The Collectibles (12 page)

“Not that it matters, Tommy, but it's ‘time is of the essence.' In any event, what do you want me to do?”

“All you have to do,” Tommy said, leaning over and looking Joe straight in the eyes, the veins bulging on the sides of his temples, “is go in there with me, we walk up to the blackjack tables, I whisper to the guard who stops me that you have to talk to Frankie. You're standing right next to me. Frankie's going to look at me, you know what I mean – really look at me. Then he's going to really look at you. Then, I hope he will motion you in. You go in, go up to him, and tell him that I've got his key and he's got my key, that they got mixed up in the box. And then swap keys. That's it,” Tommy said, clapping his hands and then holding them both up in front of his face. “That's it, Joe.” He clapped his hands again.

“And have you given any thought as to why Frankie V. is interested in talking with me in the first place, or why he should accept what I'm telling him about the mix-up of the keys rather than you telling him? It seems to me this would be a good opportunity for you to earn his trust.”

“Joe, this is one of those times in life when you got one shot, that you're either believed or not. You got what I don't – believability stamped on your forehead. I need you to talk to him. Swap the keys. We're done.” Another clap of hands.

Joe could see there was no convincing Tommy to step up to this plate. Knowing he should have his head examined, he simply told Tommy, “Okay, stay with me.” And with that, they both climbed out of the limo.

It was not hard to find Frankie in Caesar's. Three blackjack tables stood in a semicircle, with two pit bosses behind each table and five armed guards at the front of each, forming a tight ring, keeping the crowds away.

Joe walked straight up to the table at which Tommy had identified Frankie as the player on the end, standing, not sitting. He motioned to the pit boss behind that table that he would like to talk with Frankie. The security guards watched Joe and Tommy stand there, but nothing was said. The man behind the table adjusted his French cuffs and his tie, straightened his black suit jacket, and walked slowly over to Frankie and waited. After what seemed like a long time but was actually only a minute or two, the action on that hand was completed and Frankie looked up and nodded.

The man approached Frankie and whispered in his ear. Frankie looked over at Tommy, and at Joe. Then everything stopped. The next hand was not dealt. The other men at the table were watching Frankie for a signal as to what he wanted to do. Frankie pulled up the stool behind him and sat down. He put his arms up on the table, folded his hands, and looked down at the table. After three long minutes, he looked up again and motioned to the man at his side to come closer. He whispered in his ear.

The man approached Joe and Tommy and said, “Mr. V would like to talk to you gentlemen.” Joe said, “Yes, sir,” and started to walk towards Frankie. Realizing that Tommy had not moved, he stepped back, grabbed Tommy by the arm, and brought him along.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Frankie said, looking Joe over from head to foot.

“My name is Joe Hart,” Joe said. “I've known Tommy Greco for a number of years. I live in South Carolina. He called me there last night at one in the morning and asked me to fly to Las Vegas to meet with you this morning to explain to you that you inadvertently picked up his safe-deposit box key from the health club you guys went to, leaving your key with him. He discovered that last night when he went over to the Grand to get his wallet out of his box. But because he had the wrong key and no ID, he could not get into his box. He needs his key, which you have. And he would like to give you your key.”

At this point, Frankie had nodded yes over ten times. Frankie reached in his pocket and pulled out a safe-deposit box key. “You're tellin' me this key is Tommy Greco with a funny name's key?”

“Yes, sir, exactly,” Joe replied.

“And Tommy Greco with a funny name's got my key?”

“Yes, sir.”

Frankie stared at Tommy and Tommy stared back. Three blackjack tables watched all of this, and no one said a word. All action remained at a standstill.

“Tommy, how did you like the massage?” Frankie asked.

“It was okay, Mr. V, you know, it was okay. Thank you.”

“There he goes,” Frankie said. “Tommy Greco Thank You. I like you, Tommy. I like having you around. I think your pal Joe was a good guy to get up in the middle of the night and fly all the way out here to tell me about the keys. I like that. It shows a lot of respect. I like the way he calls me sir, too. It's good. So let's see the key, Tommy.”

At that point, Tommy handed the key over to Frankie and Frankie gave his key to Joe. Frankie then told his group at the tables that he thought it was time for a break, and they all agreed. The group broke up and Frankie picked up the few chips left in front of him on the table.

“I'm gonna cash these in. You guys feel like walking with me over to the cashier?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said, and Tommy nodded again. They all walked over to the cashier and stood in line. Frankie soon exchanged his chips for cash. Then he put down the safe-deposit box key that Tommy had just given him and asked for his box, signing his name on the card. A moment later, the large box was placed in front of him. The lid on the box popped open and it was crammed full of hundred-dollar stacks. Frankie smiled.

“As I said, I like you boys. Tommy, you and I got to spend some more time together. Mr. Hart, sorry you had to come out all this way. Nice meeting you.”

“Thank you,” Tommy said. He reached out to shake Frankie's hand, but he had already turned and left. Joe and Tommy walked through the casino at Caesar's to the forum, where they went to Prada for some lunch.

“Joe, you're a stand-up guy. Thanks for coming. I knew it would go just this way. Done.” Tommy clapped his hands and raised them again.

“You're welcome, Tommy, although I think you could have done it all yourself. However, you might want to think about a different career than being Frankie's go-through guy. This is a good time to let this one go and move on.”

“Yeah, well, I have to do something other than just try to make money gambling. I wasn't aspirating to a made guy or nothing. I was just thinking of developing a relationship kind of thing where I would be like, you know, a private contractor. I don't mean a private contractor like that, but just in providing a go-through service, like in communications. Something like a communication facilitation kind of guy. I think I got some talents in that area. What do you think, Joe?”

“You've definitely got talent, Tommy. The challenge is how to channel it in a way that will work, and keep you out of trouble. I think we need to work on that a little bit.”

“Sort of my continuing developmental program, right, Joe?”

“Yeah, Tommy. Something like that. Anyway, the pasta's great here, and it was really good to see you.”

“Hey Joe, what do you say we shoot some craps, have some fun?” Tommy said. “You need some fun. We'll go to Angie's for some beers; maybe you'll do the Karaoke thing again. I love that shit.” One night together, after Joe had had too many, he decided to try singing, and it had cracked up Tommy and the whole bar.

“Thanks, Tommy, but I've got to check on a friend of mine out here, and then I've got to get home. Time is of the essence.”

“I understand,” Tommy said. “There's nobody like you, Joe. So long.” Tommy gave Joe the push-away-pull-forward hug, and said goodbye.

P
reston's secretary told him she had Marcia on the line.

“Hi, honey. I just got off the phone with Joe Hart, the attorney . . . ”

“I know who he is. Let's have it.”

Preston could hear the ice in her voice. “He's gathering material in preparation for meeting with the bank, getting his arms around it.”

“Preston, dear, may I ask you a question?” Marcia's tone dripped with sarcasm.

“Of course.”

“Why are you dealing with me about this over the phone? Is this one of your control moves? And why the hell do you have your secretary get me on the line? I'm your wife for Christ's sake. If you want to discuss this, and you damn well better, I suggest you get in your cherished Bentley and drive your butt over here now, and have the . . . let's say courage . . . to have this conversation in person.”

“Settle down, honey. I know you're upset.”

Silence.

“I'll come over.”

“Do that,” Marcia replied, and hung up.

Preston hailed a cab, arriving at the Tower a half-an-hour later. Marcia was waiting in the straight chair by the fireplace. He wondered why she always picked that chair when he was in trouble. He poured himself a Red Label on the rocks and sat down.

“Well?” Marcia said, watching him.

“Joe is preparing to talk to the bank. He needs all kinds of documents from us. Casey has the lists. He's getting it together. He's the guy to handle this . . . but it is our undertaking . . . ”

“Get to the damn point. Are we in trouble? If we are, how much?”

Preston explained the stores' financial problems, including the SOT, and that “a lot of money” was involved. When Marcia asked what a SOT was, he explained that SOT is an acronym for Sold Out of Trust – the condition a dealership is in when it has received money from a bank to finance a car, called a floor plan, and has sold the car to a customer, received the money, but not paid the bank back for the amount loaned on that car.

Marcia rolled her eyes. “Leaving aside all of that mumbo jumbo, which incidentally sounds dishonest to me, it wasn't two weeks ago you told me ‘not to worry, everything would be fine.' Now the roof's caving in. Did all this just happen or did you suddenly get religion and decide to tell the truth?”

Preston sank in his chair, looking at her.

Marcia pursed her lips. “Well dear, maybe I can make this go a tad faster. What did Joe tell you he needs from me?”

Relieved at the question, Preston handed her a letter. “He wants you to sign this.”

“I need my own attorney,” she said, reading the letter carefully.

“You don't actually need one,” Preston replied. “Just a lawyer covering his ass, making sure you are advised, as they put it.”

“Very interesting,” she said, more to herself than Preston. She went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, and returned to the chair. “Is this the whole of it? Or is this one of those times when I have to pull it out of you, piece by tiny piece?”

“There's another letter we need signed by you,” he said, handing over another paper. “This one is from another lawyer. Joe is thorough. He wants to cover all the bases.” Marcia was already halfway through the letter.

“This is from a criminal lawyer,” she said, tears beginning to form in her eyes. She held the letter up to the lamp and started to read from it.
“Your signature below will memorialize your full understanding of the multiple risks involved, and your voluntary assumption of the risks, including exposure to criminal bank fraud, misrepresentation, deceit, and misappropriation of funds
. . .
”
She put the letter down, and looked at Preston. “Have you read this?”

“Of course,” Preston replied, trying to sound calm.

“You're trying to protect your little bottom, aren't you? You handle all this, get me to sign the damn personal guarantees, and now you want me to sign off on bank fraud. You're out of your mind, you selfish bastard. You think I'm pretty stupid, and you're a shining genius. Maybe we can get a cell together. What do you think? How the hell could you put me in this position?”

“Calm down, Marcia. You are not going to jail. I'm the one at risk, not you. I'll deal with it and it won't come down on you. Believe me, I'm the one affected.”

“That's the problem. I don't believe you. What little faith and trust I had is long gone. Bang Bang like the song says.” She cupped her face in her hands and cried softly. When Preston started to speak, Marcia held her hands up, palms out.

The only sound was the grandfather clock ticking in the vestibule.

Marcia rose, Preston springing up and standing before her.

“You know, Preston,” she finally said, “I used to think you were tall.”

More silence.

“I'll sign the damn letters,” she said finally. “The covenants, the assumptions and all of that. I will consult a lawyer, one of my own choosing. And you will hear from my lawyer, and perhaps he will have some papers for you to sign.”

Preston started to put his arms around her.

“Forget it,” she said, pushing him away. “As you like to say, this conversation is over.”

A
fter checking several casinos, Joe found Missy working as a cocktail waitress at the Frontier.

“Joe, what are you doing here?” Missy exclaimed as she balanced her tray of drinks on her side and hugged him. “How are you? When did you get here?”

“I just got in this morning. I had to come out to talk with a friend. Is there a place we can sit and talk for a little while?”

“Absolutely. I'm off in half an hour anyway. Let me tell my shift boss that I'm leaving now. She won't mind. It'll just take a sec.”

Joe nodded, and Missy disappeared through a door that Joe had not noticed. A few minutes later she reappeared, having changed into black slacks and a simple white blouse.

Born Melissa Andrea Scarlatti at the Lyons Hospital in upstate New York, Missy had grown up to be a striking woman. Her dream was to escape the small town of Lyons and be a dancer in Las Vegas. She became a showgirl in Vegas, her dream later wiped out by marriage to a man who held himself out as an agent and promised her the moon. What he delivered was a lot of punches.

“Let's go to the coffee shop – it's fairly quiet now, and we can sit in a corner booth and talk,” Missy said.

“Fine, lead the way.”

Shortly, they were seated in the far corner, which, as Missy had indicated, was nearly vacant. She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich; Joe asked for apple pie and ice cream.

“Joe, it's so great to see you.”

“You, too, Missy. Frankly, I'm glad you changed outfits. The other one was a little too provocative for an old guy.”

“You don't like my big boobs?” Missy asked, laughing.

“They're just fine. Actually, they're very fine,” Joe said, trying not to look at them. “Let's hear how you're doing. That's what I really want to know.”

The last time they'd talked was at the green-and-white cabins. Missy had gone through some pretty tough times with her husband. She'd told Joe she wanted to get as far away from him as she could, and Alice got a request for information from an attorney out here in connection with a protective order. Joe had no idea what happened after that.

“Why did you come back? What's going on? Is everything all right?”

“I'm trying to work my way back. I hate being a cocktail waitress. All the smart-ass remarks from drunks and gamblers. The assignments to distract this gambler or that one, feed 'em the booze. The whole thing. But I need the money and the tips can be good. I've got a friend who's working on getting me back on stage now that my face – now that I look better.”

“You look wonderful,” Joe said, meaning it.

“I took your advice and got the protective order. Sam was pissed, but so far he's left me alone. If I do go back on the stage, depending on what role I get, he'll probably start bothering me again. It's kind of ironic, you know what I mean? If I'm not doing well, he leaves me alone. As soon as I get back on stage and have a good dancing part, he can't stand it, and that's when he comes around. I thought the divorce would stop all that, but it didn't make any difference. So I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't. But I just want to try to get back where I was. I felt great then, you know? Like I was alive and doing something.”

So you put yourself right back in harm's way, right where this asshole is?
“I guess I can understand that, but I worry about you out here. Do you have any real friends here, Missy? Somebody who can keep an eye out for you?”

“I've got some girlfriends and the church, but to tell you the truth I try to stay away from the guys, and by the time I'm off, I'm too tired anyway.”

“There's a guy out here named Tommy Greco. He's quite a character, but it might be fun for you to meet him some time. He's from upstate New York, too. If you do meet him, get to know him, don't sell him short.”

“What's he do?” Missy asked.

“Gambles.” They both burst out laughing. “Okay. I wanted to check in. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“Joe, I know this is a touchy subject, and I don't mean to pry, but . . . I heard about what happened with your wife, and it made me sick.”

“Thanks. By the way,” Joe said, needing to change the subject, “Buck and I went back to the Adirondacks and hung out for a while. It was really great up there. So quiet. So gorgeous. Buck loved it, and so did I.”

“I remember. It was when I was hiding. Different world up there.”

“I probably would have stayed up there forever, but believe it or not, a guy with a business problem and his accountant came up into the mountains and found me and convinced me to come down and help them. So I did.”

“Yeah, so what else is new? You had to come down sometime, Joe,” Missy said, reaching over and holding his hand.

Joe took her hand away and patted it a couple of times. “Yeah, I had to come down sometime.”

Missy looked directly into Joe's eyes for too long a time and said, “I'm not stupid, and you've been the best friend I've ever had. I want to help. No strings. Let's you and me go to my place. I want to be with you. Really be with you. You'll feel better. It'll do you good.”

Joe motioned to the waitress and pointed to his coffee cup. “Missy, thank you. Please understand how much I appreciate the offer. I can't go with you. Clearly, part of me would like to. You're a beautiful woman, inside and out. But Ashley was . . . and for me, still is . . . my wife, and always will be. It's just the way it is. I hope you'll understand.”

“I understand,” Missy said, with tears in her eyes. “I knew that would be the answer. Besides, it's too early.”

“It's not a matter of too early,” Joe replied. “This is one mountain I don't ever want to come down from.”

Neither spoke for a few moments. Then Missy looked at Joe, and breaking the silence, asked, “Why me?”

“Why me, what?”

“I mean, why have you taken such an interest in me? I know you're a good guy and that you believe in helping people, not just your clients but others, too. I know you and Ashley supported the Domestic Violence Shelter. I remember all my conversations with you back then. You helped me a lot. Don't get me wrong, Joe. I love you for it. The part that blows me away is that you've stayed in touch so long to make sure I'm all right and see what you can do to help. I just wonder why does a man like you look after a woman like me. I know why you're not doing it, and that makes me . . . want to know all the more why you do. And the others, too. Why, Joe? How do we get to be the lucky ones?”

There it is. “Why do you get so overinvolved with your men, Commander? Where's the detachment?” Damn it, I thought I'd left this bull behind when I left the Navy. Why can't it be as simple as lending a hand? But it never is.
“Those are good questions. I'm not sure I have good answers. My wife asked me the same thing one time. Aside from my clients, there are a few people I have reached out to. Probably should have been more. Why them? Something struck a chord.”
I probably need a shrink for the right answer. Look at Tommy. I don't know what's worse: an abusive alcoholic father and an unloving prostitute for a mother, or no mother and father at all
. . .
. “
When I look at you, Missy, and all that you've had to go through, I see who you are and what you can be. We can each use a few friends along the way. Besides, it makes me feel good.”

Missy looked as if she were holding back tears as she sipped from her water glass. “God bless you, Joe. You're a great friend. They broke the mold when they made you.”

Something in that moment made Joe reach way back in his memory, something about
“They broke the mold when they made you.”
He vaguely remembered his mother saying something like that, but he had trouble remembering her. He wondered whether his mother was as gentle and kind as Missy, and if she had lived, what she would have been like?

“I don't know about that, Missy, but thanks. I'm glad to hear you're doing okay. I'm meeting with a bank Monday morning, so I've got to catch the red-eye back and have a day to get ready. You know where to reach me, if you need anything. Alice and Buck send their regards.” Joe stood up to leave.

“Good to see you. I'll be in touch. Thanks, Joe.”