprints on the table and crossed his arms with the roll in his hand, like some fucking king.

  “Of course, I remember that, Joseph, but there are details in the contract that have to be checked.”

  “I don’t want to hear this crap, Nashe. Just get the money up.”

  Nashe tapped the back of his head with the blueprints and stared at the floor for a minute. Then he started pacing.

  Sal dug his fingers into the rubber ball. He could feel his heart thumping. Now what, you son of a bitch? What’s the excuse gonna be now?

  Nashe puckered his lips and nodded before he spoke. “Joseph, let me say from the outset that you will get your money. That isn’t even an issue here. The issue is commitment, and that’s what I don’t think you and your brother understand. We are all in the business of making money—that goes without saying. But you have to recognize that there are different styles of making money. Some people stick their money in the bank and they’re happy getting that nice little five-percent interest. It’s safe, it’s what they want. Other people are a little more adventurous with their investments. They’re willing to accept a certain degree of risk for a better return. But when you’re talking about making big money, you’re talking about major projects, and for that you’ve got to really commit your money. And that means tying it up.”

  Joseph waved his hand at Nashe. “Hey, hey, I don’t want to hear this shit. All I know is—”

  “No, Joseph, just hear me out for a minute. Where I am standing right now will be the biggest casino in the world, in the world. Nothing else will even come close. Thirty-two hundred slots, one hundred seventy-five blackjack tables, fifty craps tables, fifty roulettes, twelve big sixes, fifteen baccarat tables. We’re gonna have two showrooms. Big names playing all the time and at the same time. Just try to imagine this. We’ll have, say, Liza in one room and Sammy in the other. They’ll do walk-ons on each other’s shows. People won’t believe it. It’ll look totally spontaneous. Can you imagine this? You’re sitting there listening to Liza singing ‘New York, New York,’ say, and all of a sudden Sammy walks out onstage. That’s entertainment, my friend. That’s what brings people in. And that’s what the Paradise will be known for. But you can’t wait till the place is built to start lining up talent like that. No, no, no, no, no. To get big talent like that you’ve got to line them up long in advance. And that’s what we’re doing right now. But that takes capital, Joseph.”

  Joseph straightened his tie again. “I don’t give a shit about your two rooms. All I want is—”

  “Hey, take a look out that window.” Nashe pointed with the rolled-up blueprints. “See all those guys working out there? If I gave you your twenty-nine million today, how many of those guys would be there tomorrow? None. That’s how many. And what about all the people who’re waiting for jobs here? I’m talking about thousands of jobs, jobs that I promised the governor I’d give to Atlantic City residents first. Why? Because I’m the only casino owner in this whole town who gives a damn about this community. It’s time the casinos stop taking and start giving a little. This city is a disgrace. This town is built on money. There shouldn’t be slums here. There shouldn’t be poor people here. These people should have jobs, and if I have to do it alone, I will make sure the people of Atlantic City get good jobs and are treated right so they take pride in this place.”

  Sal squeezed the ball in half. Gas pains were piercing his gut.

  Joseph sat forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don’t give a good goddamn about these jigaboos down here. I got my own charities to worry about.”

  Sal rocked and nodded. Yeah, that’s right. Cil’s place. Sal looked at Nashe, wondering what other bullshit excuses the rabbit was gonna pull out of his hat.

  “Joseph, if the Paradise was the only project I had going right now, you wouldn’t have to be here. You would’ve had your money by now. But I’m also in the middle of promoting this fight.” Nashe pointed with the rolled-up blueprints to the poster taped to the wall. “Two weeks from this Saturday. The biggest fight in the history of professional boxing, with the biggest cash purse in the history of professional boxing. Forget the Rumble in the Jungle. Forget the Thrilla in Manila. This is the ultimate, the War Down the Shore.”

  Nashe was grinning again, pleased with himself. Joseph was glaring at him, ready to jump out of his skin. Poor Joseph didn’t know what the hell to do next. Sal squeezed the rubber ball and rocked. Joseph don’t get no respect. That’s ’cause he doesn’t demand it. You gotta demand it, Joseph. C’mon! We gotta get the money!

  “Look, Joseph,” Nashe said, waving the blueprints around, “I know you don’t want to hear any of this, but I want you to understand where I’m coming from. Originally I had no intention of getting involved with this fight to the extent that I have. What the hell did I know about promoting a fight? But the opportunity came my way and I grabbed it. Why? Because there was big money to be made with this fight. But once again, to make big money you’ve got to commit big money.”

  Sal’s gum was beginning to lose its flavor. He tuned out Nashe’s bullshit, tired of hearing it, and stared at the two fighters on that poster on the wall, two heavyweights facing off, arms bulging, faces mean, skin oiled and shining. Sal didn’t like the reigning champ, Dwayne “Pain” Walker. He was a street punk, the kind who’d rape your grandmother. Sal liked the challenger, Charles Epps. He was bigger and had a longer reach. Unfortunately he was also a lot slower and a lot older than Walker. Christ, Epps had fought Ali—that’s how long he’d been around. Still, Sal liked Epps because he reminded Sal of himself when he was fighting. Same kind of body, same style. No footwork to speak of, but a killer right. When Sal fought he never fooled around working on the body. He went right for the head, looking for the knockout. Epps used to fight the same way, but his time had passed. They were just rolling him out now to face Walker because he used to be a big name and had held the title for about ten minutes in the late seventies. Epps wouldn’t go more than four rounds, no way. Sure, Sal liked the guy, but he wouldn’t put any money on him.

  Joseph was raising his voice now. He sounded like Grandma. “I’m getting tired of the crap, Nashe. I want to know what the hell you’re gonna do here.” Joseph was begging now. Bad, very bad.

  Nashe threw Joseph a patronizing smile as he moved a stool around the drafting table and sat down in front of Sal. He was through talking to the dummy—he wanted to deal directly with the ventriloquist now. “Sal, as I said, you’re going to get your money. With in
terest, of course.” Nashe toned down the snake-oil pitch, but he was still flashing the Bugs Bunny grin.

  Joseph’s eyebrows started twitching. “What the hell you talking to him for? Leave my brother alone. You don’t talk to him. You talk to me.”

  Nashe nodded to Joseph but kept talking to Sal. He knew who the boss was. “Sal, I know you understand what I’m talking about. A good opportunity cannot be overlooked. So you have to steal from Peter to pay Paul. So what? You make it up to Peter later and you do right by him. As God is my witness, I genuinely wish I didn’t have so much tied up with the Paradise and the fight right now, I really do. I want to pay you. Just ninety days. That’s all it’ll take. Ninety days at ten percent. Does that sound fair?”

  Sal looked out the window at the cement trucks and started to shake his head, laughing to himself. Ninety days? That must be a joke, right? Mr. Mistretta gets out of prison in a couple of weeks. He doesn’t want to know nothing about no ninety days. Mistretta wouldn’t give you nine minutes, you fucking clown. He won’t give me nine minutes. He wants that money waiting for him when he gets out. And if it’s not there . . . Sal started rocking again. He didn’t even want to think about it.

  Nashe leaned closer. “Talk to me, Sal. Say something. Everything is negotiable. What don’t you like? Tell me.”

  Sal almost spit out a bitter laugh. He didn’t like much of anything lately. He stared at the rolling drums on the concrete trucks and squeezed the black rubber ball a few times. He’d been acting boss of the Mistretta family for almost four years now, and nothing had worked out the way he’d wanted it to. He had big plans when Mr. Mistretta left him in charge just before he went to prison. It wasn’t like Sal wanted to take over or anything. That wasn’t his intention.

  What Sal wanted to do was bring the family up-to-date a little, get more into legitimate businesses the way the other families were doing. Why reinvest gambling money back into gambling and whore money back into whores? Drugs aren’t even worth the risk anymore, not with the fucking Colombians controlling all the coke and the Chinks bringing in heroin. And crack—forget about that. You gotta be crazy to deal with those fucking nuts. Mistretta doesn’t like to hear it, but the smart thing to do is go legit with your profits. And that’s what Sal had wanted to do. He even had the businesses he wanted to buy all picked out and everything. Three concrete plants, one on Staten Island and two here in Jersey. They could’ve consolidated them and had a nice little monopoly for themselves in that area. Sal had it all planned out. He even promised Joseph he’d set him up as president of the company. You clean him up a little, shave off that stupid mustache, get him some nice conservative clothes, and he could almost be one of those Knights of Columbus types, very respectable. But things just didn’t work out that way.