Son of the Mob (11 page)

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
'M STARTING TO EARN
a reputation around school as the guy who really doesn't want to be Homecoming King. People get that impression from the cursing and muttering I do every time I tear down another Vince-and-Kendra poster.

Yes, the posters are still coming, more than there ever were before. There's even a group of nitwit football players who think it's funny to shake me down over it.

“Hey, Luca,” one of them will call, “give us twenty bucks or we'll all vote for you!” And everybody cracks up laughing.

If we win, my first action as Homecoming King will be to demand a recount.

There's one bright spot. At least now I know Kendra isn't doing it.

Alex disagrees. “Don't be so sure, Vince. Chicks get off on this Homecoming stuff.”

“Impossible,” I say flatly. “It would ruin everything.”

“It's a psychological thing with women,” he goes on reasonably. “On the one hand, there's logic. But pulling from the other side is an irresistible desire to be queen.”

My life may be in turmoil. But it's going to have to get a lot worse before I'm taking advice about women's irresistible desires from misterferraridriver.com.

Speaking of our Web sites, iluvmycat.usa has moved into second place on the hit parade and is gaining fast on cyberpharaoh.com. I'm thrilled when I get a second message on Cat Tales, but it turns out to be the same eighty-five-year-old talking about her dear departed Fluffy again.

Fluffy: a good name for a cat. Ides of March: not such a good name.

Prime ministers. Movie stars. Quackers. Eight balls. Inky cats. Cats that'll have you in seventh heaven. What are the odds that more than one person takes his pet to a toga party? How about fourteen? I counted yesterday.

I don't know what to do. Alerting the police would be too extreme, especially for a Luca. Besides, they'll think I'm nuts. So I bring in the next-best thing: a real FBI agent's daughter. Kendra applies her considerable talents as an investigative reporter to my case.

“Well, obviously these aren't real ads,” she says after two minutes.

“How can you be sure?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Vince, for five hundred bucks you can get a cat with a pedigree that stretches back to the saber-toothed tiger, not a Heinz fifty-seven whose only claim to fame is that he can quack. And these names—they're not even real names. Just phrases or expressions: Military Intelligence or I Love a Parade.”

I can't help but marvel at the logical, methodical way her mind works. Maybe it's true that the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree—although, in my case, that's a pretty scary thought. The last person I want to be like is Anthony Luca.

She looks up from the monitor to face me in the cramped library cubicle. “Could it be a hacker?”

I shake my head. “There's no hacking involved. Anybody with a computer can place ads on the site.”

“A joker, then,” she suggests. “Somebody from the class. How about Alex? He's got a pretty warped sense of humor.”

“It still wouldn't explain the traffic,” I tell her. “I've got seven hundred hits. No way all that's coming from a single user.”

“There's only one other thing those ads could be,” she muses. “Coded messages.”

“Aw, come on!” I explode.

“I'm serious.” She swivels the screen so I can see it. “Each ad has two numbers, a dollar amount and a lower number:
a real eight ball
,
four on the floor
,
seventh heaven.
Then there are key words that come up again and again:
quack
,
toga party
,
prime minister
—”

I'm horrified. “But that's crazy! This is real life, not a Tom Clancy novel!”

I take her theory to Mr. Mullinicks, mostly because I'm hoping he'll laugh in my face. But he sticks to his guns, insisting that whatever's happening on iluvmycat.usa, it's my problem. The other kids agree that something weird is going on. But they've got their own Web sites to worry about.

As for Tommy, he doesn't see anything strange at all. The one good thing to come out of New Media class is the interest all this has kindled in my brother. He even found himself a computer and set it up in his apartment in the city. I got my first e-mail from him last night:

hey vince how's it going write me back so I know this crap works tommy

Tommy's computer apparently has no punctuation marks or capital letters.

Of course, I see the guy practically every day. So by the time I retrieve that message, he's standing right there beside me. He practically shrieks with delight when his words pop onto the screen. It's like taking a four-year-old to Disney World.

Mom appears in the doorway, a heaping tray of s'mores in her hands. “Look at you two, working that space-age gizmo like a couple of professors.”

My mother loves to watch us with our heads together at the computer. It helps her see her family as the wholesome folks she deludes herself into believing we are.

“Who's dying?” I ask suspiciously. S'mores are Mom's version of first aid. She only makes them for incoming wounded.

“No one, smart guy,” she retorts. “Your uncle Cosimo dropped by, poor man. His gout is acting up again.”

I grimace. Uncle Cosimo's last attack of “gout” came via a shotgun full of rock salt as he was hotwiring a Range Rover.

Tommy heads for the stairs. “I'd better talk to him.”

I watch as he disappears to take care of business. I'll never change my brother, I realize. But I'm glad I was able to turn him on to something that's actually legal, although I'm willing to bet that his computer was liberated rather than bought and paid for.

To be honest, I'm spending less and less time on any kind of schoolwork these days, because I've got a new project that's occupying all my powers of reasoning. There must be some way for Jimmy Rat and Ed Mishkin to get back on track with their debts, while at the same time paying me the six hundred dollars I owe on my/Dad's/somebody's credit card.

The thing is, Jimmy and Ed both seem to make plenty of money. But since they pay my dad only once a month, they always manage to blow all their cash so there's not enough left when the uncles come around to collect. Ed apparently spends everything on women, and Jimmy Rat? Who knows what happens to his money? He clearly isn't spending it on fine clothes and good grooming, and definitely not on deodorant.

Basically, these two don't need a wiseguy; they need a financial planner. And so long as I'm going to lose sleep over Jimmy's fingers and Ed's great-aunt, I guess it has to be me.

The first problem is expecting these blockheads to think ahead a whole month. So I calculate the amount each man has to take out of his cash register every night and not touch. From there, I add in an installment plan so that I get my six hundred back, and Ed returns the one-fifty I made Jimmy lend him last week. Then comes the tricky part. I fix it so that Ed overpays Jimmy for the first two weeks when Jimmy's tab is coming due, and vice versa after that.

I'm pretty proud of myself by the time I put it on an Excel spreadsheet and print it out. Then I call up Jimmy. All this time I'm being Thank-you-PaineWebber, I forget that Jimmy is about as convenient to reach as Saddam Hussein. Ed's easier to get on the line because he's usually waiting for a call from a lady friend. I know this because he always answers “Hey, there, hot stuff.”

I tell Ed about my new system, but he doesn't even seem interested. Then he starts talking about a movie he saw!

I remember something Tommy says: nobody can ignore you when you're standing on their neck. Well, I'm not going to hurt anyone, but I'm also not going to be ignored.

I interrupt Ed's graphic description of the leading lady's lingerie. “Listen, Ed. I'm coming down there tomorrow after school. If you and Jimmy don't show up, I'm washing my hands of both of you.” I slam down the phone.

That night I show Dad my payment plan spreadsheet. He laughs so hard that he mauls an expensive piece of walnut on the table saw.

I'm deeply wounded. “What's so funny?”

Tommy isn't as amused. “You know how that's going to help a guy like Jimmy Rat? He'll save money on toilet paper, that's all.”

Ray is the kindest of the three, but even he isn't very encouraging. “You've got a good heart, kid, but you're wasting your time. These guys could start the month with Fort Knox in their pockets and be tapped out by the fifteenth.”

“You're wrong,” I say defensively, “and I'll prove it.”

All the way through bumper-to-bumper traffic into the city, my mind is in Kendra's basement, where I would be if it wasn't for this meeting. To stay focused, I keep glancing over at the passenger seat where my spreadsheets sit rolled up and waiting, like blueprints for a better life for those two idiots. It takes an hour and a half to creep into Manhattan and another twenty minutes to park.

Frankly, I'm pleasantly surprised to find Jimmy and Ed huddled in a corner booth at Java Grotto, Ed's place.

I hand out the spreadsheets and say my piece, going into real detail about exactly how it has to work. Amazingly, they follow me. They're money guys, businessmen.

There's a long silence when I'm done, and then Jimmy says, “No can do, Vince.”

I'm shocked. “What do you mean, no can do? You don't have a choice. Don't you know what the alternative is?”

Ed clears his throat. “Hey, Vince, how about a latte on the house?”

“No!” I exclaim. “This isn't about coffee! And nothing should be on the house until you straighten out your finances!”

Jimmy pipes up. “We're real grateful for all your help. In fact”—he rolls up the spreadsheet and slips a rubber band on it—“I like this so much that I'm going to frame it and hang it on my wall.”

I almost blow a gasket. “Don't patronize me! You don't like my way? Fine, do it your way! How much money have you saved up so far?”

They stare at me.

“None?”
I howl. “
Nothing?
What are you doing—flushing it down the toilet?”

“See, the thing is,” says Jimmy, “there's stuff about us you don't know. A few months ago me and Ed became investors in an establishment.”

“What kind of establishment?” I ask suspiciously.

“It's in the entertainment industry,” Ed supplies. “Adult entertainment.”

“A strip joint,” I conclude.

“Correct,” says Jimmy. “I see you're a man of the world, Vince. We bought into the Platinum Coast up on Thirty-Ninth. Used to be the Wiggle Lounge before the mayor's boys shut it down on account of too much wiggling and not enough lounging. Real classy place.”

“So what's the problem?” I demand. “Use the profits from the Platinum Coast to help pay my dad.”

“There are no profits,” Ed breaks in. “The place is eating money right now. And Boaz—he's our partner—he keeps coming to us to kick in more.”

I shrug. “Tell him no.”

“But we've got so much invested already!” Jimmy whines. “If we let it fold, we lose everything!”

“It's still better than throwing good money after bad,” I argue.

“But these places are gold mines,” Ed groans. “If we could ever get the Coast off the ground, we'd be rolling in cash! It's been nothing but headaches so far—beefs with the cops, with the liquor license, with the landlord. We've spent more time closed than open. Once that gets straightened out—”

Jimmy grabs my arm. “Come see the place, Vince!”

I pull myself free. “Why?”

“It's such a thing of beauty! Once you see it, you'll understand why we can't let it go.”

“It's a strip joint!” I exclaim.

“Not a strip joint,” protests Jimmy. “A gentleman's club, where prominent men of this community can go after a hard day's work to relax and unwind.”

“And the chicks are smokin'!” adds Ed.

I think it over. Of course I don't want to see this cesspool. But I guess I'm sort of their financial advisor. And this is an asset. Someday their equity in this place could be a bargaining chip to trade for these guys' kneecaps.

They're right. I'd better go check it out.

We take my car. That way I can hustle those two into a cab and zip right out the Midtown Tunnel after I've viewed this objet d'art. I'm dying to rush right home and take a shower. Dealing with Jimmy and Ed makes me feel like I've been dipped in cooking oil.

Even in broad daylight, I can see the place glowing half a block away. That's where the money's going, to pay the electric bill. I find a parking space right across the street, and we sit staring, mesmerized by the chaser lights and the pink neon. I can see us reflected in the mirrored doors, Jimmy, Ed, and me. What in God's name am I doing in this place with these people?

“Ain't it a sight?” raves Jimmy.

“A sight and a half,” I agree.

“Come on, we'll show you the inside.”

“Wait a minute,” I protest. “I'm underage.”

“Nobody's going to card you,” laughs Ed. “You're with us.”

“Besides,” adds Jimmy, “you've got to meet Boaz. Maybe you can straighten him out. You know, get him to stop bleeding us.”

I quail. “
Me?
I'm a high-school kid! What could I possibly say to a guy who runs a place like this?”

“Well, for starters,” says Ed, “you can tell him your name.”

“Vince?” I echo, bewildered. And then it becomes clear. Teenager or not, my last name is Luca. Jimmy and Ed are hoping that this Boaz person will take one look at me and assume I speak for my dad.

I'm really mad. “You planned this!” I accuse. “I wondered why you showed up just because I asked you to! You're not interested in budgeting! You just want me to convince this guy you're under my father's protection!”