Homemade Sin (24 page)

“It was amazing,” Dee Dee whispered to Cutter as she joined him at the bar. “I mean the guy was like dead. No heartbeat, not breathing, nothing and Hussey just poured this powder in mouth and hey presto! His eyelids fluttered open and he sat up and stared straight ahead.”

“Where is he now?” Cutter asked.

“I left him in his room to rest, the Daytona race is tomorrow.”

“I'm as dry as a persimmon stuffed with alum and rolled in a blue law,” Tony said as he waddled into the bar and lifted his girth on to a barstool beside Cutter.

“Are you taking any action on NASCAR races?” Cutter said to Tony.

“I am,” Tony said, smiling.

“What are the odds on number 13, Rebel Buford, at Daytona?”

Tony retrieved a cell phone from his pocket, punched a single digit for speed dial and spoke into the phone. He snapped the phone closed and slipped it back into his coat pocket. “He'll pay ten to one,” Tony told Cutter. “But why don't you save your money? The man has never won a race.”

“Put me down for a thousand dollars,” Cutter looked cock-a-hoop.

“Did you see what he did at the last race?” Tony said.

“I saw the race,” Dee Dee chimed in. “Give me a thousand dollars on Rebel Buford to win Daytona too.”

“It's your funeral,” Tony said.

Dee Dee smiled. “A little premature for a funeral, maybe a wake,” she whispered to Cutter. Cutter was smiling ear to ear.

“Hey,” Tony grinned at Cutter with such a cat-like grin you could almost see feathers peeking out from the corners of his mouth, “maybe you got more inside information like you had with the dog?”

“Yep, same sort of deal.” Cutter grinned. “You still going to take my bet?”

“Sure,” Tony said, “I just might take a little action on it myself.”

“The monthly meeting of Sons of Sicily will now come to order!” announced the wizened man standing at the head of a large round table in the back room of the St. Petersburg branch of the Italian Club. The man banging his gavel, calling for order, was formerly called Vito the Viper of the Gambino family in New York. He was now called Vito Viagra. In keeping with tradition, there were two retired or semi-retired representatives of each of the five families seated around the table. Also, in keeping with tradition, each member of the group had been given a new nickname by the other representatives when they retired from the family business and moved to sunny Florida. To get a seat at the table someone had to die. Of course, exceptions were made in cases where the retiree was a consigliere, or above, in rank. This rarely happened as the senior ranking members of “our thing” usually expired on the job or retired to a Federal prison.

“Da first order of business as always,” Vito said “is ‘Whatta you hear, whadda you know? Who got whacked last month? Who's gonna get whacked this month? And who we think will get whacked next month.'”

Seated around the table in a clockwise direction was Crazy Carlo Cabrilla, also of the Gambino family, now known as Carlo Colostomy for obvious reasons. To Carlo's left sat a retired member of the Bonnano family, a part-time bookie and frequenter of the Fugu Lounge, a man known by many names. To the members of the Italian Club he was known as Tony Tums, but back in New York he had been known as Tony ‘Cajones' Bonnano. Beside Tony sat Gino the Greeter, formerly Gino the Gat of the Genovese family. Next to Gino sat Benito Beano, formerly Benny the Bone Crusher, and Angelo Angina, formerly Angelo ‘The Angel of Death', both also of the Genovese family. Next to Benito sat Eddie Early Bird, formerly Crazy Eddie Columbo and Micky Mahjong formerly Mick the Knife. Micky's new name came from his frequenting of Mahjong games at his retirement home, where he lost regularly and deliberately to the little old Jewish ladies. After a loss Mickey would sometimes get a sympathy shtup. It was said that Mickey had more old Jewess ass than an inflatable toilet doughnut. Nicky Nitro, the only member of the group who had kept his original moniker, was previously known for blowing things up; most recently his moniker stemmed from his explosive flatulence. Finally came Ricky Refill, formerly Ricky the Rat, now called Ricky Refill for his tendency to get more than his share of senior drink refills at local fast food restaurants. Beside Ricky sat Alfonzo Alzheimer's, also of the Colombo family.

“I think Pauley is gonna whack Big Pussy next week,” announced Alfonzo. “I think Tony is pretty pissed at him for being a rat.”

Vito shook his head. “That's the Sopranos reruns you been watching you meatball. That's been off the air for years. You're getting real life and television mixed up again.”

“Meatballs!” Carlo shouted. “I think we're having meatballs for dinner tonight.”

“Shut the fuck up, Carlo,” Vito said. “Nobody gives a fuck what's for dinner at your place tonight. Who do you think is gonna get whacked this month?”

“I think we're having chicken again.” Gino the Greeter sighed. “We always have chicken.”

“Gino you're a pirla,” he said. “And take that red vest off, you look like a moolie.”

“Sorry I just got off work,” replied Gino as he slipped out of his Walmart vest.

“Now,” Vito continued, “Do any of you goombas, who still has half a brain, have anything intelligent to say on the subject of who is getting whacked this month?”

Carlo sighed deeply. “You know,” he said. “I wish I was back in the game, whacking guys instead of just sitting around watching it from the sidelines.”

“Yeah,” commented Gino, “instead of welcoming these rat fuck bastards to Walmart I ought to still be welcoming scumbags to hell.”

“You said it,” Vito said, “I'm too young to retire. I still got lots of hits left in me.”

“So what are we going to do?” Carlo said. “We're just a bunch of old guys, how would we get back in the game? Our families put us out to pasture.”

“I used to have muscles,” Alfonzo said, “now I have sagging tits and my biceps hang down like those underarm flaps fat old ladies have.”

The table issued a group sigh.

Tony Tums raised his hand. “I don't know who's gettin' whacked and I don't think a bunch of washed up old fuckers like us could get back in the game, but I got a tip for youz guyz. Put your money on Rebel Buford in the Daytona 500. I got it from a reliable source the kid is gonna win.”

“Cutter and I are going to the race at Daytona,” Dee Dee declared to Roland, “You and Hussey are going to have to fillet fugu for a while.”

“I don't know how to cut that stuff,” Roland said, “what if I cut it wrong and kill someone?”

“Just do the best you can. And it might be a good idea to get them to pay as soon as you bring the food, that way you don't get stiffed.” Dee Dee paused and smiled. “In any sense of the word.”

Cutter drove and Dee Dee sat in the shotgun seat. Rebel relaxed in the back of Cutter's van staring at the ceiling.

“How do you feel about being cooped up in this van?” Dee Dee said to Rebel.

“No problem,” said Rebel in a predictable monotone.

Cutter flashed Rebel's pass at the security guard at gate and was waved into a special parking lot reserved for drivers and crew members. As soon as Rebel exited the van, a heavy-set, florid man came bounding toward them. He threw a bearish arm around Rebel's shoulders and pumped his hand.

“It's about time you got here, old son. I haven't heard from you in a couple of days, where have you been?”

“Vacation,” Rebel intoned.

Dee Dee reached out and clasped Rebel's other hand. “Is this your crew chief, honey?” she said.

“Yes,” Rebel said mechanically. “His name is Casey.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dee Dee said, her voice dripping honey. “I'm Dee Dee. Our boy is going to win this race today.”

“Well, well, looks like you got yourself a new honey.” Casey smiled.

Rebel opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“I'm his fiancée,” Dee Dee said. “We just got engaged. We'll be getting married as soon as he wins the race today.”

“Hell, Rebel, you old dog.” Casey beamed. “You went and got engaged on your little beach trip, and she's a looker too. Congratulations!”

Rebel stared and nodded.

Casey cocked his head and stared at Rebel, studying him like he was listening to a ping in a previously well-tuned engine. “You all right, son?” Casey said to Rebel. “You're usually a lot more talkative than this. You don't seem all that excited for a man who just got engaged. Are you hung over?”

“No, he's just calm,” Dee Dee said. “He's had some green tea on the way over. It calms him down.”

“Well, since you're his fiancée I guess you'll be sitting in his private box, right?”

“Hey, a private box,” Cutter chimed in. “That sounds great.”

“And who are you,” Casey said, turning toward Cutter who was lurking behind Dee Dee.

“He's my brother,” Dee Dee said. “We'll need a pass to that private box for him too.”

“Well, let's get you two pointed in the right direction and then we need to get old number 13 here suited up and ready to drive.”

Dee Dee kissed Rebel for luck and Casey scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Dee Dee. He pointed them toward a row of skyboxes above the start-finish line.

“Just show this note to the guy at the door to Rebel's sky box. That'll get you in.”

By the time Dee Dee and Cutter found the right box and took their seats in Rebel's box, high above the stands, the race had already started.

“Which car is he driving?” Cutter said.

“Number thirteen,” Dee Dee said, “it has the slot machine sticker on it; see the one in third place?”

“Eights and Aces Video Poker.” Cutter laughed when he read the logo under the multi-colored picture of a slot machine, with three little skulls and cross-bones displayed where the machines usually showed fruit. “That's appropriate, dead man's hand.”

“Maybe he can get sponsored by a funeral home now,” Dee Dee said, then laughed. “Or maybe a headstone maker! How much more money did you put down on him?”

“The whole nut,” Cutter said, “Everything we took from the safe. I doubled my bet with Tony a few minutes ago, brings it to five grand, at ten to one, so he better win.”

“That dog won didn't he?” Dee Dee said. “This is the same thing. Rebel will win.”

A big haired, red-faced woman in the seat beside Dee Dee interjected, “Ya'll talking about old number 13, Rebel Buford?” She was adjusting her tube top higher up over her ample breasts. “He'll choke, he always does.” She took a deep drink out of a beer can wrapped in a checkered flag snuggie, lit a cigarette and continued. “Sure, he starts out OK, but about three quarters through he starts to get a little hinky, starts driving a little erratic.” She took a puff of her cigarette. “Hell, I've seen him actually be in the lead for most of the race then drive into the infield get out of his car and walk away. They interviewed him later and he muttered something about giant rats and fat bears. The man is nuts if you ask me. He'll choke anytime now.”

“Oh yeah, check it out!” Dee Dee shrieked, pointing to the cars speeding around the track. “There he goes!”

Inside the cockpit of car number 13, Rebel Buford, hit the accelerator hard, crushing the gas pedal into the floor. His car shot around the second place car in the turn and started catching up to the leader. Images of giant talking rats and musical bears were danced across his psyche but he ignored them, he mashed the accelerator down until metal was touching metal.

“I ain't never seen him do that before,” said the big-haired woman, dropping her cigarette and staring slack jawed in amazement as number 13 overtook the leader and put distance between his car and the now number two driver.

Inside car number 13 Rebel Buford was as calm and tranquil as a corpse buried in the lotus position as he hit the back straightaway and left the other cars far behind.

“Look at him go!” shouted Dee Dee, grasping Cutter's hand and jumping up and down in her chair.

“Sombitch,” said the large woman, cracking another beer. “It's like he has no fear!”

“That's cause he's a zombie,” Dee Dee said.

Dee Dee's statement didn't register with the woman who stared at car 13 as it tucked into the turn at full speed, streaking toward the finish line.

“He keeps going faster,” the woman said, shocked. “He has nerves of steel.”

“He's the living dead,” Dee Dee said. “He has no nerves at all.”

“Look at him go,” the woman said, ignoring Dee Dee, as the back end of Rebel's car slid around into the curve. “It's like he's not scared of dying.”

“Dead, dead, dead,” chanted Dee Dee.  Rebel's car accelerated toward the checkered flag. Car number 13 burned past the stands and blew the hat off the man who was waving the checkered flag at him. The car kept going as the crowd rose to its collective feet, cheering.