Free Green Monster by Rick Shefchik Page A

under one of the trees.
    â€œWhere’s the cigar?” Sam asked him.
    â€œI’m tryin’ to quit,” said the man Sam assumed was Sal Bucca. “Who’s the puss?”
    â€œMy banker.”
    Bucca turned to False Teeth. “Ya frisk ’em?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œI’m carrying a gun, Sal,” Sam said. He opened his jacket to show the holstered Glock. “She’s not.”
    â€œI don’t give a shit about no gun,” Bucca said. “I gotta check ya for wires.”
    False Teeth moved quickly to Sam, untucked his shirt, ran his hand up Sam’s chest and back, then patted him down below the waist. Then he walked over to Heather, who took a half step backward as he approached.
    â€œNo, you don’t,” Sam said. He put a hand on False Teeth’s shoulder. The goon slapped it away and reached for Heather’s blouse.
    Sam put his leg behind False Teeth’s legs, reached across his chest to his opposite shoulder and pulled him backwards. False Teeth fell hard on his back, but reached into his jacket with his right hand as he went down. Sam was on him before he could pull his hand out, yanking his arm up behind his back. Sam reached into False Teeth’s jacket, pulled out the gun, and threw it on the grass, then pushed False Teeth forward until his face was mashed sideways into the ground.
    â€œIf you don’t want to spring for another set of uppers, keep your hands off her,” Sam said. He tightened the painful angle of False Teeth’s arm behind his back. “We’re not cops. We’re not working for the cops.”
    â€œLet him go, Sam,” Heather said.
    He looked up at her and saw that she had taken off her blazer and was unbuttoning her blouse. She pulled it open and showed Bucca her black bra, then turned around and lifted her blouse to show there was no wire on her back. Then she turned back to Bucca and hiked up her skirt to her panties, turned around once and dropped the skirt again.
    â€œSatisfied?” she asked Bucca.
    â€œYou bet,” he said.
    Fifty feet away, a group of grade school kids was being led through the Common. Their teacher was busy explaining that the Common was the oldest municipal park in America, originally used for grazing animals and public hangings, while several of the boys in the group stared slack-jawed at Heather buttoning her shirt.
    Sam and Heather sat down with Bucca on the bench, while False Teeth stood a few yards away, grimacing and flexing his shoulder.
    â€œSorry about my associate, there, but a guy like me can’t be too careful,” Sal said. “I got into this business right after that B.C. point-shaving shit back in ’79. Then the Feds leaned on us bookies to try to bring down the Boston mob. I told ’em I don’t know nothing about that. I ain’t goin’ to Walpole.”
    Heather took the cash out of her leather bag and handed the money to Bucca. He flipped through it with his thumb, and appeared satisfied.
    â€œNow, whadya wanna know?” Bucca said.
    Sam asked him about the betting lines on the Patriots Super Bowls, the most recent playoff series for the Celtics and Bruins, the recent NCAA basketball tournament games for Boston College and UConn, and all the Red Sox post-season series since 2002. Bucca provided detailed information on how the lines had shifted—or not—for each of those events. Nothing stood out, including the World Series. The Sox had been big favorites over the Rockies; no surprise there. They’d been slight favorites over the Cardinals, and as Jimmy had said, that line had barely moved.
    â€œI ain’t stupid,” Bucca finally said. “I know what you’re lookin’ for.”
    Sam and Heather looked quickly at each other. Could he?
    â€œNobody can fix a game nowadays,” Sal said. “Too many people know too much. You could still get a college kid to shave points, but who ya gonna