Paydirt

36

It cost Bobby a hundred bucks to get Skarcynski's room number from the bell captain. Bobby waited in the lobby until just after the midnight curfew, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and stood in front of the door for a moment, planning what he would say. First, he'd flick open the leather wallet, flash the phony FBI badge, and scowl like a parson.

"Agent Mahoney here, we had reports of players gambling on the Super Bowl."

Or something like that.

He'd put the fear of the feds into the quarterback and hope it cut deeper than fear of Vinnie LaBarca. He'd get Skar to fess up and convince him that the only way to beat the guys extorting him was to beat Dallas. He'd give a pep talk that would make Knute Rockne blush.

"Show them you can't intimidate Mike Skarcynski. Besides, what are they gonna do? Tell the commissioner you placed a few bets. You'll be the straight arrow who stood up and refused to dump the Super Bowl. You'll be a hero."

He leaned close to the door and heard the faint sound of the television. Taking a deep breath, he rapped three times, hard enough to sting his knuckles.

"Yeah?" came a voice inside the room.

"Special Agent Mahoney, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

He heard the chain rattle, then the door swung open, and Bobby was staring into the sullen face of Dino Fornecchio. "Mahoney baloney," he said, his voice as friendly as the crepe on a coffin. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The open wallet still stuck in his hand, Bobby was speechless. Fornecchio tore the fake ID away, glanced at it, then barked out the laugh of a Doberman pinscher. "Scott G. Mahoney, F.B.I.?" Fornecchio's pock-marked face creased into a cadaverous smile that revealed small pointed teeth, sharp as stalactites. He was more wiry than muscular, but his long arms were thick and bony at the wrists. His entire being exuded malice and danger. "Uh-oh, I'm in trouble now," Fornecchio said. "Elliot Fucking Ness is here."

Terror gripped Bobby. He felt a sweat break out on his face. "Uh, sorry, I must have the wrong room."

"You got the wrong fucking city, dickhead! You got the wrong fucking planet."

"Who is it?" a male voice asked from somewhere inside.

"It ain't nobody, Skar," Fornecchio said.

In the next instant, he tossed the ID back into Bobby's face. As Bobby blinked and tried to catch it, Fornecchio grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the room, letting the door slam behind them. Then, the sinews of his neck standing out like the cords of a block and tackle, he banged Bobby's head against the wall as if hammering nails- whap, whap, whap- rattling a framed Winslow Homer print of swaying palms on a Caribbean island.

"You ain't nobody, are you bookie?" Fornecchio hissed in Bobby's face, his breath smelling of cigarettes and pepperoni.

"No," Bobby agreed. "I used to be somebody, at least I thought I was." Pain rang through his skull like thunderclaps. The fear weighed on him like a marble tombstone.

Fornecchio loosened his grip slightly but kept Bobby pinned against the wall, their noses nearly touching. "So what the fuck is a nobody like you doing here impersonating a federal officer?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Skarcynski. The quarterback was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and eating a slice of pizza.

Thank God. With a witness here, he won't…

"Skar, go take a dump," Fornecchio ordered. "You don't wanna see this."

"Whatever," the quarterback said and disappeared into the bathroom, carrying the pizza carton with him.

"I just wanted an autograph for my kid," Bobby said.

How lame! C'mon, think your way out of this.

"Great, maybe I'll get Skar to autograph your cast when I'm through with you." Fornecchio showed a smile like the blade of a serrated knife, then slammed a knee into Bobby's groin. Bobby doubled over, his hands folded over his crotch. Electric pain shot through his body. Sparks flashed behind his eyelids. Tears welled, then flowed uncontrollably. His stomach heaved, and he was nauseous.

"All right," he whispered between sobs. "I'll just leave."

"Sure you will. The only question is whether you go down the garbage chute or over the balcony. Get up!"

Bobby struggled to straighten up, but before he could reach his full height, Fornecchio grabbed him again by the shirt collar and dragged him deeper into the hotel room. "You still didn't answer my question, bookie. What the hell are you doing here?"

Bobby remained silent, and Fornecchio wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed. Bobby gagged and croaked out a sound.

"What'd you say, shyster?" Fornecchio asked, loosening his grip.

"I can't answer if you're choking me," Bobby said.

Thinking won't work. Look for an opening and…

"I know what you're doing," the punk said. "You're snooping around after your bet, aren't you? I saw you at practice the other day. You're shitting razor blades about Skarcynski."

"Yeah, you're right."

"Too late, bookie. You bet on the wrong horse, and this race is over."

"Look Dino, I want you to tell LaBarca something for me."

Buy time, now. Get your wind.

"I ain't your messenger."

"No, please. It's important."

"He don't want to hear nothing from you except the sound of currency as it goes through the counting machine."

"He'll want to hear this."

Fornecchio relaxed a moment, stepped back, and folded his arms over his chest. Bobby had been waiting for the moment. Mustering what little strength he had left, he straightened and fired a left jab. The punch had too little hip and shoulder in it to have the snap Bobby wanted, but it caught a surprised Fornecchio squarely on the nose, which burst like a squashed plum into a fountain of blood.

"Fuck!" Fornecchio yelled, covering his nose with a hand, blood spurting through his fingers. "You broke my fucking nose!"

Bobby brought his hands together, laced his fingers, then swung upward and hammered Fornecchio on the point of the chin. He flew over backwards, bouncing off one wall, careening into the bedside table, then toppling to the floor. He lay there gasping, opening and closing his mouth like a beached snapper, praying for high tide.

Bobby stood over him, his knuckles stinging. "Tell LaBarca he can scare me, but he can't stop me."

Fornecchio didn't reply. Couldn't. He was out cold.

From the bathroom, Bobby heard a flushing sound. "Everything okay out there?" Skarcynski yelled.

Bobby went to the bathroom door, tried the knob, found it locked. "You don't have to do it, Skar. LaBarca's bluffing you. You might as well play your heart out."

"He'll cut my heart out," Skarcynski said through the door. "Now leave me alone."

It wasn't working. LaBarca's creepy associate was babysitting the quarterback, putting him under wraps. He was too scared even to listen.

"Listen to me," Bobby said. "They'll never go to the Commissioner. It will bring too much heat on them. Bookies never rat out on the bettors."

"I can't risk it," Skarcynski said. "Now, get outta here and lemme alone."

On the floor, Fornecchio was stirring, groaning and cursing at the same time, his face gray as lava. On his way out of the room, Bobby reached for the ice bucket, then dumped its contents-cubes and frigid water-on the fallen man.

"Three of my wives were good housekeepers. When we got divorced, they kept the house."

— Willie Pep, featherweight boxing champion