"So you were dropping him?"
"Like a bad habit." Nick exhaled. "Drinking and drugs, that's just part of the job description for a pro athlete today. But throwing tournaments-that's prison time, even for Trey Rawlins. That's a criminal trial. That's SSI-and me-dragged into court, on TV, in the newspapers, and for all the wrong reasons."
"Did you tell him?"
"They killed him first."
"You think the mob killed him?"
Nick nodded.
"Why would they kill him if he was throwing tournaments so they could win their bets?"
Nick clicked through to another tournament. "Atlanta Open. Back in May."
On the screen, Trey was stalking the green and studying a putt.
"Sixty-three-foot putt for eagle on the eighteenth hole," Nick said. "He's down by one. He makes it, he wins. Misses and he's got a long putt back for birdie to tie."
The ball sat at the back end on the high side of the green; the hole was at the front end on the low side. The announcer explained that the ball sat three feet higher than the hole, so the ball would be rolling fast down the slope. It would either go in or continue twenty feet past the hole. Trey crouched over the ball, placed his putter behind the ball, and made a smooth stroke. The ball rolled across the green, hit the big slope halfway across the green, then took a sharp turn down and picked up speed. It was rolling fast when it hit the back of the cup, popped up, and fell in. The camera cut to Trey. He appeared shocked. Nick hit the remote to freeze the frame on Trey's face.
"That's not the face of a winner. That's the face of a loser."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he was supposed to lose that tournament. When he started the final round leading by four, the betting was heavy on him-I checked. Which means the mob could bet against him and make big money if he lost. So they bet big on him to lose-but he didn't lose. He won. I figure that putt cost the mob maybe ten million, and he knew it. That's why he looks like he does."
"How do you know this?"
"I don't. I think it. If I knew someone in the mob, I'd ask."
"That's exactly what happened," Gabe Petrocelli said after his goons had patted Scott down. "But that putt cost the Vegas boys twenty million, not ten." He shook his head. "I was watching it on TV. Big breaker, no way he makes that putt. When that ball dropped and they showed Trey's face, I said, there's the face of a dead man."
"So the mob did kill him?"
"I think your wife beat them to it."
"My client."
"Can't let her go, huh?" Gabe gave Scott a knowing nod. "They get to you, don't they? It was like that with my first wife, she drove me fucking nuts every fucking day. So we split up and I started drinking 'cause I missed her." He sighed. "Don't be a drunk 'cause of a woman. Be a drunk over something important, like baseball."
"The mob wanted him dead? Trey?"
"Yeah, they were severely pissed, no question about it."
"But you had nothing to do with his death?"
He held up an open hand. "On my mother's grave. Cops here, they know me, we grew up together. A lot of them bet with me. They know what I do and what I don't do. I book… I don't kill."
"Will you take a polygraph?"
Gabe smiled. "I don't do polygraphs either."
"But how can you lose twenty million on a golf tournament?"
"Easy. Three Brits bet eighty grand each, won nineteen million on a long shot named John Daly to win the British Open in ninety-five. Scott, today, you can win or lose millions betting on anything, not just the stock market."
"But if Trey were making so much money, why didn't he just pay off his debt?"
"Fifteen million at twenty-five percent interest, that's a tough debt to repay."
"The mob charges twenty-five percent interest?"
Gabe shrugged. "Credit card companies charge thirty percent. Shit, twenty-five years ago, there were laws against that sort of thing. Banks couldn't charge more than ten percent interest. That's where we came in. Now, the sky's the limit. They took our loan-sharking business and made it legal. Same thing with gambling. Hell, ten years from now, there'll be a casino in every town in America-all the businessmen in Galveston want one here, make this place Sin City again. What's next? Drugs? Prostitution? Before long, you won't be able to make a dishonest living 'cause every vice is gonna be legal. We're expanding into Medicare fraud and your other white-collar criminal activities, but it's damn hard to compete with Wall Street."
"So what was the repayment deal?"
"Trey would throw five tournaments. He'd win some, too, and the boys would up their ante slowly, so as not to attract any attention. First two tournaments went like clockwork, the boys made a killing and Trey reduced his debt by six million. But then he made that putt. A twenty-million-dollar putt." Gabe shook his head. "The boys got greedy, bet real big. Too big."
"Trey would get to keep the money when he won?"
"Nope. Everything was divvied up. Trey got one-third."
"One-third of everything? Including the mob's winnings?"
"Yep. More money than he would've made winning those tournaments, and tax-free, the best kind of money."
"How do you know?"
"Because I made the payoff myself. At his house. Three million cash. Hundred-dollar bills."
"Why would the mob pay him when he owed them?"
"They figured on this being a long-term investment." He shrugged. "Once you're in the mob, you're in it for life."
"I wonder where that three million is now?"
Gabe shrugged again.
"Trey won the California Challenge a week before he was murdered. Didn't that make some money for the mob?"
"Not twenty million."
"I take it you wouldn't care to testify at the trial?"
"No, I don't testify either."
"I could subpoena you."
"That would be a mistake. Look, Scott, I'm a nice guy, I run a clean business, I try to be helpful. But right here, this is where I talk. Not in a courtroom. Okay?"
"I could subpoena your bosses."
"You could get yourself killed. Scott, defend your wife and get her off, I don't care. But don't go chasing after the boys in Vegas. Nothing good will come of that."
"What do you know about the Muertos? "
"Animals. See, the mob never kills for the sake of killing. It's always a business decision. And we never kill women or children or innocent bystanders. We're civilized. They're not. They give crime a bad name." Gabe nodded thoughtfully. "So gambling wasn't Trey's only vice?"
"No."
"You looking at Benito for his murder?"
Scott nodded. "And you."
Gabe smiled.
"You know Benito?"
"It's a small island. We keep tabs on our competitors for your discretionary entertainment dollars. Benito likes the horses."
"He bets with you?"
"He utilizes my services. But I don't utilize his."
"Smart."
"Benito's not a killer."
"The Muertos are."
Gabe nodded, and Scott stood to leave. "You said a lot of pro athletes gamble?"
"Yeah. From every sport. So?"
"So does the mob have other pros on the payroll, throwing football and baseball and basketball games?"