taking estrogen hormones. Maybe the rumors about Teddy’s operation the other week were true.
“I heard you stopped by to see Mike Dillon’s boy the other day,” P.F. said laconically. “Funny.”
“Not as funny as the police having the biggest meateater in the department following me.” Teddy squinted. “How’s that television I gave you? Zenith, right? Is it still working?”
P.F. smiled as if the dig didn’t hurt. “I’m not here on police business. I’m just checking out something for a friend.”
“Bullshit. You don’t have any friends. Whores have customers. And that’s all you are, a whore.”
“Thanks, Ted. I love you too.”
P.F. caught sight of his own eyes crinkling in the side mirror. The crow’s feet had lifted a little since he’d cut back on his drinking. Instead of the long march around his eyes, the birds were just doing a light foxtrot.
”All right,” he told Teddy. “I’m not working for a friend. I’m here for a higher authority.”
Actually, he was there on behalf of the Golden Doubloon Hotel and Casino. Father Bobby D’Errico, the former Franciscan priest who’d just been named the casino’s new vice president for operations, had asked him to find out why there’d been a last-minute switch, with Elijah Barton replacing Meldrick Norman in the title fight. “Consider it your audition for the job as head of security,” Bobby had said. It seemed the casino’s new corporate management was somewhat concerned that Barton’s manager was a front for the mob. Though why that mattered to them P.F. couldn’t say. Half of these corporate outfits acted like mobsters themselves.
“I wanted to talk to you about the boxing thing,” he told Teddy.
“What boxing thing?”
“The story about Michael Dillon’s boy managing one of the guys in the fight next week.”
As frail and discolored as he looked, Teddy scrambled around and got in on the passenger side of P.F.’s cruiser.
“What do you know about this?” he said with grumpy aggression, like he was talking to an aging errand boy.
P.F. looked around and tightened his belt, as if he was in no great hurry to begin. “What I know is you’ve got your boy Anthony in there, representing you as manager of one of the fighters. But the thing is, he hasn’t applied for the proper licenses or tax exemptions from the state athletic commission ...”
Whether any of this was true or not, P.F. had no idea. It was just part of a strategy for finding how much Teddy was involved. He figured if he squeezed Teddy a little, there’d be an indignant phone call from Burt Ryan or some other lawyer within forty-eight hours demanding to review the boxing contracts and procedures, thus confirming the connection between Teddy and the fighter.
But instead of playing it cool with a Bogartesque tug of the ear, Teddy surprised him by rising to the bait immediately. “How much is he making from this fucking fight anyway?”
He leaned across the seat and P.F. caught a whiff of something like dead fish.
“I don’t know what Anthony’s take is, but the overall purse for the fight is something like ten million.”
Teddy began snorting through his nose like some beast about to come charging out of the swamp on
“I’ll kill him,” he muttered. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
P.F. tilted his head on one side. “Are you making a threat in front of an Atlantic City police officer?”
“Only one who used to come by my stash house with Paulie Raymond,” said Teddy, coming to his senses. “You’re as big a thief as your old man. Try putting that on your wiretap and playing it back in court.”
“Are you saying you don’t have anything to do with this kid managing the fighter?”
“What? Me? No. Fuck.” Teddy stared at the scratches on the windshield, as if they could explain his confusion.
“Then where would this Anthony get the kind of money to get started in the fight game?”
“I don’t know.” Phlegm rumbled in Teddy’s chest. “But if you meet the man handing out the cash, give him my name too.”
Just then, Richie Amato pulled up alongside of them, in the navy Impala. Teddy got out of P.F.’s car and went over to clap Richie on the ear with the flat of his hand.
“What’s the matter with you? You were supposed to be here five minutes ago. Don’t you keep none of your appointments these days?”
Richie winced resentfully. “I had to get my other taillight fixed. Remember how you warned me?”
Teddy shook his head and looked back at P.F. in exhausted dismay. “What can I tell you? You can’t trust anyone under thirty now.”
47
“HOW’S THIS THING WORKING?” said Vin, sitting down in a chair beside Teddy and his hemodialysis machine.
Lying on his couch, Teddy stared up at the ceiling, with bored eyes and a grinding mouth. “It’s all right, unless it goes too slow or too fast. That’s when I start getting tired.”
The four-and-a-half-foot-tall machine hummed along quietly like a BMW. Since the prostate operation last month, Teddy had been having trouble with his kidneys and now he had a needle stuck in each of his lardy purplish yellow thighs. Long clear tubes siphoned the juices out of his body and into the machine for cleansing.
“It must be hard,” Vin said sympathetically.
Teddy grunted. “Fuck it, I ain’t worried. Every day of my life I’ve had some kinda cancer trying to eat me. You know what I’m saying? I don’t mean I had cancer cancer, but there was always something trying to nibble away. You know what I say? Fuck you, you cocksucker! You’ll never get me. You know why? I got too much life force.”
“That’s right.”
The effort of speaking left Teddy temporarily drained. His face went blank as he closed his eyes. After a moment, he clenched himself up inside, ready for another outburst.
“You try to put me down I’ll kick you over, fuck you right in the ass,” he said, struggling to clear his throat. It sounded like he was cooking a goulash in his chest. “That’s the way it is. You don’t like it, I’ll fuck you in the ass too. Because I’m a survivor.”
“Absolutely.”
“So that’s why I got so pissed when I realized you’d lied to me about your boy Anthony getting in the fight game.”
“What?!!” Vin reacted like his old friend had just put jumper cables on his eyelids.
“I heard it with my own ears.” Teddy said calmly. “Some fuckin’ cop has to tell me about it yesterday. Pigeater, whatever the fuck they call him. Paulie Raymond’s old partner. Says your Anthony’s managing a guy who’s gonna fight for ten million dollars. Then I turn on the TV to watch the weigh-in on SportsChannel, I think I see Anthony standing over in the corner.”
Vin’s eyes went back like the pictures of lemons on a slot machine. He stood up quickly and turned on the television in the corner, to drown out any wiretaps.
“You sure it was him?” he asked, returning to Teddy’s side.
“No respect.” Teddy sat up and sighed. “This fuckin’ kid don’t even give me the illusion of respect. It’s right on TV. Practically counting the money in my face. I thought I asked you to see about our end of it. And now I have to hear about this from a cop.”
“But Ted. . .”
“Not even the illusion. He puts it right in my face. Conquering the market under my fucking flag. The only reason Anthony’s getting in there with the casino people is ’cause he’s saying he’s with me. That’s the only reason. He’s in there talking like he’s an
Vin sputtered and pointed to his mouth, as if putting Teddy on notice that something worthwhile was about to come out. “I didn’t know nothin’ about this,” he finally managed to say. “What’s a, what’s a word you use? I was
