Free Tough Luck by Jason Starr

what’d he want to talk to you about out there?”
    “Nothing much,” Mickey said, rubbing the countertop so hard his wrist hurt.
    “He give you them Jets-Giants tickets yet?” Charlie asked.
    “No,” Mickey said, hoping Charlie would shut up.
    “When you get those tickets, I hope you gonna take me with you. New York versus New York. That game’s gonna be the joint, man.”
    Mickey brought a couple of pounds of flounder fillets home from work, but he wasn’t hungry and he didn’t feel like cooking for his father. He left the fish in the fridge then he got in his car and drove to Kings Highway. He found a spot at a meter and went up to the bookie joint.
    “I hope you got my money,” Artie said to Mickey.
    “We gotta talk,” Mickey said.
    “That doesn’t sound good.”
    “I’m serious,” Mickey said.
    “Look,” Artie said. “I got you a few extra days, that was the best I could do. I’m sorry, no more extensions.”
    “I don’t want an extension. Can’t we go somewhere?”
    “I just walked in.”
    “The hallway at least. Give me two minutes. Just two minutes, I promise.”
    Shaking his head, Artie followed Mickey out of the bookie joint. They went down the stairs, outside, and stood under the subway el, by the pizza place.
    “You eat yet?” Mickey asked.
    “I thought you wanted to talk,” Artie said.
    “But if you’re hungry, I’ll buy you a slice. Come on.”
    “Look, can you tell me what the fuck is going on?” Artie said. “And I don’t want to hear that Angelo isn’t paying up, because I warned you about that before he made his first bet.”
    “It’s more complicated now,” Mickey said.
    “I’m going back upstairs—”
    “Come on, listen to me. I’m in trouble now. Big trouble.”
    “Just get me some money,” Artie said. “Five hundred bucks even. We can work on a payment plan for the rest.”
    “He wants me to put in more action for him.”
    “Forget about it—”
    “Please, just hear me out.”
    “I don’t care what you say, I’m not putting in any more action for you or Angelo till I start seeing some money.”
    “He said we don’t have a choice.”
    “We? Who are we now, Fred and Ginger?”
    “He said he’s in the Colombo family.”
    “It’s not very hard to pretend you’re a wiseguy,” Artie said. “You just gotta watch The Godfather a few times, and anybody can do it.”
    “I thought about that,” Mickey said, “but it doesn’t make sense. Why would someone just pretend to be in the mob?”
    “Gee, I don’t know,” Artie said, “maybe to get some free football bets?”
    “Yeah, but why would somebody go to all that trouble,” Mickey said, “coming to the fish store every day, dressing up like a mob guy?”
    “Okay, what’s this ‘Angelo’s’ last name?” Artie said. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find out if he’s for real or not.”
    “You don’t have to do that,” Mickey said.
    “You don’t know his last name, do you?”
    “Of course I do—it’s Santoro.”
    “Santoro? As in Salvadore Santoro?”
    “Who?”
    “Salvadore Santoro—Tom Mix. He’s the underboss for the Lucchese family. Don’t you read the papers?”
    Now the name Santoro sounded vaguely familiar to Mickey.
    “What does that have to do with anything?” Mickey asked.
    “You ever think your friend Angelo might’ve lied to you about his name?”
    “I guess it’s possible.”
    “Possible?” Artie said, smiling. “Angelo told you he’s with the Colombo family, not the Lucchese family.”
    “So?” Mickey said, “Maybe there’re two Santoros in two different families.”
    “Face it,” Artie said, “you got taken for a ride.”
    “Fuck you,” Mickey said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Angelo Santoro could be in the mob. Why couldn’t he be?”
    “What’re we talking about here, anyway?” Artie said. “You want to believe Angelo’s in the mob, believe he’s in the mob. I thought we were talking about my