Bad Luck Page 6

  “Look at that,” he said, with disgust in his voice.

  “What?”

  “Up on the roof. Across the street. See? They think they’re so clever.”

  It took her a minute to see what he was talking about—three men in grimy work clothes tarring the roof of an old tenement building. One man hauled buckets of hot tar up a pulley while the other two appeared to be spreading it out with rollers. On the sidewalk below them a fourth man stood by a noisy, smelly machine of some kind that kept the tar hot. There was a dirty, smudged sign on the machine that said “Stuyvesant Roofing, Inc.”

  Mistretta shook his head and tried to grin. His grins never looked like grins, poor man. Sister Cil blushed as she remembered something else Sal had said. It was true, though. A Mistretta grin seemed more like a reaction to gas pains.

  “They’re so obvious, I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “The stupids. Those aren’t rollers they’re holding. Those’re those special things they got. Like rifles. You know what I’m talking about? To listen in on us. They point those things at the store windows over here and pick up the vibrations of what we’re saying off the glass. A guy told me all about it in prison. The stupids.” He shook his head and tried to grin again. “Listen to me. Don’t say anything else until we get there, okay? Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

  Sister Cil nodded. He was a very cautious man. She just assumed those men on the roof were simply fixing the roof. She held her veil in place and squinted up at the “roofers.” How did he know such things? Remarkable. It just went to show why he was the boss.

  They walked in silence up the next block. At the corner of Forty-fifth Street she turned around and saw that tall man with the curly hair again. He wasn’t ten feet away now and he was looking right at her. Lord God in heaven, he was close enough to eavesdrop on them! How could she ask Mr. Mistretta for his permission with this man hovering over them? Her brows furrowed behind her glasses.

  They crossed the street and passed a liquor store on the corner, where the owner was trying to keep a persistent bum out of his store. She watched to see whether the tall man following them would stop and assist the poor, overweight liquor-store owner before he had a heart attack, but the tall man just kept walking. Sister Cil frowned, outraged at the man’s lack of concern. It just goes to show what these people’s concept of the law is all about. Better to harass a poor businessman who’s already paid his debt to society than help someone being tortured by an obviously sinful individual. Lord God, have mercy on their souls. They were worse than stupid.

  At the next corner they waited for the light and crossed Ninth Avenue. From the crosswalk Sister Cil could see the narrow redbrick church wedged between the tenements on the side street, a single slate-roofed steeple standing tall over the surrounding squalor. Sister Cil smiled when she spotted the name of the church in the glass case bolted to the brick front. Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic Church. Same as the hospital where they had done so much good for Sal when he was so sick. Cil brushed a tear of hope from the corner of her eye. It was a sign, a good sign. Mr. Mistretta wouldn’t disappoint the girls, she knew it.

  They climbed the stone steps and Mr. Mistretta pushed through the heavy oak doors. The vestibule was dim, of course, filled with the smell of burning candle wax and the lingering scent of incense from past funeral services. They dipped their fingers in the white marble holy-water font and crossed themselves, then went into the nave and took a pew near the front. The church was empty. Sister Cil noticed that the floor was old, cracked, marble-patterned linoleum and that there was no Jesus on the cross over the altar. It was just a simple wooden cross with a little carving on the top. A poor parish.

  She was just detaching her rosary beads from the sash of her habit when a column of light suddenly appeared in the center aisle, beaming in from the vestibule. She heard the front doors close with a wooden bump, and the light was gone. Then she heard the footsteps coming down the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tall man with the curly hair, the parole officer. Oh, God, no!

  The man’s step had a proud, careless rhythm as he walked up to the pew behind theirs. He stepped in sideways and took a seat right behind them. She blinked behind her glasses and pressed her forearm against her nervous stomach. She could feel his eyes on her back. He just sat there, watching them, didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to be here for prayer. Bad enough that he was sent by the devil to thwart her plan, he was rude and disrespectful as well. The product of a public-school education no doubt. Disgraceful. Incensed, Sister Cil turned around in her seat and looked him in the eye.

  She held up her rosary and let the cross dangle in front of the awful man’s face. “You’re welcome to join us, young man,” she said primly, “if you’re here to pray.”

  Mistretta turned around. “Yeah, come on, Saperstein.” He held up his own black rosary. “Here, you can use my beads.”

  Saperstein looked from one to the other, his mouth set. “No thanks,” he muttered, then left the pew and moved back to the vestibule to watch them from the doorway.

  They settled in then, kneeling down on the padded kneelers, elbows on the pew back in front of them, rosaries dangling, and started to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women . . .” Mistretta’s voice was low and grumbly, hers was a clear mezzo. They prayed together just as they had at the prison.

  They finished the first Hail Mary and simultaneously swallowed one bead between their thumbs and index fingers. Mr. Mistretta started the next Hail Mary by himself.

  “Sal has a very interesting proposal before him right now,” she said in a droning, singsong rhythm that mimicked his Hail Mary. “He wants your permission to go ahead with it.” She turned and faced him slightly so he could hear. This was how she had delivered messages to him at Allenwood. It had been his idea. He said his gravelly voice would cover her higher pitch if they were ever bugged. Mr. Mistretta was a very cautious man.

  “Russell Nashe suggested it to him.”

  Mistretta looked up at her. His eyes bulged a bit. She inhaled sharply, a sudden pain piercing her side. Should’ve had a little something to eat before she came, but she was too nervous to eat this morning and Mr. Mistretta wasn’t making her feel any better now. He looked suspicious already. Just listen to the rest. Please.

  “Sal told me to tell you that Mr. Nashe did not make his payment to Seaview Properties, but that he offered this counterproposal in lieu of making that payment he was supposed to make. Twenty-nine—”

  “. . . and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” Mistretta overrode her and nodded once. He knew how much Nashe owed.

  Sister Cil cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses. She knew she’d have to present this to him just right, make him see the benefits, make him understand. If he said no, the Mary Magdalen Center would have to go on in that cramped, drafty old brownstone they had now, and more girls would have to be turned away. Like the Blessed Mother being turned away from the inn on Christmas Eve. No, that was unacceptable. She couldn’t let him say no. It was up to her now.

  “You may have read in the papers about the boxing match Mr. Nashe is sponsoring at his casino in Atlantic City,” she said, straining to keep her voice under control. She paused to mark off another bead as he was finishing another Hail Mary. “Mr. Walker versus Mr. Epps?”

  Mistretta nodded once. “. . . the Lord is with thee . . .”

  “If Mr. Walker wins the fight—as he’s expected to, because he’s the champ—he will make a little over seventeen million dollars. But if Mr. Epps wins, he only gets eight and a half million.” This didn’t seem fair to her, but she continued with her presentation, just as she and Sal had rehearsed it. Sal assured her that a clear, businesslike presentation was the best way to approach Mr. Mistretta. “Mr. Nashe would like Sal to convince the champ that he should throw the fight.”

  Mistretta gave her the bug-eyed-frog look again. Her heart leapt. Her eye suddenly caugh
t a painted statue in a corner by the confessionals and her heart leapt again. St. Jude with a burning heart in his hand. The patron saint of lost causes.

  She cleared her throat. “If you let Sal go ahead with this, Mr. Nashe will pay the champ three million dollars off the books through an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.” She felt a bit shameful using terms like “off the books” here in church, but Sal said this was how she should say it in order to convince him. She just kept telling herself that she was doing this for the girls, the poor girls. “This three million dollars will actually be more than twice what Mr. Walker would net if he won, after his manager, the promoters, and the IRS take their share. Obviously Mr. Nashe would rather have Mr. Epps win so that he won’t have to pay out so much in winnings. So if Sal can make sure Epps wins, Mr. Nashe promises to put five million dollars of the money he saves on the fight toward his outstanding debt on the land under—”

  “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” Mistretta overrode her again. He knew what land Mr. Nashe owed the money on. Of course, of course. . . .

  Sister Cil coughed into her fist. Maintaining this monotonous pitch was a strain on her voice, but she had to go on. “But the best part of this plan, as Mr. Nashe pointed out to Sal, is that the family can place as many bets—” She coughed again, glanced at the empty cross, and lowered her eyes. “You can place as many bets on the fight as you’d like, with the prior knowledge that Epps is going to win.” Her face was hot. She stared at the wood grain on the next pew, avoiding the dangling crucifixes on their rosaries. She kept thinking of the girls. Keep talking. “Sal suggests that you let him wager the entire thirty million dollars you left him in charge of. Depending on the odds at fighttime”—her heart was pounding—“he says we can make between one hundred twenty and one hundred fifty million dollars.”

  She looked for a reaction, a sign of consent, but he was staring straight ahead at the altar, rumbling through his Hail Mary. She glanced back at Mr. Saperstein standing in the doorway, then looked to the cross over the altar. Holy Mary, Mother of God, give me the strength to go on!

  She pressed her aching stomach against the pew in front of her and continued, just as she and Sal had rehearsed it. “Sal says there are many benefits to be gained from this venture. First of all, you will be in very good financial shape for any future projects you want to undertake. Also, if you let Sal do this, Mr. Nashe promises to pay the balance of the money he owes on the land in six-month installments over the next five years. In exchange for his contribution to this venture, all Mr. Nashe wants is that half of his debt be considered satisfied once the challenger is officially declared the winner.”

  She swallowed and waited for a reaction. Sal said he wasn’t going to like this part. Mistretta just kept praying. “So in effect,” she went on, “it would cost us a little less than fifteen million to make up to ten times as much.”

  Her scalp suddenly felt hot under her veil. She felt as if she were burning. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted another statue, St. Michael, the archangel, on a side altar, sword held aloft, feathered wings on his back, the flames of hell licking his sandaled feet as he stood on a serpent’s head. Mr. Mistretta was still grumbling his Hail Marys, not even looking at her, acting as if he hadn’t heard any of this. Blessed Mother, please!

  She drew a shallow breath. Sal had warned her not to mention the new facility for the center. He said it definitel, would not help their cause. Sal said Mr. Mistretta had this thing about his men having their money spent before they’d made it. It was the kind of thing that made him very angry.

  But Mr. Mistretta was a very religious man, she reasoned. Look how fervently he prays. Sal’s wrong about this. This will convince him. Once he understands that there are so many pregnant teenage girls with no place to turn that she actually has to turn some away because she just doesn’t have the room, he’ll agree that Mr. Nashe’s proposal is a worthwhile endeavor. If for no other reason than to have a new, modern, spacious building for the Mary Magdalen Center. He couldn’t refuse that. Not a good Catholic like Mr. Mistretta.

  “And one more thing,” she started again. “Sal has promised to use his own profits to make that big donation to the archdiocese we’ve always talked about so that we can finally break ground on a new facility for the home for unwed mothers. The one that I administer? In Jersey City?” Her heart was glowing with hope. She was certain she had done the right thing. This would convince him.

  He finished his Hail Mary before he responded. He glanced up at her, looked her in the eye. “Tell your brother I said no.”

  She blinked behind her thick glasses, kept blinking, couldn’t stop. What?

  “No new business until I’m released. You tell him that.”

  “But Sal says this is a sure thing—”

  “There’s no such thing as a sure thing. And you never bet the rent on a prizefight. Your brother oughta know better.”

  “But—”

  “I said no and that’s it. You tell him.” He started an Our Father then.

  Sister Cil swallowed back the tears and forced herself to join him in the Our Father. She stared hard at the Christless cross over the altar, bitterly wondering why her poor girls always had to get short shrift, why Mr. Mistretta couldn’t listen to sound business advice and do the right thing. All that money, millions of dollars, and he won’t let Sal make it. It’s a shame. It isn’t fair to the girls. It’s terrible. Shameful. Unfair!

  She looked over her glasses at Mr. Mistretta as they finished the prayer. “. . . Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done. Amen.”

  She let out a long sigh. She felt totally empty all of a sudden.

  “Anything else?” Mistretta muttered. “From Sal?”

  She looked at him, at his flabby frog-face and wondered whether this was a trial, a trial from God, a test of her faith, a test to see just how dedicated she was to her girls.

  Totally dedicated—that’s how dedicated.

  “Exactly when is it that you’re going to be released?” she asked. “Sal wants to know.”

  He rolled his froggy eyes up at her. “Two weeks from yesterday.”

  Sister Cil nodded once and swallowed a bead on her rosary. She was trying to remember exactly what day Sal said the fight was going to be. She nodded again, to herself.

  ibbons shifted in his seat, careful not to spill the coffee in his hand. He sipped from the blue plastic Thermos cup and watched Dougherty fiddling with the video equipment. It was cramped inside the van but not uncomfortable. Not the way these things used to be. Gibbons remembered what it used to be like being cooped up in a surveillance van loaded with low-tech still cameras and reel-to-reel tape recorders, squatting on a hard wooden milking stool for hours on end, sweating through your clothes, sticking your face in the roof vent every chance you got so you wouldn’t pass out. Shit, this rig was a fucking luxury liner by comparison. He looked at Dougherty sitting at the controls. These young guys don’t know how easy they have it.

  Dougherty was wearing tan PSE&G coveralls in case someone came by and wanted to know why there was a Public Service Electric and Gas van parked on this narrow, wooded road in this got-rocks section of Alpine, New Jersey, on a Sunday afternoon. Dougherty had even hung some loose wires and rope from the nearest pole to make it look like he was fixing something. Dougherty supposedly knew what he was doing. Best surveillance man in the field office, according to Ivers. No, best technician. That’s what they call these guys now. In the old days the street agents took care of surveillance, all part of the job. Now agents get teamed up with technicians on plants like this. Gibbons stared at the mess of electronic equipment packed in tight against one wall of the box. Just as well. Who the hell wants to learn how to use all this shit?

  Dougherty swiveled around in his seat, one hand poised on his headphones, the other turning a dial on the board. Looking at him now, Gibbons finally figured out how he got that weird balding pattern, a hairless strip running from ear to ear over the crown of his head with a wi
spy dirty-blond patch standing on end in front. The bald strip was where the headphones rubbed. Must be a dedicated bastard.

  Dougherty gazed up at the roof of the van, looking at nothing, just listening, slowly moving the dial with that perpetual open-mouthed smile on his face. Dougherty smiled at everything, no matter what. He couldn’t be more than thirty-two, thirty-three, Gibbons figured, and he even smiled when he talked about losing his hair. He wasn’t stupid or anything, just relentlessly pleasant. Who knows? Maybe life was a carnival for this guy. But Gibbons had never met an Irishman this happy. Not a sober one. Maybe Dougherty’s mother was Polish or something.

  All of a sudden the smile grew wider and those Irish eyes twinkled as he stopped fooling with the dial. Dougherty looked at Gibbons. “I think we’re in business.” He swiveled back to the controls and threw a few switches. One of the three monitors mounted on the front wall came to life, switching from silent static to a shadowy black-and-white picture of a woman in a floral-print dress mixing salad at a long dining room table set for a big meal. Because of the camera angle a gaudy chandelier was obscuring her face. Dougherty pointed to a second set of headphones hanging on the wall. Gibbons took them down and held one cup to his ear. He could distinctly hear the sound of the wooden utensils clacking against the wooden bowl.

  “Where are the cameras?” Gibbons asked.

  Dougherty slid the headphones off one ear. “I put ’em in the trees. I got five out there, but one’s screwed up, the living room one. The others are working fine, though. We got the dining room, the kitchen, Sal’s bedroom, and his bathroom. Nice picture for shooting through a window, huh?”

  Gibbons nodded and smiled like a crocodile. If Sal Immordino knew that his million-dollar mansion set way the hell back there on twenty wooded acres was under surveillance, he’d really go nuts.

  On the monitor Sal’s brother Joseph entered the dining room then. He circled the table, checking out the spread before he said anything to the woman. “Whad’ja make? Chicken again?”