Casino Moon

50

SEVEN HOURS BEFORE the fight, I was standing on my porch, watching my son spin some kind of disc on the concrete driveway.

“What’s that you got there?” I said, hoping it wasn’t one of my old Springsteen records.

He brought over a miniature roulette wheel, the type you can buy at a novelty store.

“Where’d you get this from?”

“Un-CLE TED brought it over.”

I gave it a good look. The number six slot was bigger than the others. Only another five-year-old could believe the game wasn’t fixed.

“So what are you supposed to do with this?”

Anthony Jr. took a deep breath. “Un-CLE Ted said I should bring IT to school and bet num-BER six.”

“He wants you to run a crooked game in kindergarten?”

I got down on one knee and gave it a spin. Sure enough, the ball nestled in number six.

“I hope he didn’t ask for a percentage.”

“He say I can keep anything LESS than five dol-LARS,” he said with earnest concentration.

“Is this what’s going to happen to you if I go away?” I took the wheel from him and tried to fit it in my pocket. “You’re going to grow up to be a little knucklehead?”

He looked alarmed. “Are you going somewhere?”

I didn’t meet his eye. “Look, forget the roulette. Go get me a baseball, will you? I wanna show you a few things about throwing it.”

He went tearing back into the house, eager for the chance to do anything with his daddy. But what kind of father was I, anyway? All the time I’d been sick—blackmailing, hustling to put the fight together, killing Nicky, turning myself into a monster—I told myself it was all for the kids, so I could provide for them. But what was this legacy I was leaving for them? I’d already turned into a thug like Vin and now I was thinking about disappearing from their lives like Mike.

Maybe it would be better if I just went away, I thought. I remembered how Teddy’s son, Charlie, used to get high and turn paranoid about his father’s karma catching up with him. “He’s done a lot of bad shit,” he’d say, “and it’s all gonna come back.” At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. But now I found myself worrying about what kind of damage I’d already done to my kids.

I almost didn’t notice that dark-haired detective with the basset-hound eyes moseying across my front lawn.

“Afternoon, junior,” he said in a husky voice. “Must be a big day for you.”

He looked me up and down. I was wearing my good blue suit with the trim waist and the peaked lapels.

“Do I know you?”

He flashed a badge and showed me some I.D. Detective Peter Farley, Atlantic City Police Department.

“What can I do for you?”

I felt my back teeth floating. Had somebody given me up for killing Nicky?

“Actually I’m not here on police business,” said Detective Farley, pulling out a roll of Turns and offering me one. “Some of our mutual friends at the Doubloon Casino had some questions they wanted me to ask. Seems they’re a little concerned about the sudden change on the bill. They don’t understand why Meldrick Norman is out and Elijah Barton is back in.”

“These things happen all the time in boxing.” An answer Frank Diamond would’ve been proud of.

“I know, but the casino people are a little worried that everything might not be—how shall I put this?—kosher.”

“Why’s that? I wonder.”

“Well, Vinny Russo’s your stepfather, isn’t he?” He sounded almost apologetic about asking.

“We’re estranged.” I folded my arms across my chest.

Little Anthony came charging out of the house, clutching a rubber softball. When he saw me talking to the cop, though, he stopped to watch us from the porch, about twenty feet away.

“If everyone had their family background held against them, half this town would be out of work,” I said, nervously clicking my heel on the driveway. “I am and always have been a legitimate businessman. And if you want to get technical, Detective, my real father was a man named Michael Dillon. He was legitimate too.”

“I know,” said this Farley. “I knew him.”

For a second, he looked like he wanted to tell me something about Mike. He’d half grimaced when I mentioned Mike’s name, as if it gave him some kind of pang. But then my son started tossing the softball against the porch railing and demanding to know when we could play catch.

“So cut to the chase,” I said to the detective. “Do you have any reason to believe I’m anything less than legitimate?”

If I was in trouble, I figured I wanted to know about it right away and get myself a good lawyer.

“No, no reason.” Farley shrugged.

“Then I don’t see any point in us continuing this conversation, do you?”

He hesitated, drawing back one corner of his mouth, as though he’d just realized he had a toothache. “No, I guess not.” He turned as if he was getting ready to walk away. “Just one thing, though,” he said. “You know, there are some people who might be less than pleased about your success in the fight game.”

Clearly he was talking about Teddy. Now it was my turn to shrug. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Anytime.” He gave me one more thorough look before he backed down the drive. “I think Mike would’ve been pleased with the way you turned out. Anybody ever tell you you look like him?”

“No one who counts.”

He smiled and I went to play catch with my son.