Bad Luck (13 page)

The woman ought to keep a dipstick up her twat, he thought, what with all the oils and creams and shit she uses. She gets all greased up before she goes to bed, and now she gets up and does it all over again. Jesus.

He reached over and started to rub her nipple between his thumb and index finger, mimicking the way she rubbed the cream into her nails. She gave him a sly little grin through the strands of hair falling over her face, but she didn't stop working on her nails. She needed a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses right now, he thought. Like Lolita. That's what she looked like now, sitting up in bed here. She was about as big as a kid in eighth grade, he figured, but she definitely had all the grown-up equipment. Half the time she had this real sweet, drop-dead
gorgeous face, but if she caught you looking, it would change. She'd turn into a lusty bitch, like a horny milkmaid looking for a roll in the hay, something like that. Maybe that was why he couldn't stay away from her. Because she just looked like fun, like something you weren't supposed to have.

He grinned and circled the dark, pebbly skin around her nipple with his thumb, feeling the texture. She did have great tits. He wondered if they were real, though. Lots of rich broads get those implant things, Baggies full of silicone sewn up in there. He plucked the nipple like a guitar string.

“Easy.” She shrugged away from him, the little sly grin behind the white-blond strands. She didn't want him to stop.

He reached over and gently played with her tit, feeling around for surgical scars. As he felt around, his mind wandered and he started thinking about that bug Cil found in the crucifix. Fucking cops. They must've paid off the jeweler. Juicy was gonna send one of his guys over to have a little talk with him today. Cops could've broken into the guy's shop, though, did the work on the cross without his knowing about it. Bastards. At least Cil hadn't been wearing the damn thing very long. He'd only given it to her that morning. If the bastards heard anything, it was when they were all eating. But what had they said, really? Not that much. Sal kept worrying Sydney's nipple, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned the fight directly. He couldn't remember. Shit. Maybe they ought to forget about this deal with Nashe.

Sydney stopped rubbing her nails. “You're gonna wear it out, Sal.”

“Huh?” Then he realized she was talking about her tit, and he dropped his hand and scratched his balls through the sheet instead.

He sighed and looked around the purple room. No, excuse me—
lavender.
The whole room was lavender, just like the rest of this fucking boat. Inside and out, all the
same color. The famous lavender yacht. Custom-built, twelve bedrooms, big ballroom glassed in on the deck—who knows how many fucking feet long?—big crew, wine cellar, the whole number. And everything lavender. Her favorite color. Sal looked at Sydney, lashes lowered on her cheeks, still concentrating on her nails. A little gift from Russ.
Madonn'!
What money these people must have.

Not just millionaires,
billionaires.
A billion dollars . . . one thousand million clams. And how many times over? Goddamn depressing. Nashe's got all that money to work with, and fucking cheap-shit Mistretta leaves me a lousy thirty mil to run the whole family. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Son of a bitch,
I
should be dealing in billions now. The old guy's got a cheap-shit mentality. And when he gets out of jail it's gonna be the same old shit all over again. Playing it safe. Small risks and small rewards. Shoulda taken advantage when I had the chance. Shoulda done what I wanted to do. Pulled off some big scores when he first went in. Bought those cement factories. I could've done a lot. Too late now. Coulda, woulda, shoulda . . . At least I got this thing with Nashe. If I can trust the bastard. If he's really got the cash he says he does.

Sal looked at the fur comforter, ran his bare foot over it, and wondered about Nashe's assets. Rich people can be funny. They've got a lot of things, but they don't always have cash. No liquidity. That day at the construction site he said his money was all tied up. Is that what he's gonna tell me after the fight? What if I get Walker to throw it and Walker does, then Nashe stiffs him? Then what? Is Walker gonna run to the cops? Tell them the big bad mobster Sal Immordino made him do it? Fuck.

He looked over at her. “Your husband really as rich as they say he is?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. All I know is what I read in the papers.” The sly little grin again.

Sal frowned. He needed real answers, not cute ones. “He can't be worth that much, c'mon.”

“One point five billion. According to
New York
magazine.”

“What do
you
think?”

Another shrug. “I've never had to wait for a check to clear.”

Very funny. Did this broad ever get serious?

Sydney scratched more cream out of the little jar and went back to her nails. Sal's stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since lunch. There was a kitchen on this tug, but Sydney probably didn't know where it was. Those hands didn't do dishes. They could call the butler, or whatever the hell you call him on a boat, to bring some food, but Sal didn't want anyone else to know he was here. Bad enough that the bodyguard she's got watching the boat saw him coming aboard. And this wasn't the first time the guy's seen him here. Sydney says don't worry, he's okay, he works for her, not Russ. But who knows? Nashe is the kind of guy who'd drop a grand on a bodyguard now and then just to let him know what's going on with the wife. Yeah, he probably does that a lot, with all the help. That's money for you. Course Sydney doesn't seem to give a shit one way or another whether Russ finds out about them or not. And what the hell does he care who she's sleeping with? He doesn't sleep with her. Strange people. That's what too much money does to them, makes 'em strange.

Yeah, I should be so strange.

Sal sat up and opened the liquor cabinet built into the headboard. Maybe there was something to eat in there. He rummaged around behind the bottles of booze nobody drinks and found a can of smoked almonds. You could see from the picture on the can that they were the kind loaded with salt. Very bad for you. He kept feeling around behind the bottles until he found a big jar of macadamia nuts. These were good, but he knew he shouldn't have them. Lot of cholesterol in these things. Expensive too. Four, five bucks for just a little tiny jar. Sal unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Fuck the cholesterol. You gotta live sometime. He poured out a handful and shot a few into his mouth.
They were good. He settled back against the headboard, popping macadamia nuts, staring at the lavender-dyed fur comforter hanging off the foot of the bed, wondering if it was mink or fox or what.

“You want a nut?” He held out the jar to her.

“No thanks.” She shook her head, still concentrating on her goddamn nails.

“Go ahead, have one. Russ paid for them.”

She shook her head, swishing all that great blond hair over her shoulders. He wished to hell he could think of some way to get her to talk about Russ's money without being too obvious about it, but he couldn't think of anything. Besides, when Sydney didn't want to talk, you could ask till you were blue in the face. She talked only when she wanted to talk.

Sal settled back down into the pillows and started thinking about the fight deal again, wondering whether he should pull out of it. If anything went wrong, Mistretta would go bullshit, might even do a Tommy Ricks number on him. It was possible. The old man was strict and losing money made him crazy. He could get that mad. But on the other hand, deals like this don't come along every day. When would he be able to make a score like this again? Maybe never.

He traced invisible figures on the sheet with his finger, multiplying in his head. If the odds are five to one at fight-time—five times thirty—we make one hundred fifty million. I get twenty percent . . . that's thirty mil. If they're six to one, we make one eighty and I get . . . thirty-six mil. I could buy two of the cement factories with that. Get something going with Frank Bartolo and the unions. Make sure we get a few contracts for some nice big buildings. It would be all right. Wouldn't make billions, but it would be all right. Could even buy a nice purple boat if I wanted one. Not a big stupid yacht like this thing, no. One of those speedboats. What do they call them? Cigarette boats. Nice. Sal popped another couple of macadamia nuts. Life is nice when you've got money, money like this. The cops
couldn't have heard anything the other day. This fight scam is too good to give up. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hell, it would be stupid to back out now. Sal poured out another handful of nuts. He grinned and chewed, running his bare toes through the soft lavender fur. This was practically a sure thing. Just about a sure thing. Hey, what the hell—

“So are you going to tell me?” Sydney suddenly asked, still working on her cuticles.

“Huh? Tell you what?”

“What you and Russell are cooking up together?” She didn't lift her eyes from her work.

“What do you care?”

She looked at him. “I like to know these things. You know that.”

Sal shrugged. “I don't know nothin'.” He popped a few more macadamias and grinned at her. She's really something, this broad.

She turned on her side, reached over, and started twirling the hair on Sal's chest. “Why are you so suspicious of
me
? All I want is to save my marriage.” She even said it with a straight face.

“Give me a break. You hate his guts.”

“So? That doesn't mean I don't want to be Mrs. Russell Nashe anymore.” She exposed one leg and ran her little toes through the lavender fur and up Sal's foot. “Face it, Sal, alimony could never match this. I wouldn't be poor if I divorced him, but all the excitement would be gone.”

Sal shrugged again. “Money isn't exciting?”

“Not by itself, no. I like getting written up in the papers, getting invited to fabulous dinner parties, going places, meeting important people.
That's
exciting. My first husband had money—not nearly as much as Russell—but he had money. He was a farty vice president at Drexel Lambert, the classic Brooks Brothers type. When we were divorced, he was making something like a million a year with bonuses. We lived in a big house in Bedminster, threw boring dinner parties for boring people,
went
to boring
dinner parties
thrown
by boring people. I mean, our big social event of the year was Malcolm Forbes's annual Christmas party. The last one I went to, Malcolm himself had the good sense not to show up. You can't imagine how dreadful that life was for me. I redecorated the house twice a year, and no matter what I did, the place always looked like a mausoleum. I had affairs, but that was boring, too, because my husband knew and he didn't care. All he cared about was his damn prostate. I felt like I'd died.”

“So what's so great about being married to Nashe? He doesn't even sleep with you.”

“Yes, he does. Once a year. Usually around Christmas. But that's not the point.”

Sal poured out some more nuts. “So what is the point?”

She brought her face up close to his and opened her eyes wide. “The point is that being Mrs. Russell Nashe is a whole . . . lotta . . . fun.”

Sal made a face. “Get outta here.”

“It's true. Anybody can be rich, but not everybody can be celebrity-rich, superrich. I don't want to be locked up in some lonely mansion, staring at my bankbooks. I want to be where the action is.
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
I want to
swim
in money.”

“You're a wack, you know that? I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

Sydney sighed and fell back into her pillow. “Russell would love to divorce me, but I know too much about how he operates. Not always aboveboard.” That sly little grin again. “He doesn't tell me anything about his business, but I find things out. And he knows I'm the type who'll kiss and tell. I think he's stuck with me.”

Madonn'
, some Lolita. Sal shook his head and probed the back of his mouth with his tongue where a piece of macadamia nut was lodged in his molars. “You're a real wack.”

She put her head on her shoulder and looked at him sideways. “How do you think I got this yacht?”

Sal thought about it. It's possible. Nashe supposedly
doesn't even like boats. She could've squeezed him for it. Rich people are all fucking nuts.

“So are you going to tell me what you and Russell are up to?” she repeated. “It has something to do with the fight, doesn't it?”

Sal had his finger in his mouth, trying to dislodge that piece of macadamia nut. “Who says we're doing anything with the fight?” Jesus, how the hell—?

“I have my sources.” She grinned and moved the hair away from her face with her pinkie.

“So who told you?” He already had a pretty good idea. That bodyguard, the one who was feeling her up in the elevator . . . that tall fuck with the Dudley Do-right face, the one who looks like a cop. Tomasso. “Who told you I got a deal going with Russ? That's not true.”

Sydney shrugged, then sat up and went back to her cuticle cream. Now she was gonna get cute.