Part 3 (2/2)
”Not entirely.”
”You here to talk about Arena's labor racketeering case?”
”No.”
”'Cause I got nothin' to say about that.”
”Of course you don't.”
”Salmonella, then?”
”Right.”
”The f.u.c.kin' p.r.i.c.k dead or not?” he asked.
”Looks like, but I can't say for sure.”
”Humph.”
”What can you tell me about his operation?”
”The Internet p.o.r.n, not a f.u.c.kin' thing.”
”The clubs, then?”
”He don't bother with them no more,” Zerilli said. ”Turned them over to his daughter Vanessa a couple of years ago after she finally got her f.u.c.kin' business degree from URI. What I hear, she's a bigger c.o.c.ksucker than him.”
”She making a go of it?”
”Oh, yeah. Was her idea to put in private rooms so the strippers can screw the customers. 'Stead of just blowing them at the tables. b.i.t.c.h calls 'em VIP rooms. s.h.i.+tty little booths with c.u.m-stained vinyl couches. Jesus, what a joke.”
”Any friction with the six clubs Arena and Gra.s.so run?”
”Nah. The joints are all jumpin' on the weekend, pulling in customers from all over New England. Some of 'em come in on chartered buses from Boston and New Haven, for chrissake. Do a pretty good business most weekdays, too. There's enough f.u.c.kin' Johns to go around, Mulligan.”
”The Maniellas still aren't connected, right?”
”Business they're in, they gotta know some people. Back when p.o.r.n was on videoca.s.settes, before the Internet f.u.c.ked up a good thing, crews outta New York, Miami, and Vegas handled the distribution-kept all the p.o.r.n shop shelves stocked with filth. But the Maniellas ain't part of This Thing of Ours, if that's what you're gettin' at.”
”So how much is Vanessa paying Arena and Gra.s.so for the right to run her clubs on their turf?”
”Ah, s.h.i.+t.” He stubbed out his cigarette, shook another from the pack, and lit it, the flame wobbling in his trembling right hand. ”I don't wanna talk about that.”
”No?”
”f.u.c.k, no.”
”Touchy subject?”
He looked away and started in on Shortstop's ears again. Drool dripped from the dog's maw and puddled on the linoleum. A minute pa.s.sed before Whoosh turned his attention back to me.
”So,” he said, ”are you wasting my f.u.c.kin' time, or are you gonna lay down a bet?”
”Okay, Whoosh,” I said. ”What's the over-under on when the Dispatch goes belly-up?” I expected a chuckle. Instead he deadpanned: ”Three years.”
That stopped me.
”Seriously?”
”Three years from Columbus Day, to be exact.”
”People are betting on that?”
”Come on, Mulligan. People bet on every f.u.c.kin' thing.”
I let out a long sigh. ”Give me fifty bucks on the under.”
”Figures. All the guys from the paper are takin' the under.” He picked up his pencil stub to record the bet.
I pulled out my wallet, paid him the twenty-five dollars I'd lost on Sat.u.r.day's URI-UMa.s.s football game, and got up to go, still puzzling over why Vanessa's payoffs to Arena and Gra.s.so were such a touchy subject. I had my hand on the doork.n.o.b when I tumbled to something.
”Wait a sec. They aren't paying her, are they?”
”What? Where the f.u.c.k did you get that idea?”
”Holy s.h.i.+t! They are paying her, aren't they?”
His eyes narrowed to slits. ”No f.u.c.kin' way this came from me.”
”Of course not, Whoosh.”
”I better not see anything about this in the f.u.c.kin' Dispatch.”
”You won't.”
”Swear on your mother.”
”Already did.”
”Do it again.”
”Okay, okay. I swear.”
He reached down to scratch his b.a.l.l.s again, took another pull from his Lucky, and started talking.
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