Free Bad Luck by Anthony Bruno Page A

she wastoo nervous to eat this morning and Mr. Mistretta wasn’t making her feel any better now. He looked suspicious already. Just listen to the rest. Please.
    â€œSal told me to tell you that Mr. Nashe did not make his payment to Seaview Properties, but that he offered this counterproposal in lieu of making that payment he was supposed to make. Twenty-nine—”
    â€œ. . . and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” Mistretta overrode her and nodded once. He knew how much Nashe owed.
    Sister Cil cleared her throat and adjusted her glasses. She knew she’d have to present this to him just right, make him see the benefits, make him understand. If he said no, the Mary Magdalen Center would have to go on in that cramped, drafty old brownstone they had now, and more girls would have to be turned away. Like the Blessed Mother being turned away from the inn on Christmas Eve. No, that was unacceptable. She couldn’t let him say no. It was up to her now.
    â€œYou may have read in the papers about the boxing match Mr. Nashe is sponsoring at his casino in Atlantic City,” she said, straining to keep her voice under control. She paused to mark off another bead as he was finishing another Hail Mary. “Mr. Walker versus Mr. Epps?”
    Mistretta nodded once. “. . . the Lord is with thee . . .”
    â€œIf Mr. Walker wins the fight—as he’s expected to, because he’s the champ—he will make a little over seventeen million dollars. But if Mr. Epps wins, he only gets eight and a half million.” This didn’t seem fair to her, but she continued with her presentation, just as she and Sal had rehearsed it. Sal assured her that a clear, businesslike presentation was the best way to approach Mr. Mistretta. “Mr. Nashe would like Sal to convince the champ that he should throw the fight.”
    Mistretta gave her the bug-eyed-frog look again. Her heart leapt. Her eye suddenly caught a painted statue in a corner by the confessionals and her heart leapt again. St.Jude with a burning heart in his hand. The patron saint of lost causes.
    She cleared her throat. “If you let Sal go ahead with this, Mr. Nashe will pay the champ three million dollars off the books through an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.” She felt a bit shameful using terms like “off the books” here in church, but Sal said this was how she should say it in order to convince him. She just kept telling herself that she was doing this for the girls, the poor girls. “This three million dollars will actually be more than twice what Mr. Walker would net if he won, after his manager, the promoters, and the IRS take their share. Obviously Mr. Nashe would rather have Mr. Epps win so that he won’t have to pay out so much in winnings. So if Sal can make sure Epps wins, Mr. Nashe promises to put five million dollars of the money he saves on the fight toward his outstanding debt on the land under—”
    â€œHail Mary, full of grace . . .” Mistretta overrode her again. He knew what land Mr. Nashe owed the money on. Of course, of course. . . .
    Sister Cil coughed into her fist. Maintaining this monotonous pitch was a strain on her voice, but she had to go on. “But the best part of this plan, as Mr. Nashe pointed out to Sal, is that the family can place as many bets—” She coughed again, glanced at the empty cross, and lowered her eyes. “You can place as many bets on the fight as you’d like, with the prior knowledge that Epps is going to win.” Her face was hot. She stared at the wood grain on the next pew, avoiding the dangling crucifixes on their rosaries. She kept thinking of the girls. Keep talking. “Sal suggests that you let him wager the entire thirty million dollars you left him in charge of. Depending on the odds at fighttime”—her heart was pounding—“he says we can make between one hundred twenty and one hundred fifty