Casino Moon

32

“CAN I EXPLAIN, TED?” said the attorney named Burt Ryan. “A majority of these lawyers and judges are known as erudite, professorial, ah, ‘egghead’ types. They will not accept words in a brief to the effect, ‘Go fuck yourself!’”

“So don’t do our work then,” said Teddy, leaning forward in the leather armchair. “Don’t do my fuckin’ work.”

“No, I’ll put it in.” Burt took a shot of asthma spray. “That’s not the problem. But the court won’t accept it.”

That was what was wrong with these fucking pansies, Teddy fumed. Why couldn’t he have one of those good old-time mob lawyers like Albert Krieger or Bruce Cutler? Someone who’d stand up and holler back at a judge. These soft-spoken types like Burt made him nervous. With their Scandinavian office furniture and their brusque young secretaries staring into computer screens.

And then there was Burt’s manner. A weedy small man in a gray suit with constantly blinking eyes, he wasn’t effeminate exactly, but something about his fey voice and precise little hand gestures made Teddy’s anxiety level rise steadily like the line on a fever chart.

“Anyway,” said Teddy. “Where the fuck were you the other day? They had me in lockup twelve hours before you bailed me out.”

“I had other appointments.” Burt twirled his index finger in a small arc.

“My ass. You were wearing goddamn jodhpurs, for fuck sake. What were you doing, playing polo?”

They were sitting in Burt’s spacious office in Pleasantville, just a few miles outside Atlantic City. Sunlight streamed in through the window and reflected off the top of Burt’s balding head, causing Teddy to squint when he looked back at him.

“What I was doing is immaterial,” said Burt, drawing a line through the air. “What we need to focus on is the case the prosecution is preparing. So far you’ve only been charged with racketeering. But my sources at the U.S. Attorney’s office tell me there’s a strong possibility they might bring a superseding murder indictment.”

Before Teddy could respond, Burt Ryan’s phone purred and his secretary told him he had Dave Kurtzman the casino owner on line one. Burt put up his hand to indicate the call would take less than a minute.

“Yeah, yeah,” he told the phone in a high, wheezy voice. “No, that’s not in your contract.. . No ... No, Dave ... Dave, no . . . That’s not an option ... I’ll get the doctor and tell them to back down.”

Teddy simmered in his seat, like a sorority girl waiting for a date to show up. He felt that tender ache down in his balls again. He was still getting up in the middle of the night and finding he couldn’t piss.

When Burt finally hung up the phone, he grimaced. “Superseding murder indictment? Based on what?”

“Based on the two DiGregorio homicides.” Burt took another quick hit off his asthma spray. “Or so I’m told. Do you have any idea what witnesses might be talking to them about that?”

“No!” Teddy’s cheeks leaped up toward his eyes. “That’s what I pay you to find out. I’m giving you three hundred fifty dollars an hour.”

The phone purred again and this time the secretary gave the name of a prominent real estate developer. “Francis, I thought I wasn’t going to hear from you today ...” Teddy went back to stewing and reading the two neat piles of documents parked at the edge of Burt’s desk. His eyes stopped on a request for proposal from Lenny Romano’s firm, concerning repairs on the City Hall parking lot. The tender feeling in his groin returned.

He flashed an angry look, but Burt ignored him until he got off the phone.

“I didn’t know about this contract,” Teddy said sternly,as Burt placed the receiver back in its cradle. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

Burt leaned forward and calmly took the document from Teddy. “I thought this had your approval,” he said, looking it over. “Lenny’s company is with you, isn’t it? Are you going to tell me you don’t know what’s going on with your own companies?”

Teddy drummed his fingers on the leather armrests and blushed. “I know what’s going on. I just didn’t know you were handling the contract.”

Burt seemed just ever so slightly annoyed. “Well, the other day I was over at the Doubloon casino, talking to my old college friend, Sam Wolkowitz, who’s in the cable television industry. And he told me your friend Vin’s son Anthony might be involved in managing a fighter named Barton, who might be on TV. But was I asked to be the lawyer representing the contract? No. Because that’s done at your discretion, Ted. And I know everything he does must meet with your approval. So who am I to get upset?”

Teddy felt like he’d been picked up and thrown across the room. Lenny Romano getting the City Hall contract, Vin’s son getting involved with the fights. And no one giving him a percentage. He didn’t want to tell Burt he wasn’t aware of these things, but he wasn’t sure how to keep from screaming either. His insides squeezed together tightly, alerting him that he’d soon have to go pass blood into the toilet again. How could he control his crew if he couldn’t control his own body?

He was having a bad moment. All the details of his life that he’d carefully arranged like items in the composition book were scattering like autumn leaves. And suddenly the leaves were in his abdomen and his head, swirling around, chasing away certainties. If Vin’s son wasn’t giving him a percentage, who was? And if no one was giving him a percentage, what made him a boss? And if he wasn’t a boss, what was he? He felt dizzy and sick, like he was about to vomit dry leaves on Burt’s expensive Oriental rug.

The phone rang once more and Burt picked it up directly. “Oh hi, Bunny. . . No, no. That’s all right.” He giggled. “You will? Oh sto-o-op!” Burt’s voice took a languid upperturn that made Teddy picture him wearing Hawaiian shirts and reading magazines about interior design.

“That’s entirely up to you,” said Burt, his hands performing a delicate arabesque through the air as he watched Teddy fidget from the corner of his eye. “You can get back to me anytime you want.”

He hung up the phone and turned back to Teddy as if he hadn’t missed a beat of their conversation.

“Jesus,” said Teddy in a woozy daze. “I remember when Dixie Dalton was my lawyer, he hardly had any other clients. He’d never take a call when I was in his office.”

“Well, you just can’t afford to have me on retainer like that,” Burt explained with a hand over his heart. “You’re not my only client. Speaking of which, you’re aware, are you not, that you already have an outstanding bill of twenty-seven thousand dollars you owe this office?”

“Madonna!” Teddy almost cried. “I had to put my fuckin’ house up to make the two hundred fifty thousand dollars’ bail. And now I got you squeezing me? Shit, Burt. Have a heart. It’s fuckin’ highway robbery.”

“Coming from you, Ted, that’s a compliment,” said Burt, picking up the phone again.