Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

Yolanda picked up the check again, and we strolled to her car. I opened the door for her and walked around to the other side. She hesitated, then unlocked the passenger door and let me in. I pulled her close for a kiss. And then another. It was ten minutes before we came up for air.

“My place is a mess,” I said, “and I’ve still got that roommate.”

“Go home,” she said, “and tell him you didn’t score tonight. Or lie to him if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Aw, hell.”

“But, baby?”

“Um?”

“You’ve given me a lot more to think about.”

When I got home, the first thing I noticed was that Joseph had scrounged an old oak bookcase from somewhere. In it, he’d shelved the set of leather-bound Dickens novels he’d inherited from his mother. They were charred around the edges and still smelled faintly of smoke from the arson that had taken her house.

When I first got to know Joseph, I was astonished that a lug who had trouble piecing words together to make grammatical sentences was reading his way through the master’s works. Tonight, he was stretched out on the couch, drinking from a can of Narragansett and reading the new Woodrow Wilson biography I’d picked up free at The Dispatch. The paper didn’t run book reviews anymore, but publishers who hadn’t figured that out yet were still shipping us copies.

“Any good?” I asked.

“Ain’t sure yet,” he said. “I’m only on page five. I plowed through a coupla your Elmore Leonard novels this afternoon. There’s another guy what can fuckin’ write.”

“Good as Dickens?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “but different. Never uses two words when he can get by with one. And the best dialogue ever. That fuckin’ guy knows how real people talk.”

“I thought you were going to look for a job today.”

“I was out lookin’ all mornin’.”

“No luck?”

“You know how it is.”

“Don’t give up, Joseph,” I said.

“I won’t. So how’d it go with the babe?”

“Good, I think.”

“Then why you home so fuckin’ early?”

“Not that good,” I said.

“Gonna see her again?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Well, at least that’s somethin’.”

“It is.”

“So listen. There was some trouble here when you was gone.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Had a problem with a guy,” he said.

“The landlord?”

“Nah. Some other guy.”

“Tell me.”

“I heard someone messin’ around outside the door, so I yanked it open, and there was this tall, skinny dude with a crowbar in his hand.”

“What did you do?”

“Took it away from him.”

“And then?”

“I asked him what the hell he was doin’, and the dumb fuck took a swing at me.”

“Did it land?”

“Not so you’d notice. He hits like a fuckin’ girl.”

“Then what?”

“I picked him up and threw him down the stairs.”

“Hurt him bad?”

“Not so bad he couldn’t pull himself up and limp away. Bounced all the way down on his ass, though, so he’s gonna be sore for a few days.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when I first came in?”

“You started talkin’ about books and I got dis-…”

“Distracted?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Uh-huh. He was a regular at the Tongue and Groove back when I was workin’ there. Looked kinda young, so I always carded him. First name began with an M, I think. Marco, maybe. Or Mario. Yeah, I think that was it. Mario somethin’. Pretty sure the last name was Italian.”

“Mario Zerilli?”

“Sounds right,” he said. “He the same asshole who trashed the apartment?”

“I think so. He’s dangerous, Joseph. You’re lucky he didn’t pull a piece on you. If he comes back, you should call the cops.”

“Nah. I’ve taken guns away from way tougher guys than him. If the fucker comes back for another beatin’, which I doubt he’s gonna, I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can,” I said, “but don’t take any foolish chances.”

“What the hell was that about yesterday?” Twisdale asked.

“A misunderstanding,” I said.

“That was the second time police came in here looking for you.”

“The second you know of.”

“You mean there were more?”

“Not lately, but yeah.”

“I don’t like cops barging into my newsroom, Mulligan.”

“So why didn’t you do something about it, Chuckie?”

“Like what?”

“Call a lawyer for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

I hadn’t wanted a lawyer, but that wasn’t the point.

“When a reporter is arrested,” I said, “his editor is supposed to call the company lawyers in to represent him.”

“Our attorneys have more important things to do than bail you out of trouble, Mulligan. Get yourself arrested, and you’re on your own.”

“Good to know,” I said. I snatched the Purell bottle from his desk, squirted some into my palm, and stomped out.

“Hey!” he shouted. “We’re not done.”

I turned back and slouched against his doorframe.

“What?”

“That anti-gambling super PAC, Stop Sports Gambling Now, placed a full-page ad in the sports section today.”

“I saw.”

“They’re planning to run it daily for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Great,” I said. “Maybe now you can afford to give me a raise.”

“Not happening.”

“Of course not. What was I thinking?”

“Did you watch any TV last night?” he asked.

“No.”

“You should have.”

“Why? Did I miss you on Dancing with the Stars ?”

“Several organizations, some for and some opposed, started running ads about the gambling bill on the local broadcast stations,” he said. “Cable and satellite TV, too.”

“I don’t have cable or satellite.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t pay me enough.”

“I got Time Warner,” he said, “but I asked around. Turns out they were on Xfinity, Dish, and Cox, too.”

“So?”

“So they’re running all day long. Pretty slick, too. Celebrities, high production values, the whole ball of wax.”

“Can I go now?”

“I need you to monitor the TV for a few hours this morning. Jot down the names of the groups paying for commercials and see if you can find phone numbers the ad department can call.”

“That’s not my job.”

“Your job is whatever I say it is.”

It was ten A.M. when I stepped into Hopes and watched the day bartender lug a crate of Budweiser out of the storage room. He clanked it on the bar, tore it open, and shoved the longnecks into an ice chest. Besides me, he was the only one in the place.

“A little early for you, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It is.”

“We’re not really open yet.”

“That’s okay. I’m not here to drink. Just need a place to hang out for a while.”

“Oh. I’ve got a pot of coffee going. Can I get you a cup?”

“Thanks, Craig. That would be great. And if you don’t mind, could you turn on the TV and let me have the remote?”

I started with the local broadcast affiliates, then ran through ESPN, CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, MTV, Comedy Central, Lifetime, Animal Planet, the Food Channel. Even the Cartoon Network. Cable channels set aside only two or three minutes per hour for local commercials; but in less than two hours, I caught the same three sports gambling commercials a dozen times-even though I lingered over SportsCenter for twenty minutes.

One spot featured apocalyptic warnings about the evils of sports gambling, the sort of mournful music you hear on commercials about abused animals, and New England sports heroes representing the major pro leagues, including soccer. The players mouthed the tag line in unison: “Stand up for integrity. Save our games.”