That made sense. Paul would know more about Mr. Casale’s underworld affairs more than most.
“Is he dangerous?” I asked.
“To you?” Paul shook his head. “You helped his grandson, right?”
I nodded. “He was hurt and I gave him Band-Aids. Plus Chris’ old bike helmet.”
“Christy told me he had his son fix your front lights and bring you food,” Paul added. “I’d say you’re under his protection.”
“His protection?” When his expression didn’t change, I went on. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Paul nodded.
“I had no idea there was the mafia in Baltimore. Gangs I’m very familiar with, but mafia?”
The ER was filled with gang bangers who’d been shot or beat up and I was becoming well versed in the tattoos and colors to know there was a war on the streets of the city, but I’d never once heard of any kind of organized crime.
“It’s not exactly what you’re thinking, it’s not like The Godfather or anything. Casale’s connected to Chicago and New York, but is on a lower, much smaller branch of that family tree. Still, no one messes with him around town.”
The man did have a sense of authority about him, and his son Frank did whatever the man said, but I related that to Old World custom than do-as-I-say-or-you’ll-be-wearing-concrete-shoes type power.
“Hang on.” I remembered the card Frank gave me and went back to my purse and dug through it. “Here. I was given this.”
Paul took it, flipped it over. “Jesus, you have Angelo Casale’s cell phone number. You’re definitely under his protection.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I sat back down and finished tugging off the cotton balls from between my toes.
“It means Gray’s not the only one watching out for you. What time tonight?”
I told him.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
GRAY
My dad wasn’t too hard to find since I knew where to look. Atlantic City meant gambling, and to my dad, gambling meant horses. When he needed a break from work, he didn’t go for the shabbier hotels on the boardwalk, but the newest and nicest. Once inside, even with the powerful ventilation systems, smoke hung thick in the air and the sound of the slot machines—the digital music, the pinging of the game and the clinking of coins falling into little plastic cups—was quickly going to give me a headache.
He sat in a plush chair with about thirty flat screens on the wall in front of him, broadcasting races from all over the country, stats and race information a ticker tape across the bottom of it all.
I dropped down in the chair beside him and stared blindly at one of the screens.
“I figured you’d show up.”
The man was in his late sixties, his hair long ago gone to white. His skin was overly tan and had the weathered appearance of a three-pack-a-day smoker. Even now, a cigarette rested in an ashtray on a side table by his right elbow, a glass of what I knew to be whiskey and water beside it. It was early to drink, but this was Atlantic City and this was dear old Dad.
“What do you want this time?”
I’d never given him money. He’d never needed a dime from me, even with his gambling habit. He always wanted me to fix a fight or take a fall in one of my own so he could win. I never did anything he requested. Never. In retribution, he fucked with me, calling me—I’d ditched one phone number for another more times than I could count. He’d even sent people to my gym to make trouble. It had all worked; I’d wasted time and energy thinking about the guy, dealing with his shit.
“Nothing.”
I shook my head slightly, wishing I had a drink of my own so that I could dull the feelings this meeting brought out. My jaw clenched. “Nothing? Since when have you wanted nothing?”
My cell vibrated in my pocket. Worried it was Emory, I glanced at the screen, then, when it wasn’t her number, or Paul or Christy’s, I tucked it away.
“Don’t worry, your guy’s going to lose on his own poor skills, your own fuck-all training, and then I’ll win.”
I slapped the armrests of the chair and stood. “Great.” I looked down at him. His eyes held no warmth, no love, nothing. He wasn’t a father. He was just some fucking loser who’d somehow spawned me. “Then leave me alone.”