Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

I turned off the ignition and fished the cell out of my pocket to tell McCracken what I’d learned. Just before I hit the call button, I was struck by a frightening thought.

After I’d tipped Parisi and the homicide twins that they could find Romeo Alfano and Mario Zerilli at the Omni, McCracken and I had parted ways in front of the hotel. The P.I. could have slipped back inside before the cops arrived, waited until Mario shot Alfano, and then grabbed the money. Or he could have killed Alfano himself.

Was my old friend capable of that?

I didn’t think so. But his agency wasn’t in the black yet, and two hundred grand was a lot of money. McCracken certainly had the skill to break into my apartment without leaving a trace and plant a few bundles of cash for the homicide twins to find.

The more I thought about it, the more paranoid I got.

I spent the next few days brooding and hiding out in my apartment. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see a way out of the mess I was in.

Every morning, I caught up with the local news in The Ocean State Rag: Family of three shot dead in Pawtucket carjacking. Murder of state legislator remains unsolved. Sports gambling veto dooms state employee pension system. Providence Vipers release regular season schedule. State cheerleader championships at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center on Saturday. Fried calamari crowned official state appetizer. When had I started getting my daily dose from Mason’s website instead of the newspaper? I couldn’t remember, but it was definitely before I started stringing for him. In fact, it was well before Chuckie-boy fired me.

Yolanda called early Wednesday morning, and this time she had news.

“GCHI settled,” she said.

“Already?”

“I met with their attorneys in our conference room yesterday afternoon. I gave them a figure. They huddled and made a counteroffer. We haggled for about an hour and then agreed to split the difference.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and thirty-five thousand. If you accept the offer, they’ll cut the check this week. After our fee, you’ll get a hundred and one thousand dollars and change.”

“I need to think about it.”

“It’s the best deal you’re going to get without going to trial, Mulligan, and we don’t want to do that.”

“I agree.”

“What is it, then?”

“Do you think you could let me have twenty-five grand this week and hold on to the rest of the money for a while?”

“Sure, I can do that. But may I ask why?”

“I’ll explain over dinner Saturday.”

After we hung up I spent another hour or so feeling sorry for myself, wondering if I’d have to spend the settlement on a criminal defense. But self-pity didn’t suit me, so I stopped. Either I was going to get arrested for robbery and murder, or I wasn’t. The thing to do was hope for the best and continue making plans for life after The Dispatch.

Those plans included Yolanda, of course, but they also involved Joseph.

The smell of eggs and coffee roused the big guy from the couch again. He wandered into the kitchen in nothing but yellowed boxers and sat down at the table. He had a sour look on his face.

“My fuckin’ truck broke down again yesterday,” he said. “Had it towed to the Shell station on Broad. Dwayne took one look under the hood and said the engine’s blown. Piece of shit ain’t worth fixing.”

“Want the Bronco?” I asked.

“Sure, but I ain’t got no money to buy it from you.”

“Give me a dollar, and I’ll sign the title over to you.”

“Why would you wanna do that?”

“I’m buying a new ride later this week.”

“You ain’t trading it in?”

“No dealer wants a fifteen-year-old gas guzzler with body damage,” I said.

“Still drives pretty good,” Joseph said.

“True, but you won’t have to drive it long. You’ll be able to afford a hot new set of wheels soon enough.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

When I told him what I had in mind, his eyes got huge.

That afternoon, Zerilli buzzed us both into his inner sanctum. I didn’t need to make introductions.

“Joseph?” Whoosh said. “Ain’t seen you around for months.”

“That’s cuz I’m fuckin’ broke.”

“I don’t take no bets on credit, pal.”

“Not why I’m here,” Joseph said.

“So why are you?”

“Let Mulligan tell it.”

Whoosh raised an eyebrow. I smiled, pulled a rawhide strip out of my pocket, lured Shortstop out of the visitor’s chair, and sat down.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Whoosh said. “Maggie and I are flyin’ to Fort Myers next week to look at condos, but I can’t make an offer on anything till you and me settle our business.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” I said.

“We?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s this palooka got to do with it?”

“A lot,” I said. “I can’t see myself spending every day taking bets in this cramped little office. I want Joseph to handle that end for me.”

“You’re shittin’.”

“I’m not.”

“What the fuck does he know about makin’ book?”

“He’s standing right here. Why don’t you ask him?”

Whoosh tossed me a skeptical look, then started lobbing questions at Joseph, challenging his knowledge about sports, betting lines, and odds-making. Nearly an hour dragged by before he was satisfied.

“Okay. Looks like he can handle the day-to-day. But you still gotta be responsible for overseeing things, Mulligan.”

“I understand.”

“Joseph,” Whoosh said, “boot Mulligan out of that chair and drag it over here. You and me gotta go over some details.”

I listened in as Whoosh reeled off the percentage that had to be kicked up to Arena each month. When he started to explain how to write the bets down in code, I turned to leave. I didn’t need to hear that part. I told Joseph I’d be back for him in an hour, skipped down the stairs, and ducked out of the store.

For a government form, the application to create a Rhode Island corporation was surprisingly simple. Even a former newspaper hack could tackle it without consulting a team of Harvard-trained attorneys. I filled in the blanks standing up at the counter in the secretary of state’s office.

COMPANY NAME: Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America

PURPOSES OF INCORPORATION: Retail life and liability insurance

PRESIDENT: Tuukka Mulligan

VICE PRESIDENT: Joseph DeLucca

SECRETARY: Yolanda Mosley-Jones

DIRECTORS: Steve Dillard, Rick Miller, Ted Cox, Doug Griffin, Tom House

Tuukka was dead, and the directors all played on losing Boston Red Sox teams in the 1970s, but it wasn’t like anybody was going to check.

I handed a clerk the papers and the hundred-and-fifty-dollar filing fee and was informed that the application would be processed in seven to ten days.

“So,” Joseph said when I picked him up. “Can we get somethin’ to eat? I’m fuckin’ starving here.”

At four in the afternoon, Charlie’s diner was nearly empty. We claimed a corner booth and talked about the Red Sox while the short-order cook scorched our cheeseburgers and fries. After they we delivered, we got down to business.

“How’d it go with Whoosh?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“Any details I need to know?”

“Uh. Let’s see. He said he wants to put the store in your name, but he’s gonna hold on to the real estate.”

“And charge us rent?”

“A dollar a year.”

“It should be in your name,” I said. “I’ll talk to him about it.”