Read A Scourge of Vipers Online

Authors: Bruce DeSilva

A Scourge of Vipers (6 page)

“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.

“As promised,” I said, and placed it on his desk.

He picked it up and studied the printing on the Spanish cedar.

“Cuban?” he said.

“So it would appear.”


Jesucristo!
These are more illegal than marijuana.”

“But neither should be.”

“You know I could arrest you for this.”

“But you're not going to.”

“Guess not, but I can't accept them.”

“Of course you can't.”

“So why did you bring them?”

“So you could confiscate them in the name of the law.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you should investigate to determine whether they are genuine,” I said. “There are a lot of counterfeit Cubans on the black market, you know.”

“And I would do that how?”

“By smoking a few. Maybe twenty-four of them, just to be sure.”

“There are twenty-five in the box, Mulligan.”

“Yes, but you are going to ask me to smoke one, too, so that you can avail yourself of my expert opinion.”

He laughed at that.

“I won't tell,” I said. “I promise.”

The chief grinned, pried open the box, and removed two sticks. I tossed him my cutter. He clipped the ends, stuck one in his jaw, and handed me the other. I bent to give him a light and then set fire to mine.

“Now this,” he said, “is a damn fine smoke.”

“The best,” I said. “So what have you got?”

“When we cut Alfano's body out of the wreckage, we discovered something interesting in the pocket of his suit jacket.”

“Oh?”

“Have a look,” he said, and slid an unsealed letter-size envelope across the desk. “Don't worry about handling it. It's already been examined for prints.”

“And?”

“Just one partial that belonged to Alfano.”

I picked it up and checked it over. Except for a couple of dried blood streaks, both sides were blank. Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it was a typewritten list of five names. Nothing more.

“Recognize them?” he asked.

“Of course I do. Anyone else seen this?”

“Just the state police. I figured they should know.”

“Who did you talk to there?”

“Captain Parisi.”

“Good man,” I said. “What do the two of you think it means?”

“What do
you
think it means?”

“It's a Christmas list,” I said.

“That's our guess. These five upstanding public servants were about to come into some dirty money.”

 

9

“Let's just be friends” used to be my least-favorite sentence in the English language, but it was no longer a match for “The managing editor would like a word.” Not even close. As I punched the clock on Wednesday morning, the receptionist said it again.

I strode into the aquarium and found Twisdale hunched over his computer. His scowl, his furrowed brow, and the coffee stain on his yellow silk tie told me his day had not gotten off to a smashing start.

“Top o' the mornin', Chuckie-boy.”

The muscles in his jaw clenched, but he decided to let it pass.

“Have you perused
The Ocean State Rag
this morning?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Have a look,” he said, swiveling the computer screen toward me.

I bent down, looked at the story on the screen, and said, “Aw, shit.”

“I told you not to let us get beat on this. You and your goddamned ethics.”

“They aren't all bad,” I said. “That's why they're called ethics. You should get some for yourself one of these days.”

“I ought to suspend you for this.”

“Why don't you?”

“I would if I could spare you.”

“I wonder how Mason got hold of this,” I said.

“I've been wondering the same thing. Did you tip him off to make me look bad?”

“I can't believe you asked me that.”

“Well, did you?”

“I don't need to make you look bad, Chuckie. You manage that all by yourself.”

“Fuck you. We gotta have something on this in tomorrow's paper, so get cracking.”

I turned my back on him and stalked out.

*   *   *


Ocean State Rag
, Mason speaking.”

“Great story this morning, buddy. How the hell did you dig it up?”

“Come on, Mulligan. You know better than to ask that.”

“How about a hint?”

“You got assigned to chase it, didn't you?” he said.

“I did, and I'm nowhere. All my statehouse sources have clammed up.”

“Even Fiona?”

“Even her.”

“Don't take this wrong, but tough shit.”

“One more nail in the coffin, huh?”

“I'm counting on it,” he said. “When the paper goes belly-up, I'll be the only game in town.”

“Good plan.”

“Know what people are calling
The Dispatch
these days?”

“What?”


The Dispatched.

“As in dead,” I said.

“You got it. Most mornings, there's not a damned thing in it worth reading. Finally ready to leave the dark side and come work for me?”

“You still paying slave wages?”

“For now,” he said, “but in a year or two that's gonna change. You should get in on the ground floor.”

“I'm still thinking about it.”

“Well, the offer is always open.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How's your dad doing?”

“Better. He was on Zoloft for a while, and it helped. He and my mother took the
Albacore
out of Newport last week, and they're cruising somewhere off Bimini right now. Father still thinks
The Dispatch
was his life. Mother is showing him that it isn't.”

“Good for her,” I said.

I clicked off just as Chuckie stepped out of his office and strutted to the cubicle where Kate Frieden, the kid city hall reporter, was tapping on her keyboard. He puffed out his chest and loomed over her. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but from the pained look on her face it was obvious he was thrashing her publicly. Lomax had never done anything like that. I thought about butting in, but that would have done her more harm than good. Instead, I tugged on my jean jacket and headed for the elevator.

“Mulligan?” Chuckie shouted. “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

“To find some news,” I shouted back. “There isn't any in the office. I've looked.”

*   *   *

The state flag that flies atop the Rhode Island statehouse sports a golden anchor on a field of white. The symbol is surrounded by thirteen stars representing the original thirteen colonies. Below them is the state's motto, “Hope.” There is no evidence that the flag's designer intended to be ironic.

Inside, the state Senate's Health, Education, and Welfare Committee was debating a bill to make fried calamari the official state appetizer. Its sponsor, the honorable senator from Johnston, was getting a grilling.

“The whole idea is absurd,” the senator from Newport snapped. “How could anything but oysters Rockefeller be considered seriously?” His colleague from Cranston shouted him down, extolling the undeniable virtues of fried mozzarella.

I leaned against the back wall, marveling at our tax dollars at work but stunned that nobody had the political courage to stand up for chicken wings.

At eleven
A.M.
, the committee took a ten-minute break, and I followed the majority leader, Ray Tomasso, into the men's room. I waited until he zipped up and washed his hands, then held my cell phone up to his face. He ignored it and brushed past me.

“How well do you know this guy?” I asked his Armani-draped back.

“Never seen him before.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but how can you be sure without looking at the picture?”

He hesitated, then turned back and took the cell from my hand. I studied his face as he examined the photo, but it didn't betray anything.

“Nope. Don't recognize him. Who is he?”

“A guy who died with a briefcase full of cash in his lap and a piece of paper with your name on it in his pocket.”

“What are you implying, Mulligan?”

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