“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.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“If any problems come up, he don’t want me talkin’ to Grasso or Arena. He says you gotta handle that.”
“And?”
“He’s gonna have his accountant show me how to pad the store revenue.”
“To make it look like you’ve got a legitimate source of income?”
“Yeah. Oh, and I told Whoosh I’m gonna stop selling those illegal tax-free cigarettes he stocks behind the counter. I heard on the news the fuckin’ feds are cracking down on that shit. It only brings in a few grand a year, so it ain’t worth the risk.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “By the way, did Whoosh tell you which cops we gotta pay off?”
“He said to put five grand in a paper grocery sack the end of every month for a coupla bent dicks named Fatass and Widget.”
“You mean Freitas and Wargart?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“That’s odd. I heard they were on the pad, but those two pricks work homicide.”
“Whoosh said they started coming around with their fuckin’ hands out years ago when they was workin’ vice. The cash ain’t all for them. They just collect it and spread it around the department.”
“To whom, I wonder.”
“Whoosh didn’t say. So, Mulligan?”
“Yeah?”
“You never did tell me what my cut’s gonna be.”
“You’ll be working on commission, Joseph.”
“Commission? How’s that gonna work?”
“After expenses, Whoosh generally clears at least three hundred and fifty grand a year,” I said.
“He told me.”
“But some years are better than others.”
“He told me that, too.”
“Each month, I’ll be wiring half of the profits to Whoosh’s bank account in the Caymans.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll expect you to hand me six grand in cash the end of every month.”
“That’s all?”
“My needs are small.”
“That comes to, uh, seventy-two thou a year. What about the rest of it?”
“It’s yours.”
“Jesus! That could be over a hundred grand a year.”
“Maybe more,” I said, “if you run things right.”
“I get a bigger cut than you?”
“You do.”
“Why?”
“You’ll be doing all the work and taking most of the risk.”
“Holy shit! I’m fuckin’ rich.”
“Not really, but it’s a lot more than you’re used to.”
“What the hell am I gonna do with that much money?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Just don’t be conspicuous with it, okay?”