Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“Yeah, but the suggestion of guilt is clearly there. And that’s not all. You say flat out that he was doing strong-arm work for two Jersey mobsters who were offering bribes to public officials. You’ve got to admit that tends to damage his reputation.”

“Not really,” I said. “Mario is a drunk driver, a domestic abuser, and a gay-basher. The whole town knows he’s a violent punk. There’s not much we can say that would make people think worse of him.”

“I see your point.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think we need to cut out the part about the Alfanos working for Atlantic City casinos.”

“Why? The information’s solid.”

“Because we don’t know which casinos,” he said. “As written, the story throws suspicion on all of them.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” I said. “How about changing ‘casinos’ to ‘New Jersey gambling interests’?”

“That does the trick,” he said.

“So when will it run?”

“I’m stripping it across the top of page one on Sunday,” he said. “With mug shots of the bad guys and photos of Parisi, Hernandez, and Templeton, it’ll eat up a full page inside.”

“Okay,” I said, and got up to leave. Then something else occurred to me. “Who’s going to copyedit this?”

“Good question. No way I can send it to the copy center in Wichita. They might squeal to corporate. Guess I better take it home and do it myself.”

“Thanks, Mister Twisdale.”

“Aw, what the hell. Go ahead and call me Chuck.”

I owed three people a heads-up.

That afternoon, I batted out the day’s weather story-warm and sunny with an 85 percent chance of bribery-and rushed through a stack of press releases. When that was done, I called Judy Abbruzzi at The Atlantic City Press.

“Things are moving fast, here,” I said. “We’re breaking the story about the Alfanos’ bribery scheme on Sunday. I’m e-mailing a copy to you now. It’s got enough named sources for you to match it if you hurry. Just don’t break anything until we do, okay?”

“I promise. Thanks.”

“And Judy?”

“Yeah?”

“If you dig up anything I don’t have, give me a call, okay?”

“Count on it.”

Four o’clock found me sitting in an antique visitor’s chair across from the governor’s desk. Fiona was in a foul mood.

“You know I have the Capitol Police sweep my office for bugs every month, right?”

“I’ve heard that, yeah.”

“Yesterday they found something.”

“What, exactly?”

“Voice-activated listening devices. One in the lamp beside the couch. One stitched into a corner of the state flag. And another concealed inside the desk phone.”

“Any idea who put them there?”

“At first I thought the state police might have done it as part of their bribery investigation.”

“Because your name was on Lucan Alfano’s list,” I said.

“Yeah, but Captain Parisi swears it wasn’t them.”

“Are we talking high-end, super-spy stuff?”

“Parisi came by himself to look them over. According to him, they’re devices anybody can buy over the Internet. Says they would have picked up pretty much everything that was said in the office.”

“And both sides of every telephone conversation?”

“That’s right.”

“It was all being broadcast to an outside receiver?”

“With a range of about three thousand feet,” she said.

“So whoever was listening in could have been sitting behind any desk in the statehouse or hanging out in the parking lot,” I said. “Any idea what they were after?”

“Everything lately seems to have something to do with the gambling bill.”

“A bug in the governor’s office is big news,” I said. “Okay if I write about this?”

“Not just yet. Parisi wants to keep it under wraps for now.”

“Too bad. It would have made a nice sidebar to the story I’m breaking Sunday.”

“Oh?”

So I laid it out for her.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s going to shake things up.”

“How do you think it will affect the gambling bill?”

“Hard to say.”

“It could cost the privatization advocates some votes,” I said.

“Because anyone who votes for privatization now will risk being suspected of taking payoffs?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“But it also might encourage others to walk around with their hands out, hoping to grab a share of the dirty money.”

“Probably will,” I said.

“Think the anti-gambling side is handing out bribes, too?” she asked.

“I don’t have anything solid on that, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I’d be surprised if they aren’t,” Fiona said.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I didn’t want to submit the bill until I was sure I had the votes,” she said, “but I can’t get a solid count. A dozen senators and House members keep switching positions, and about a third of them won’t get off the fence.”

“Probably hoping to milk cash cows from both sides,” I said.

“So I don’t see the point in waiting any longer,” Fiona said. “I’m going to submit the bill next week and let the chips fall where they may.”

“Okay if I print that?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

A half hour later, Zerilli buzzed me into his inner sanctum. I lured Shortstop out of the visitor’s chair with a peanut butter-stuffed beef bone I’d picked up at Petco for the occasion. The dog snatched it and retreated to a corner. I brushed the hair off the plank oak seat and sat down.

“The state police are hunting Mario,” I said. “They think he’s good for the Templeton and Romeo Alfano murders. If he keeps his mouth shut, I doubt they can make the Templeton charge stick. But Alfano? The cops aren’t saying much about it, so I’m not so sure about that one.”

“Aw, fuck.”

“I thought you should hear this from me before it hits the paper.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mulligan.”

“The cops probably aren’t the only ones looking for him, Whoosh,” I said. “The Jersey gambling interests must be pissed about Alfano, and you know they want their briefcase full of cash back.”

“Humpf.”

“If you’re in touch with him, you ought to tell him to turn himself in.”

“He rang me up a couple days ago,” Zerilli said. “Asked me if I could float him a loan, and could I put him with a guy who could fix him up with a good phony ID.”

“He’s got the two hundred grand he took when he shot Alfano,” I said. “What the hell does he need a loan for?”

“He swears he doesn’t have it.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“The way he tells it, he bolted from the hotel room right after you and McCracken left. He claims Alfano was still breathing.”

“Believe that?”

“I don’t know what the fuck to believe.”

“Did you give him money and help him with the fake ID?”

“He’s my late brother’s kid, Mulligan.”

“Any idea where he is?”

“No.”

“If you did, would you tell me?”

“You shittin’ me? Fuck, no.”

I heard the bone snap in Shortstop’s jaws. His eyes, narrow with suspicion, followed me as I rose from the chair and turned toward the door. And then he growled, the sound a low rumble in his throat.

Friday night, Joseph asked if he could tag along with me to the Saturday morning basketball tryouts.

“Why would you want to?” I asked.

“Ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

Judging by the empties heaped next to the couch, I didn’t think there was much chance he’d actually get up for it, but the next morning, he surprised me.