“You want the state Lottery Commission to take sports bets?”
“I do.”
“And turn the state into a bookmaker?”
“Hell’s bells, Mulligan. It already is. Wouldn’t you rather see people have a little fun betting on their favorite teams than stand in lines to buy lottery tickets?”
“You know those desperate people who blow their paychecks on fistfuls of scratch tickets?” I asked. “The ones you see furiously scraping Jokers Wild and Lucky Diamonds stubs with nickels in convenience store parking lots?”
“Yeah. It’s so sad.”
“Well, those people will do both.”
“My plan addresses that,” she said. “We’re going to direct lottery outlets to limit scratch-ticket sales to ten per customer.”
“Won’t work,” I said. “Compulsive gamblers will buy the limit and then mosey on down to the next 7-Eleven for more.”
“I know, but it’s the best I can do.”
I reached out and took my friend’s hand.
“I’m worried about you, Fiona. You’re going to make a lot of enemies with this.”
“I’m prepared for that.”
“People with something to lose are already gearing up,” I said. “I was asked to let you know that there’s a six-figure campaign contribution in it for you if you back off-and that it will go to your next opponent if you don’t.”
“Doesn’t surprise me any,” she said. “You’re not going to tell me where the offer came from, are you?”
“No.”
“But I can guess,” she said.
“And you’d be right.”
“Zerilli and Arena aren’t the ones I’m worried about,” she said. “Compared to the NCAA, they’re a bunch of pussies.”
“Sorry,” I told Chuckie-boy. “Everything the governor told me is embargoed at least until next week.”
“You’ve been gone for ninety minutes, and you don’t have anything I can print?”
“Not today, no.”
“That is unacceptable.”
I shrugged and dropped into one of the leather visitor’s chairs across from his desk.
“So what’s this big announcement going to be about?” he asked.
“Governor McNerney thinks she can fix the state budget mess by legalizing sports gambling.”
“A former nun wants to legalize sports gambling?”
“Ever been to a casino-night fund-raiser at a Roman Catholic church?”
“No.”
“Too bad. If you had, you wouldn’t look so mystified.”
“How much revenue does she think this will raise?”
“She estimates two hundred million a year for starters. Maybe more with an advertising campaign to suck in gamblers from Massachusetts and Connecticut.”
“Sounds inflated.”
“I doubt it. Lottery-ticket sales generated three hundred and seventy-seven million for the general fund last year. The governor figures sports gambling could eventually top that, and she’s probably right.”
“Who’s going to take the bets?”
“The Lottery Commission.”
“The state? Is she serious? Government can’t do anything right. She ought to solicit bids from experienced casino operators, turn this thing over to private enterprise. God, I hate these damned big-government Democrats.”
“Keep your personal opinion to yourself when you edit the story next week,” I said.
Chuckie-boy smirked, rolled his massive shoulders, and fussed with some papers on his desk.
“I can’t see waiting for the governor’s announcement,” he said. “This is a huge story. I don’t want to risk getting scooped on it.”
“Okay. I’ll make some calls this afternoon, see what I can do.”
“Why don’t we just pretend you did that?” he said. “Write up what you got from the governor, attribute it to an anonymous statehouse source, and I’ll lead tomorrow’s paper with it.”
“You want me to betray my source?”
“Jesus, Mulligan. You’re such a dinosaur. Ethics are overrated. Journalism isn’t a calling anymore. It’s a business. Or haven’t you heard?”
“Oh, I’ve heard, all right.”
“So get cracking.”
“No.”
“No? Are you refusing this assignment?”
“I guess I am.”
“That’s a firing offense.”
“So fire me.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that.
“Before I go,” I said, “can I get a hit from your Purell bottle? I feel an urgent need for disinfectant.”
I stomped back to my cubicle and made a round of calls. Nobody was talking. My best statehouse sources pleaded ignorance. Michael DeSimone, the Lottery Commission director, hung up on me, then called back on his personal cell phone.
“Attila’s on a rampage,” he said. “She’s gonna crucify anyone who spills to the press about this.”
I gave it up as a lost cause and turned to the day’s stack of press releases. The Vipers, Providence’s new entry in the D-League, was inviting local playground legends and former college hoopsters to open tryouts at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center, the city’s 12,993-seat sports arena, a week from Saturday. To me, it sounded like a gimmick to stir up fan interest. The rosters of the D-League, developmental teams for ballplayers not yet ready for prime time, were filled with prospects already signed by NBA teams after being scouted to death during their high school and college careers. A walk-on had as much chance of making the Vipers as I’d have if I walked into the Kennedy Space Center smoking crack and volunteered to become an astronaut.
After I wrote it up, I made a few more calls.
“State Medical Examiner’s Office. Ferguson speaking.”
“Hi, Glenna. It’s Mulligan. Got a cause of death on the Blackstone River floater yet?”
“Like I figured, he bled out from the bullet wound.”
“Determine the caliber?”
“Most likely a forty-four or forty-five.”
“Find anything else worth mentioning?”
“The body took a battering, most of it after he went into the water. But some of it was premortem. Somebody gave this poor bastard a hell of a beating.”
“With what?”
“I’m guessing a blackjack.”
“ID him yet?”
“No.”
I’d figured that because Dude hadn’t called.
“What’s the holdup?”
“I couldn’t pull any prints. Too much scavenger damage.”
“Dental?”
“I took x-rays, but until someone reports this guy missing, I’ve got nothing to compare them with.”
I thanked her, clicked off, checked my e-mail, and discovered that Chief Hernandez had delivered on his promise. I opened the attachment and stared at the gray, frowning visage of Lucan Alfano. His hooded eyes, broad nose, dimpled chin, thin upper lip, and receding hairline reminded me of Tony Sirico, the Brooklyn tough-turned-actor who’d played the role of Paulie Walnuts on The Sopranos.
I forwarded the image to my personal e-mail address so I’d have it handy on my cell phone. That’s when a stray thought popped into my head. I hadn’t gotten a single new threat from Mario since the night he came at me with a gun.
8
“Oscar? It’s Mulligan.”
“Got something for me?” he asked.
“I don’t. I just wanted to thank you for the photo.”
“You’re working late.”
“So are you,” I said. “Actually, I’m on my own time. I rewrite press releases for a living now. Real journalism is my fucking hobby.”
“Well, I’m glad you called. I’ve got something new to share.”
“So give.”
“Better if we do this in person.”
So, twenty minutes later, I walked into the chief’s office in Warwick with a box of Cohibas under my arm.