Gorilla Beach (19 page)

“I sent this photo to all the hotels in AC,” said Mr. Violenti. “Got a hit from the head of security at the Borgata. This
fugazi
worked there last summer. His usual mark is a fat, middle-aged, lonely divorcée who's desperate for company. This concerns me. Take a look at camera fifty-four.”

On his phone, he showed her the live feed of the roof pool camera (yup, there was an app for that). Gia Spumanti was just out of the water. She wore a zebra-print monokini that—oh, jeez—was completely sheer when wet. As Erin watched Gia walk to her orange lounge and bend over to arrange her towel, she thought,
That reminds me. Must make an appointment for my annual Pap smear.

“Seen enough?” he asked.

“I'll say.”

“Check out the other people.”

Erin tore her eyes off Gia and looked at the other guests around the pool. They were
all
staring at Gia. Man, woman, child.

“Does she look fat, lonely, and desperate to you?”

“The very opposite, sir.”

“You can understand why it concerns me that the
fugazi
is spending so much time with
her
.”

“You think they're partners in crime.”

Mr. Violenti raved, “They're all in on it! Every freakin' member of their crew. If you can't get anything out of Lupo tonight, I'm going to sweat the Spumanti broad tomorrow.”

“Forgive me, sir, but that girl doesn't have a dishonest bone in her body. She might've hooked up with a con man, in which case she should be warned, not accused or threatened.”

Mr. Violenti put his phone back in his pocket. He flung the remaining chicken meat out of the bucket and into the moat. The gators clawed and snapped until every morsel was consumed. “Go do something with your hair. Tie it back, or whatever. You're not gonna get any info out of Lupo if you look like Ronald McDonald's sister.”

He should talk.
“Yes, sir.”

“And wear a decent dress, for Christ's sake. You can't afford something better on what I'm paying you?” He came through the moat's door panel.

“Actually, no, sir.”

“Get the info out of Lupo, and we'll talk about a raise—and the manager job at Midnight.”

He handed her the bucket and stalked off.

As she stared into the slimy remains, she wondered if she was working for the wrong man. Maybe, somewhere out there, she'd find a boss who treated her with respect and gave her a dream job to go with it. In the meantime, she'd do what Mr. Violenti wanted.

Bella took her afternoon
run as always. Like every day, she finished her miles at Madame Olga's to cool down and hang out with Will for a while. But today he wasn't there.

Bella had some friends who freaked out if their boy went unaccounted for, for five minutes. Insecurity wasn't a good look on anyone. She didn't have a leash around Will's neck, and he didn't have to update her on his movements.

But he said he'd be around.

Maybe he was getting a burger. Or in the bathroom. Or he'd lied to her to get her off his freakin' back. Although Bella had yet to hook up with a boy who didn't become obsessed with her, she wasn't sure about Will's feelings. He liked her. But how much? He was a loner and might need space. He might be fed up with her for putting him off—damn Gia for planting that “you're vulnerable right now, don't rush” seed in her head.

One thing Bella did not tolerate, for any reason: the dip. The dip was when a kid avoided you in a sneaky, shady way, like if he pretended not to notice you when you were dancing near each other at a club. Or he said he lost your number when he had it programmed into his phone. Or he saw you coming and then slipped out the back door.

The dip was a pathetic, moby-dick move.

Bella was afraid Will was pulling it on her.

She jogged by Madame Olga's storefront three times. Will's celebrity portraits were lined up. His chair and stools were set up. His sketchpad was leaning against the chair, a cup of coffee on the floor next to it. In a mystery movie, it'd be like the detective rushing into the room and finding the killer's lit cigarette burning in the ashtray.

Bella slowed to stop. A year ago, she would have swallowed her hurt feelings and jogged away. She'd let the kid off the hook. Will didn't owe her anything. They'd spent some time together. They'd kissed. He'd bought her a Philly cheesesteak and taught her a few tricks with a Sharpie. Not like they'd smushed or declared undying love or made a commitment to go to Great Adventure together. But Bella believed that Will, unlike 99 percent of guys out there, saw past her boobs, straight into her soul.

“Screw it,” she said, and marched into the store.

Madame Olga was in her curtained booth, finishing up with a client. “I see big change coming. In the next one or two years, you'll have great opportunities. You should stop worrying so much about money. It'll come.”

The middle-aged man's voice said, “You think?”

“I'm sure of it.”

Bella sat on the couch and waited for their session to end. After a minute, he came out, grinning ear to ear. Madame Olga emerged from behind the beads.

“Bella, I sense you've been exercising.” Yeah, she needed powers to see Bella's sweat and workout clothes. Putting her hand to her temple, Olga added, “I also sense you're searching for something or someone.”

“I'm looking for Will,” said Bella, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Are you ready for your reading yet? I'll tell you everything you need to know. Free of charge.”

“Maybe tomorrow. So, is Will around?”

“He's not here today. The muse takes him sometimes. He's probably at his apartment, not eating, drinking, sleeping, or bathing. It's like a demonic possession.”

“His sketchpad, though,” said Bella gesturing toward it, propped up against his chair. “And the coffee.”

“You're very observant. You could be a psychic, too, if you weren't so cynical. Sometimes, I set up his chair and coffee. Many people wander in for a portrait and get a reading instead.”

“He's at his apartment? Is it nearby?”

“Come in for a reading. I insist.”

Bella groaned. Olga wasn't going to give her Will's address until she told Bella's future. Why bother? Olga would just serve up trite predictions that could apply to anyone off the boardwalk. Then again, Madame Olga might believe her own bullshit.

“Okay,” said Bella, going into Olga's booth and handing over her … hands.

Madame Olga examined Bella's palms. “Yes, I can see you've had hard times. You've had love, and lost it. Someone hurt you badly, and you've got a lot of anger bottled up. You're in a limbo state. You used to have focus, but now you don't know what you really want. Uncertainty troubles you deeply.”

“Isn't uncertainty and confusion why people come to psychics?”

“Your parents. They are sad for you.”

“For me?” Bella was desperately unhappy
for them
.

“You have to forgive. Then the sickness will leave the house, and you'll all feel healthy again.”

Bella pulled her hands out of Olga's grasp. “That's not friggin' funny,” she said with acid. “Tell me you see tequila in my future, but don't talk about my family. You don't know anything about it.”

“I know you're in pain, and you're worried about your loved
ones. I worry, too, Bella. William came to Atlantic City when he was just sixteen years old. Did you know that about him? He was a runaway. He's had more heartache in twenty-five years than most people see in a lifetime.”

“What happened to him?”

“It's not for me to say. I only tell you because I'm worried you see Will as a stepping-stone. You're using him to get over a past love or to forget your problems. I don't like it.”

This professional liar was going to judge her? “Will is a sensitive soul. I know. But all due respect, you should stay out of our relationship. If you can't tell how I feel about him, you're a bigger bullshitter than I thought. Will's a grown man. He doesn't need a gatekeeper.”

Madame Olga whistled low. “Good answer. I sense genuine passion. Okay, I give you his address. But you must bring him food and make sure he eats it.”

Bella felt both relieved and wary of what she'd find at Will's place. He'd been in the grip of a muse? What did that even mean? She had him by the shorties?

Olga scribbled an address on a piece of paper. She handed it to Bella. “I see travel, by land. Someone you know will impress you with their generosity. In the not too distant future, you'll have two children. A girl and a boy.”

Bella was stunned, yet oddly pleased. “Anything else?”

“Something bad is brewing for those closest to you. If I were you, I'd watch my back.”

“Where is everyone?” Gia
asked herself out loud. She'd been waiting for Fredo and Bella, alone, in the suite since eight. The little hand was almost on the ten already! She was starving. They had reservations at a pier restaurant called Buddakan, a fancy Chinese place famous for boneless spareribs and lobster fried rice. She'd skipped lunch in anticipation of this meal. Her blood sugar was ant-belly low.

For the fifteenth time, Gia tried Bella's cell. It went to voice mail. She called Fredo.

“Speak,” he said, finally picking up.

“Wherethefuckareyou?”
she ranted. “I've been waiting for hours. My tan's faded three shades.”

“Sorry, Gia. Something came up. You know that redhead pit boss?”

“I love Erin. What have you done to her?”

“Nothing! We're on a date. She just went to the bathroom. Tell me how to close.”

“I don't believe it.” Why would adorable Erin go on a date with Fredo? No offense to him. Gia loved the kid. But he'd been hit a few times with the grundle stick at birth, and Erin was supercute.

“I friggin' swear!” he hissed. “Now help me.”

“Where are you?”

“Buddakan.”

Gia nearly threw the phone across the room. “You used the reservation with
her
? I'm starving!”

“Don't hang up. Give me a closer. One line.”

Sighing, Gia's love for Fredo trumped her hunger. “When she comes back from the bathroom, say, ‘I was having so much fun talking, I forgot how nervous I am.'”

“Really?” he asked, doubtful. “That won't make me sound like a neurotic asshole?”

“You
are
a neurotic asshole. Trust me. If you pretend to be someone you're not, she'll switch off. Girls can sniff out a fake in two seconds flat.”

“She's coming. Gotta go.”

“Bring me spareribs!” Gia shouted at the phone, but he'd already hung up.

What now? Order room service? Go out by herself? She could call Ponzi and ask him to take her out, but he'd spent so much money on her, it was starting to feel awkward. He paid for everything, but asked for nothing in return. Any other boy who'd dropped thousands on her would demand at least a blow job. All Ponzi wanted to do was make out. When they were in the casino, he kept her mouth attached to his, as if she were his oxygen tank. But whenever they got serious on the couch in private, he made an excuse and left.

Could be, he had a contagious ESP.

He should trust her enough to tell her. For all she knew, he had a wife tucked away somewhere. How well did she really know him? A guy who dropped paper but didn't bend her over the bed? It didn't feel right. She'd just given Fredo a lecture about how girls could sniff out a fake in one inhale. It was entirely possible Gia hadn't taken a good hard whiff of her own gorilla.

Gia pictured Ponzi's shining smile, his pearly whites lined up in neat rows. Was that the mouth of a master manipulator? Did
creeps have flawless teeth? In the movies, the telltale sign a character shouldn't be trusted was blackened stubs embedded in red, diseased gums. Maybe Ponzi's perfect smile was also the perfect disguise.

Like crabs at dawn, doubt crawled up Gia's spine. Who was Ponzi? What did he do when he wasn't with her or playing high-stakes poker? How did he really feel about her?

Only one way to find out. Gia called him.

“Great timing,” he said. “I just stepped out of the poker game for a break. How was Buddakan?”

“I didn't make it over there. Meet me at Morton's Steakhouse in thirty minutes.”

A ten-ounce porterhouse,
two-pound lobster, and bottle of Chianti later …

“You like your meat,” said Ponzi, licking the corner of Gia's mouth.

She burped lustily in agreement.

“What now? To the tables?” he asked.

“Fredo said we should take the night off. He doesn't want to ‘tempt the gods,' he said. I had no idea Fredo was so religious.”

“You've heard the saying ‘no atheists in foxholes—or casinos.'”

What did foxes have to do with it?
she wondered. Unless
foxhole
was his word for “kookah.” Then the connection between foxholes and religion made sense. When a guy was in her foxhole, he always said, “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

“So, Ponzi, we've been hanging out for a week now.”

“Best week of my life.” He pulled her in for a pouf-quaking kiss. Then he smacked his lips. “I think I just sucked the last bite of lobster out of your teeth.”

“Yummy.”

“Maybe there's some steak in there, too,” he said, coming in for another mackwich.

“Wait. I wanna talk.”

He leaned back, his fingers making tiny circles on her shoulder. “You're gorgeous.”

True.
“Just shut up and listen. We never talk about your life away from AC. You let me ramble about Brooklyn and my family all night long. But I don't know a lot about you.”