Free Gravewriter by Mark Arsenault Page B

sharp poke of pain in his side. He rubbed a finger over the spot. Bruised ribs, maybe cracked. It hurt when he inhaled too deeply.
    Walter squatted next to him, a hand gently on Billy’s shoulder.“The word’s around that you hit a three-team teaser with Michigan State this week,” he said.
    Billy nodded, managed a tiny smile.
    â€œWho made book for that bet? Mr. A.?”
    Another nod from Billy.
    â€œA man can get in a lot of trouble betting with two bookies,” Walt said. “So where’s the money?”
    Billy wheezed a deep breath, felt the twinge in his ribs, and explained. “I used it to pay Garafino.”
    â€œThe shark? You owe dough to that punk?”
    â€œI borrowed from him a couple months ago to pay an old marker with Mr. A., but I made good on a nice part of that loan this week.”
    Walter waved his hands, as if to say, Too much! The tale was already getting too complicated. He summed up and reviewed. “You took the winnings from Mr. A. and paid on a loan to Garafino? Okay, Mr. C. is gonna want to know why you didn’t pay him.”
    Billy shrugged. “I couldn’t decide who to pay, so I flipped a coin.”
    Walter’s eyes narrowed at the answer; Billy worried that the truth might have sounded flip. Then the big man’s face softened, and he threw his head back and laughed. “You gambled over who you should pay?” he said. “That’s my Billy Povich!” He clapped Billy on the shoulder. “Mr. C. will get a kick outta that.” He took the money from Billy’s wallet and flipped the billfold back to Billy. He stood over him. “We’ll consider this an interest payment. You’ll pay the principal next week, eh? The whole wad.”
    â€œCan I keep five for lunch?” Billy asked. “I got jury duty.”
    â€œThat why you’re all dressed up?” He stared at Billy for a moment. Then he held up a fiver and said, “I met this new girl, born the sixth of November. She’s hot, but a little tight.… You see what I’m saying? She reads the Madam Vroom horoscope every day. Do you still have pull with that column?”
    Billy thought for a second and then dictated a horoscope: “ ‘You’vebeen cautious long enough, Scorpio. It’s time to let loose in matters of romance. Just this once, follow your lust and let your new special someone penetrate, uh, that wall around your heart.’ ”
    Walter laughed and flicked the five to Billy. “I got a date Saturday night,” he said.
    â€œI’ll call my buddy to get the correction into Friday’s column.”
    â€œYou’re okay, Billy,” Walter said as he walked away. “I hope you got Mr. C.’s money next time I see you. I really do.”

ten
    S uch a courtroom could never have been built today, not for what it would cost. Nobody wants to pay for grand public spaces anymore—the white marble Rhode Island State House, the U.S. Capitol, Grand Central Station. The architects of modern public buildings are often commanded by budgets to work with cinder blocks.
    The courtroom was a cube, more than two stories high, the walls paneled floor to ceiling in mahogany, the sight lines broken up every few feet with decorative hand-carved columns. The floor was tiled in shiny gray Westerly granite, except for an eight-foot pink inlay below the judge’s rostrum, in the shape of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, including Aquidneck Island, Jamestown, and the larger harbor islands.
    A waist-high mahogany rail cut the courtroom in half, separating the spectators from the participants. A similar rail, higher and chunkier, penned in the jury, which sat in two rows of chairs.
    The judge’s elevated bench was to the jury’s right. The benchhad been made from a lighter-colored wood, and decorated with the state seal—a barbed anchor under the one-word state motto, Hope, and the