Joe almost never lost control, almost never swore. This was one of the few times Tommy could remember his little brother cursing. It sobered him. "Whatta you want me to do?"
"You lost the million one. You either get it back or we make it up out of your end of things."
"Jeezus, Joe, what the fuck kinda deal is that? You lose money on shit all the time, and you don't have to make it up outta your end."
"When I lose money, Tommy, it's because something unforeseen went wrong, and then I study the mistake and never, never repeat it. You're losing money 'cause you can't keep your dick in your pants or your mind on business. You make the same mistake three times a week. So now, you get the money back or pay it back. Those are your two choices."
And Joe hung up in his ear.
Buzini had turned and moved to the far side of the office early in the conversation. He didn't want to witness even one end of this tongue lashing. He hated having to hear Tommy plead, because he knew Tommy would take it out on him. But he was stuck in the room.
"What the fuck're you lookin' at?" Tommy said when Buzini looked over at him after the phone was hung up.
"Nothin'… I…"
"You want a piece of this trouble? I can deal you in, asshole. How'd you let these guys pull this on you? You took the table limit off, what kinda shit is that?" he screamed at the startled Shift Manager. "Didn't you even see him pulling the loadies outta that chair arm? Whatta you, blind?"
"I… I didn't…"
"You didn't think… didn't do shit! You stood there and watched these sharpers pick our bones," Tommy yelled. His face was red and he was thinking he'd like to take a ballpeen hammer and club this greaseball casino Manager to death. "Okay, so where's the bitch, Dakota, who drugged me? Where is she?" Tommy yelled. But he figured she had to be in on it and was probably long gone.
"I don't know, sir…"
"You don't fucking know much of anything, do ya?" He looked at Buzini, seething with anger. Tommy's head was throbbing; his stomach was sour. He wanted to pay somebody back, hurt somebody. Sometimes that was the only thing that made him feel better. "I'm gonna go t'the villa and change. Send over something to eat. My stomach feels like piranhas're feeding in there. Send over some yogurt or something to settle it." Tommy turned to leave but spun back in the doorway and caught Buzini off guard. "You fuckin' guys can't keep your mind on business," he said with disgust. "You're supposed t'run this shift, but you keep makin' the same fuckin' mistakes. You're supposed t'make decisions, not all the time comin' runnin', looking for me to tell you what to do. What the fuck else do I pay you for?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rina."
"You're fuckin' sorry and you're fuckin' one step back from being a dead man. You better be thinkin' how t'make this up, and how not to make the same mistake ever again," Tommy growled and walked out of the office, picturing how nice it would be to beat that fucking self-satisfied Buzini's head flat with a ballpeen hammer.
Tommy cut through the lanai on his way to the villa. He took the stone footpath that led below the pool next to the beach. He had his face turned away from the sun, because the bright sunlight needled through his eyes and into his brain like acupuncture. Then he saw something that amazed him. The fantasy Goddess from last night was climbing the ladder out of the pool. Dakota walked across the pavement to a chaise lounge. She was wearing a thong bikini bottom and no top. She arranged herself on a towel and closed her eyes, the water beading on her perfect skin and dripping off her wet hair. Tommy couldn't believe she was still there. She had come to the Sabre Bay Club with the old guy in the wheelchair and his nephew. He assumed she had gotten him drunk and fucked him to keep him out of the play. He was sure she was part of the tat, so what the hell was she still doing here, lying out by the pool? He hurried down the path, got to his brother's villa, picked up the phone, and dialed Buzini's office.
"Arnold Buzini," the Shift Manager said, his voice tired.
"Hey, cocksucker, here's something you can do t'start savin' your job. That whore I was with last night is down by the pool. You go down there with two of your plastic badges and you bring that lyin' cunt to Joe's villa."
"Yes, sir."
"And, dickhead, try not to start World War III in the process. I may end up wastin' this bitch, and I don't need you to start some slapdance tournament in front of all them geeks down there. You got me? Real easy, real smooth, bring her up here."
"Yes, sir," Buzini said, his voice shaking, and he hung up the phone. What did Tommy mean, he might end up wasting her? Buzini was a hotel casino manager, not a hood. He'd actually been to hotel school. Was he now about to become involved in a murder? How on earth did I get to this place? he wondered.
Tommy paced in the luxurious villa. There was a white grand piano in the living room, and the villa had its own private beach off the bedroom porch. Joe had supervised the decorating and had fine oil paintings under glass, in hermetically sealed frames, so the ocean air and humidity wouldn't destroy them. There were also priceless Aztec art treasures that Joe collected and had placed out on the sideboards. Then Tommy's alcohol-soaked brain stopped slipping cogs, and he remembered Calliope. He had to get her out of there. He moved quickly into the bedroom and found her asleep on the king-size bed. He yanked her up by the hair.
"Whatta you doin'? Whatta you… leggo," she squeaked as he pulled her up and threw her dressing gown at her.
"Where the hell were you, Tommy?" she said in a sleep-filled voice, and Tommy hit her in the mouth with his fist. She flew backwards. Tommy loved hitting.
She rolled and she landed on the pillows. Blood was flowing out of her mouth.
"Don't…" Tommy said softly. "Ask…" and he walked around the bed, leaned down, and pushed his face into hers. "Questions," he finished.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking into eyes filled with hate and anger.
"Just get the fuck out of here. You come back before afternoon, you're gonna look worse than a Bosnian housewife."
Calliope scrambled off the bed and ran from the room, out onto the patio, and up to the hotel.
Now Tommy paced back and forth, waiting. A few minutes later, he could hear talking on the porch.
"No… no. It's for our best customers, a complimentary gift from the hotel; I keep the bottles cold in the refrigerator here," he could hear Buzini saying as the door opened and Dakota moved into the room. She was wearing only her bikini bottom and a coverup. She was barefoot and her hair was still wet.
"Hi," Tommy said from the living room. "Remember me?"
"Tommy," she said, smiling, "I thought you were still asleep."
"Come here, doll face," he said, grinning his ghastly, ax murderer's smile.
She moved toward him, and when she was only a few feet away, he swung from his heels. It was his Sunday punch. Tommy had always been a great puncher and he hit her high on the cheekbone, snapping her head around and driving her back against the wall. He charged her like a mountain gorilla as Arnold Buzini gasped in horror. Then Tommy grabbed Dakota's hair and, with a fist full of her tresses, he yanked her up and hit four more times: two chilling shots to her midsection, where he actually felt something break, then he moved upstairs for two ringing head shots. Some of her teeth were knocked out and hit the carpet. She went down, her back slamming the floor. She was quiet for a moment, then Dakota slowly struggled to prop her elbows under her. She smiled up at him weakly through bloody gums. "Is that the best you can do?" she finally whispered.
Tommy grabbed Dakota's wrist and yanked her up. Her legs were jelly, but once she was up, she tried for his groin with her knee. But he was too fast and kicked her in the stomach with his still-wet wing-tip. She went down again and curled up on the carpet.