Paydirt

23

Bobby entered the gilt-edged mahogany door to LaBarca's penthouse condo. This time, he had left Scott home. Outside, it was a cool and moonless evening with an ocean breeze. Inside the darkened apartment, the blast of central air could have made a side of beef shiver. The marble floors seemed frozen, the post-modern chandelier resembled a quiver of icicles, the chrome and glass furnishings seemed as barren as an alien landscape. Yet still, Bobby's palms were sweaty.

He was here to bargain for time. He would find a way to pay every cent, but with everything that's been going on, he needed some understanding, too. Hey, Vinnie LaBarca was a loving father. He'd understand, right?

LaBarca's errand boy, the creepy Dino Fornecchio, led him into the sunken living room, an area dominated by an aquarium and a large-screen TV. Bobby watched as a lionfish, gills flaring, trailed a smaller tropical fish like a cop on surveillance.

Vinnie LaBarca sat in a leather recliner in front of projection TV that nearly filled one wall. He was watching a rodeo on ESPN2 with the sound turned down. "I'll take the bull for a thousand," he said without looking away from the screen. "You want the rider, Gallagher?"

"Nah. I lost two hundred bucks once betting against a kangaroo in a boxing match against a Philly middleweight. I don't wager against animals, play poker with guys named Slim or eat at restaurants called Mom's."

When dealing with LaBarca, Bobby thought, it was best to talk the talk. He only hoped that after tonight, he could still walk the walk.

On the screen, a mangy bull with its testicles in a cinch bucked and heaved as the cowboy held on with one hand. Bobby felt his own privates tighten empathetically. A moment later, the bull tossed its rider ass-over-elbows, and LaBarca thrust his fist into the air in triumph.

"Sit down, Gallagher." LaBarca kept his eyes on the screen, where the cowboy fell trying to run away from the still-furious bull. "Stomp his ass!" LaBarca yelled, but two rodeo clowns quickly distracted the bull, and the cowboy scampered over a barrier to safety.

LaBarca put a tissue to his nose and blew, the sound of a tugboat horn. "Damn allergies," he said as he wiped. "My head feels like it's filled with seaweed."

"You oughta check the air conditioning ducts for algae," Bobby said.

"We check them once a month," the mobster said, "but only for FBI bugs."

"So how's Tony doing?" Bobby asked, trying for a little father-to-father camaraderie.

"Quit school, the lazy punk," LaBarca said. "Asked me to set him up in the video poker business offshore. I wanted him to have a different life than me. Funny thing is, he wants in. All these years I thought I was protecting him, shielding him from the life, and now, all he wants is to be part of it."

"Life's weird that way," Bobby said.

"Ain't it, though." LaBarca turned to face him head on. "So, Gallagher, where's my friggin' money?"

"I don't have all of it." Bobby placed a short stack of wrinkled hundred dollar bills on the coffee table.

"Jeez, I never thought you'd lay down on me." LaBarca did a quick count on the currency and coughed up a laugh. "You owe me 1.2 million and you bring me three grand?"

"It's a show of good faith," Bobby said, feeling a shudder run through him.

Don't let him see your fear.

"It's an insult," LaBarca said, shaking his head in disbelief, then hacking up some phlegm. "If word got out that you could stiff Vinnie LaBarca…" He closed his eyes in sad contemplation of losing his reputation as a fearsome killer.

"I would never stiff you, Vinnie. I just need more time."

"Time is what you ain't got. Time is a boa constrictor squeezing the breath out of you." He rubbed his crooked nose, and Bobby thought he could hear the cartilage snapping. "What the fuck am I gonna do with you?" LaBarca leaned over the glass coffee table and swept an arm across the stack of hundred dollar bills that Bobby had brought as a peace offering. The money — all three thousand dollars of it — went flying. "I don't want table scraps, dickwad!"

Bobby's last shreds of dignity prevented him from getting on his knees and scooping up the bills. "The Super Bowl's in two weeks. I can make some money, put a dent in the debt."

"Only dents are gonna be in your skull."

Bobby's imagined what it would feel like to be tossed overboard from LaBarca's boat, bound and gagged, weighted down with concrete blocks. He wondered if his body would drift north in the Gulf Stream or just settle at the bottom, and he thought of all the sharks he'd seen while fishing as a boy. He wondered, too, what his last thoughts would be, but then knew immediately that they'd be of Christine and Scott, just as they are each night as he drifted off to a shorter sleep.

"I'll get you the money. All of it. Day after the Super Bowl."

Bobby didn't know how he'd do that, but he had to say something.

LaBarca looked off into space as if contemplating great issues, then turned back to Bobby. "I always liked you, Gallagher, so I'm gonna cut you a break. I'm gonna be your banker. I'm gonna give you time to pay."

There was a soft squishy sound as LaBarca sucked a wad of phlegm into his mouth from his nasal passages, then swallowed

"Whatever it takes, Vinnie, if you give me time, I'll get it."

"Plus the juice! You bookies get your vig, and I get the juice. Two per cent a day, and because I like you, simple interest instead of compounded daily. So, that's 14 per cent interest…"

"A hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars," Bobby said.

"Round it up to two hundred g's for my trouble. You owe me a million-four the day after the Super Bowl. And that's it. No more credit, no more Mr. Nice Guy," LaBarca said. "You hear me?"

"Yeah. No problem, Vinnie."

"All right, get outta here. 'Desperate Housewives' is coming on the satellite in ten minutes."

"I don't know whether I prefer Astroturf to grass. I never smoked Astroturf."

— Joe Namath

"Joe Namath, you're not bigger than football! Remember that!"

— Vince Lombardi (shouting in his sleep as he lay dying in hospital)