Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D. (22 page)

“That’s all,” Frank said. He was grabbing me from behind. “Get the hell out of here—right now!”

Gary was squirming around on the ground, trying to get up. Blood was dripping from his mouth. Then he spit a few teeth onto the floor.

“Look what you did,” he mumbled. “Look what you did.” He was crying.

“Gil, pick up the teeth and put them on ice,” Frank said. “Maybe a dentist can reattach them.”

Gil took a glass and started to put the bloody teeth into it.

Frank was looking at me.

“I had to do it,” I said. “You saw him take that cheap shot at me.”

“I want you out of here! Now!”

“Frank, come on, I—”

“Out!”

Gil helped Gary up. Gary looked like he was about to pass out.

“Take him to the bathroom in the back and clean him up,” Frank said. “Then we’ll take him to a dentist.”

Frank took the glass with the teeth and put ice in it. After Gary and Gil passed by I started to leave. Then I turned back toward Frank.

“Before I go I just want you to know I’m not lying,” I said. “I don’t know who robbed the safe or who killed your wife, but it sure as hell wasn’t me. You know that.”

Frank didn’t say anything.

I waited a few seconds then said, “And don’t worry about those choppers. An old buddy of mine got his teeth busted once. The dentist put on some of those caps and the guy came back looking like a movie star.”

“You better just go home, Tommy.”

“All right,” I said. “Whatever you say. I mean you’re the boss, right?”

I went to the back to get my leather coat. When I came back, Frank was sitting on a bar stool with his head in his hands. I couldn’t tell if he was crying, but he was moving his head like he was. I really felt sorry for him.

“I still want to manage this bar some day,” I said. “I know I can do a great job for you and if you want me to do it I’ll do it. But if you don’t want me back here, that’s fine with me too. I just want you to know, you’re still like a father to me.”

I started to leave.

“Tommy.”

I turned around. Suddenly, Frank looked ten years older.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

I smiled, then I flipped up my coat collar and I left the bar.

At seven
A.M.
I was standing in front of the mirror on my closet door. I was wearing my white suit with my black shirt, shiny black shoes, a black tie, and my lucky gold barbell chain. My hair was slicked back and my beard was trimmed. I would’ve looked perfect if it weren’t for my black eye. I hadn’t put ice on it and it had swelled up overnight.

The gates to the racetrack didn’t open until eleven o’clock, but I wanted to leave early. Sunshine Brandy was running in the second race and I was afraid that if something happened, like my car broke down, I’d miss it. But leaving six hours before the race went off I’d definitely get there with time to spare.

On my way out, I checked the kitchen counter. Last night, when I came home from the bar, I’d noticed more cheese was gone and there were some more droppings. Now there were only two chunks of cheese left and the whole counter was covered with mouse shit. I took the rest of the cheese out of the fridge, spread it around the counter for the mice to feast on, and then I got the show on the road.

My car started right away and it made it on to the FDR Drive without stalling. One of the first things I was going to do when I got rich was buy a new car—probably a bright red Ferrari. Or maybe I’d have a few cars, just to mix things up.

There was no traffic so I made it to the track in about an hour. I thought about going to a diner to kill time and grab something to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I was too excited to eat and, besides, I remembered how I’d promised myself that my diner days were over. I’d only go to expensive restaurants to eat from now on, but I didn’t figure there were too many nice restaurants in Ozone Park, Queens, near the racetrack—especially not ones that were open at eight in the morning.

You might think that time would go by slowly, sitting in a parked car with nothing to do, but the next time I checked my watch it was eleven o’clock.

I pulled into the parking lot, paying the extra buck for preferred parking, and then I sat there for a minute, letting it all soak in. I realized how much my life had improved in the past two weeks. That day at the jai-alai fronton I was a struggling actor with no prospects, but now everything was working out. No doubt about it—Pete Logan getting into my car was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Walking slowly so I wouldn’t sweat up my suit, I headed toward the entrance to the clubhouse. The old guy at the admission window didn’t even look at me as he took my three bucks. When I was a famous horse owner I knew things would be a lot different. I’d probably have a pass, go through a special entrance, and the guy at the door would say “Good morning, Mr. Russo,” and if he was lucky I’d look at him or say good morning back.

Going into the track, I felt like I was stepping into my new life. Outside was the old Tommy Russo, and I wasn’t sad to see him go.

I went to the bathroom to piss and to make sure I still looked great. A few hairs had come loose, but I slicked them back into place with some water and my little black comb, and then I went back into the clubhouse. I decided to go out to the stands and take a look at the owners’ boxes—see where I’d be sitting someday. But on my way out a tall, skinny black usher, said, “You got a pass?”

“No. I mean not yet,” I said.

“Then you can’t go out there.”

“It’s all right. I just wanted to look.”

“Sorry. You can’t go out there if you don’t got a pass.”

“But I just wanted to take a look, that’s all.”

I started to walk by him. He stood in my way.

“Those are the owners’ boxes,” he said. “They’re only for authorized personnel.”

“I’m gonna be authorized personnel. I’m claiming a horse today.”

“Sorry,” he said, “if you’re not authorized personnel you can’t go out there.”

“I just wanna go take a look,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

I walked past him and he grabbed the back of my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

Or maybe I yelled it because a security guard came running over.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. He was a little old Irish guy with gray hair and square shoulders. He reminded me of Frank.

“Ask this guy,” I said. “He just grabbed me.”

“I just told him he can’t go out there without a pass and he tried to get by me,” the usher said.

“Forget about it,” I said. “The guy’s crazy.”

“Just take it easy,” the security guard said. “I don’t want any trouble here.”

“You talking to me or him?” I said.

“You,” he said.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I spotted Pete, sitting on a bench against the wall, reading the
Racing Form
. At first I thought it couldn’t possibly be him. Not because he looked different, because he looked the
same
. He was wearing sneakers, old jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and the same beige winter jacket he’d been wearing at the jai-alai fronton. He wasn’t even dressed up as good as he was at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe I got the day screwed up—maybe we were supposed to claim the horse tomorrow or some other time. I couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete wasn’t wearing a suit.

When I walked over to him he looked up at me like he was surprised. I was probably giving him the same look.

“Look at you,” he said, “all decked out. What’s the special occasion?”

Maybe I
did
get the date mixed up.

“What do you mean?” I said. “I got a call from Alan the other day. We’re claiming the horse today, right?”

“If he doesn’t get scratched,” Pete said. “But I just checked the board downstairs and he’s still in. No, I meant are you doing something after the races? Going to a wedding or something?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the outfit?”

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” I said.

“What do you mean? I always dress like this to go to the track.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said.

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

“I get it,” Pete said. “You’re trying to be funny.”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” I said. “I don’t understand—why did you dress like that today?”

“Because I felt like it,” he said.

“Yeah, well you’re a horse owner now—you should dress like one. Is this how you’re gonna look when you’re down there in the winner’s circle, getting your picture taken? I mean come on—”

“Are you feeling all right?” Pete asked.

“Are
you
?”

“Maybe you should sit down—relax.”

I turned around and started to walk away. Then I stopped, realizing this wouldn’t do me any good. Pete was part of the syndicate and I had to stick with him no matter what he looked like.

I stood with my back to Pete for twenty seconds, maybe longer, then I turned back around.

“Forget about it,” I said. “It’s not important.”

“You scared me there for a second,” Pete said. “I really thought you were losing it. Come on, why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”

I sat down on the bench next to Pete. I noticed that he was wearing cologne today, probably to cover up his B.O., but he’d put on so much of it he smelled as bad as he always did—maybe worse.

“I think I get what’s going on,” Pete said. “You think I was making fun of you. Well, I wasn’t. I think you look great in that suit and with those sunglasses on—like a movie star. I also think it’s good that you got dressed up today. It shows you’re serious about this. That’s what I wanted when I got into this thing—not just to be with guys who wanted to fuck around, for a tax write-off. I wanted to be with guys who wanted to get into the horse business to win. Come on, no hard feelings, right?”

I looked over. Pete was holding out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

“No hard feelings,” I said. I shook his sweaty hand, but I still hated him.

“I’ll tell you what—when the horse is ours, when we come for the first time he races, I promise I’ll wear a suit too. How’s that?”

“Whatever,” I said.

I was looking away again, hoping Pete would go back to reading his
Form
and forget about me.

“By the way, I wanted to ask you, where did you get those shoes?”

“Macy’s,” I said.

“Macy’s?” He said. “You should’ve come by my store, I would’ve gotten you those shoes for a quarter of the price. Eh, it doesn’t matter. Next time.”

Pete was trying to make some more conversation. I stopped paying attention, but he didn’t get the message. He kept talking to me, not caring if I was listening to him or not. I didn’t know why Pete got to me so much. Yeah, he smelled and, yeah, he dressed like a slob, but there was more to it than that. Then it hit me—he was low class. I was sick of low-class people.

A few minutes passed, then Alan, Steve and Rob came up the escalator together. I guess I should’ve expected it, but I didn’t. They were all wearing suits at the Chinese restaurant so I figured they’d look at least as good today. Steve and Rob looked about as slobby as Pete—in jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts. The only one who looked halfway decent was Alan, but even he didn’t look as good as he did the other day. He had a black shirt tucked into chinos and he was wearing shoes, but he wasn’t wearing a tie or a jacket.

As soon as the horse started making money I was going to take my share of the profits and buy my own horses. Then it was going to be
sayonara
to these losers. We all shook hands. Then Alan said, “Let’s all congratulate Pete for putting on some cologne today.” Everybody laughed except me.

Steve said to me, “So what are you, getting married today?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the ice-cream man outfit?” he asked smiling.

Everybody laughed again.

“This isn’t an ice-cream outfit,” I said. “It’s a five-hundred-fuckin’-dollar suit.”

“I was just busting on you,” Steve said. “You look great. I mean I’m going to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah later and look how I’m dressed?” He waited a second then said, “Nah, I was just kidding. I got a suit in the car. I just figured I’d put it on in the bathroom at the temple.”

I couldn’t believe it. He had a suit in his
car
and he wasn’t wearing it now? Some kid’s Bar Mitzvah was more important than his first day as a horse owner? Was the guy out of his mind?

I was so shocked I had nothing to say. I just stood there staring.

Everybody stood around for a while, bullshitting. I didn’t say anything until Steve turned to me and said, “You’re not Jewish, are you, Tommy?”

“No,” I said.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, “I mean with a name like Tommy Russo. What are you, Catholic?”

I nodded.

“Me too,” he said. “So you got any plans for Christmas?”

“Christmas? When’s Christmas?”

“In two days,” he said

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said. “I’ll probably just hang out in the city.”

“That’s cool. Yeah, my wife and me are gonna head up to Massachusetts, to her sister’s house. Bores the hell out of me—not Christmas, just being up there in the sticks, you know? It’s up near Amherst, not far from New Hampshire. They have a dog track up there so I figure the day after Christmas I’ll—man, what the hell happened to you?”

I’d taken off my sunglasses to pick off the crust in the corners of my eyes. The other guys were looking over now too.

“I had to break up a fight at the bar last night,” I said.

“That’s a pretty nice shiner you got there,” Pete said.

“You should see what the other guy looks like,” I said.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, but everybody laughed.

I put my sunglasses back on. Alan, Pete and Steve started talking, and Rob said to me, “I was meaning to ask you—what’s the name of the bar you work at on the Upper East Side?”

“Blake’s Tavern,” I lied. Blake’s Tavern was a bar on First Avenue in the East Eighties, about twenty blocks away from O’Reilley’s.