Free Green Monster by Rick Shefchik Page B

bribe in the pros? The stars make too much money, and the scrubs don’t have no impact on the game.”
    â€œWhat about that NBA ref?” Sam said. “He admitted getting involved with gamblers. He said some players might have shaved points.”
    â€œLook, that guy was a gambling addict, and everybody knows NBA players are knuckleheads. Amateurs coulda done that deal.”
    â€œSo it could happen,” Sam said. “If somebody had inside dope on a big game, and wanted to use the information, who would know about it?”
    â€œThe Vegas boys would know,” Bucca said. “Manny DiMeola at the Stardust, or Jim Leone, the guy who sets the lines for LVSC.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œLas Vegas Sports Consultants. They give the lines to most of the Vegas sports books.”
    Bucca explained to Sam that the Vegas bookmakers wouldn’t dare try to do anything funny with the odds, or manipulate a game. They were already making plenty of money. Honest games kept them in business—a damn good business.
    â€œYou’d have to be looking at a gambler, maybe a guy who’s connected. Like that bozo Rothstein, the guy who fixed the 1919 Series. I mean, there’s guys like him in every city right now, high rollers and mob guys who know lots of jocks. Maybe one of them thinks they could get to somebody.”
    â€œAnybody like that here in Boston?”
    â€œAw, the only guy here who could have pulled off something like that was Donnie Sullivan. He had the operation in South Boston, but he ain’t around anymore.”
    South Boston—Paul O’Brien was from South Boston. Probably a coincidence, Sam figured, but something to file away for later.
    â€œWhat happened to him?” Sam asked.
    â€œDisappeared. On the lam from the Feds. Or maybe he’s in the witness protection program. Or dead. I dunno.”
    â€œHow about Chicago?”
    â€œTony ‘The Pony’ Peloso would be the guy. He runs the Chicago Outfit. But he’s tryin’ to beat a federal murder rap. Besides, I never heard nothin’ about him and a sports fix.”
    â€œSt. Louis?”
    â€œLemme think…that group is pretty much busted up.”
    â€œL.A.?”
    â€œWho knows? Not much goin’ on out there. Sid Mink, maybe—but the L.A. boys ain’t what you’d call a powerhouse outfit.”
    â€œAnybody else?”
    â€œLike I say, they’re all over. And it don’t have to be a local guy. Rothstein was from New York, and he fixed a Series between Chicago and Cincy. But it just don’t happen these days. Believe me. That it? Cuz I got business to attend to.”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œThanks for the dough,” Bucca said. He stood up, and False Teeth fell in beside him as he began walking back toward Park Street. Then Bucca looked back at Heather and said, “And thanks for the show, sweetie.”
    He blew her a kiss.
    Sam glanced at Heather to see if Bucca’s last remark embarrassed her, but she appeared to give it no thought. Instead, she was smoothing out her skirt and blazer.
    â€œI can’t wear this back to the office,” she said. “And it would take me too long to go back to my apartment. I’ll change in your room.”
    â€œInto what?”
    â€œThere’s a nice shop on Newbury Street, right around the corner from the hotel. I’ll pick something up there.”
    They walked back toward the hotel through the Common, Heather’s high heels making a clip-clip sound on the pavement. A few leaves had already fallen, though the trees were mostly still green. A bell from a nearby church steeple was tolling noon.
    â€œThanks for getting that ape off me,” Heather said. “It looked like you knew what you were doing back there.”
    â€œPolice training. I could have just shot him, but that would have attracted a crowd.”
    â€œWe’re no closer to finding Babe Ruth,