“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.”
27
“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.”
Another anti-gambling spot, this one paid for by a different group, included soft-focus photographs of kids shooting baskets in driveways and playing baseball and soccer in the sunshine. The soothing radio voice of the Boston Red Sox delivered the message: “Sports. They should be about fun-not money.” Funny. I didn’t remember him complaining when the Sox’s payroll ballooned to a hundred and eighty million dollars.
In the third spot, Kenny Rogers touted the virtues of privately operated sports betting. As he spoke, the jaunty melody from his best-known stinker-the one with the lyric “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em”-played softly in the background. Kenny delivered the tag line in his down-home drawl-“Stop big government’s takeover of sports gambling. Support free enterprise.”
By quarter of twelve, the serious midday drinkers had gathered at the bar, their arms curled around their boilermakers as if they were afraid somebody might confiscate them. When they started grumbling about my channel surfing, I tossed one of them the remote, carried my fourth cup of coffee to a table in back, and made a call.
“Campaign Finance Division, Bud Henry speaking.”
“Hi, Bud. It’s Mulligan.”
“I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you this morning.”
“So you must know what I’m calling about,” I said.
“The super PACs that are running all those gambling ads.”
“Yeah. What do you know about them?”
“Officially, nothing at all.”
“What about unofficially?”
“It’s looks like we’ve got four big-money players in the game.”
“Can you run them down for me?”
“The NCAA and the pro sports leagues are behind Stop Sports Gambling Now,” he said, “but I think you already knew that. The scuttlebutt is that at least one Atlantic City casino, maybe more, is funding Americans for the Preservation of Free Enterprise, the super PAC advocating privatized sports gambling. And don’t ask me which casino, ’cause I don’t know.”