Free The Big Scam by Paul Lindsay Page B

drink to step out onto the dance floor. Once he did, no matter how many times they had witnessed it, his friends could only shake their heads at the apparent suspension of the physical laws of the universe as he floated above the hardwood surface with an endless string of eager women.
    While Baldovino didn’t consider himself especially insightful when it came to people, his bridge phobia had made him aware of the mind’s ability, in times of stress, to hide larger problems behind smaller ones. Subsequently, he had discovered an anomaly of omission within the Gus Dellaporta mystique: as big as he was, no one ever saw him eat. At restaurants or any occasion at which food was a focal point, he would just sit and drink whiskey, and not as much as an olive would pass his lips. For Manny, the conclusion was obvious—Dellaporta had to be a closet eater. And whatever drove him to overeat was also driving his need to hide the act itself. If no one saw him, then it wasn’t really happening. There was no visible cause, so the effect really couldn’t be considered a weakness. Somehow Gus Dellaporta was just a big man.
    While Manny was not a person who found pleasure in another man’s misery, he found it reassuring that even the most respected of his associates had problems. He liked Dellaporta. There was a gentleness about him that in rare, unguarded moments escaped almost unnoticed. Baldovino gave him a slightly sad but appreciative smile and turned back to the window.
    â€œManny, if you think this is embarrassing, have Jimmy tell you about his career in—the fuck you call it, Jimmy?”
    â€œCountersurveillance.”
    â€œYeah, countersurveillance. Tell that story.”
    Jimmy Tatorrio straightened with a storyteller’s pride. “This is what started that whole thing that ended the other night at the Mohegan Sun. It happened when we were still at the old place. In fact, I think my fuckup is why we moved out.” Some of those who knew the story started to laugh, indicating that Tatorrio was improvising on an old theme, adding a characteristic twist of self-deprecation. “Nino had the crew then. He was a great captain, but if things didn’t go right, he could be one mean SOB. God rest him. So, at the old joint, we had this jukebox, and it never worked right. I think we robbed it. One day Nino finally tells someone to call and get the ‘damn thing’ fixed. It wasn’t me he told, so, you know me, I’m paying absolutely no attention. That weekend, I think it was Labor Day weekend—whatever it was, Monday was a holiday, and this is a Friday when he orders it fixed. Saturday night I’m out all night. But I left my car at the club, so I get dropped off. It’s just starting to get light, which means it is now Sunday morning. What comes next, a guy with one brain cell would have figured out, but naturally I didn’t. I come around the corner and there are these two guys knocking on the club door. One old and one young. I walk up and ask, ‘You the guys to fix the jukebox?’ The older one—in hindsight—looks like I just put the barrel of a nine-millimeter in his mouth. ‘Ah, yeah, that’s it, we’re here for the jukebox.’ So being a good soldier, even though it wasn’t my job, I take out my key and let them in.”
    Manny turned around and smiled at the tempo of Tatorrio’s storytelling, now knowing where it was headed.
    â€œSo I’m following them around, asking if they need anything. The next thing I know, I’m standing there at the jukebox holding the flashlight for the young one, and he’s fucking around behind it. You know me, I’m talking a mile a minute, never wondering where the other one is. Twenty minutes later the old one walks up and says to the young one, ‘You’re done, aren’t you?’ in this voice that’s really saying, Let’s get the fuck out of here. So me