Gorilla Beach (26 page)

“Why are you telling me?” asked Fredo. “I've got nothing to do with it.”

Mr. Violenti cackled, as did the goons. “You watch TV make-over shows? They show secret footage of some ugly cow who gets a new dress and fresh coat of war paint?”

“Yeah,” said Fredo.

“Then you're a freakin' faggot,” said Mr. Violenti. The goons laughed on cue. “I've got some secret footage of you. Check this out.” He switched to a different channel. “This is from early this morning, at four forty-eight a.m.”

The scene was the hotel lobby, nearly deserted except for a few guests and some staff. The statue of Jupiter loomed over the space, the “sky” glittering with stars. Fredo noticed three people stumble into the frame.

“That's you, Lupo,” said Mr. Violenti. “And you've got two hot chicks with you. Congratulations. Usually, there's a security guard over here. He went to take a piss, unfortunately. He no longer works for Nero's. Usually, there's a blubbery nerd watching the lobby-camera feed to sound the alarm in an emergency, but he fell asleep at the switch. He's been shit-canned. The late-shift concierge who is supposed to be at the check-in desk sneaked away from her post to play a quick game of craps. She's been fired, too.”

On-screen, Gia and Bella were on either side of Fredo, essentially holding him upright. They all seemed pretty wasted, but Fredo could barely keep his feet under him. The girls propped him up on the fence surrounding the statue and the moat. Fredo watched himself, for no apparent reason, climb the ten-foot fence and threaten to throw himself in. Gia and Bella grabbed at his pants legs. He kicked them off, which unbalanced his perch and sent him toppling off the fence and into the moat. The gators woke up and advanced lazily toward him. Fredo fumbled for a weapon in his pockets, found his vial of Ativan, and threw a handful of pills at them. The reptiles snapped them up like candy. He climbed the statue of Jupiter and held on to his chiseled hips, Fredo's face right up against Jupiter's crotch. The gators tried to bite his ankles, but he was just out of reach. The girls on the other side of the fence were jumping up and down, yelling at him to be careful.

After a few minutes, the gators got sluggish, then stopped moving. On-screen, Fredo climbed down to check the animals. Their limbs were limp. Their mouths hung open. They looked dead.

“I love this part,” said Mr. Violenti.

Holding the seemingly dead gators to his chest, Fredo keened and rocked. He wept and looked “sky”-ward, pleading with the gods to forgive him for the accidental murder. The girls convinced him to move. From the inside, he somehow unlatched the gate's
maintenance door and exited the moat, carrying the apparently deceased gators with him. From there, Fredo sort of remembered what happened next. They brought the animals to the room on the room service cart by the elevators. They put one in the tub. Had Fredo tried to flush one down the toilet? There was the urban myth about a woman sitting down to pinch a cannoli and a tiny gator swam up the sewer pipes and took a bite out of her ass.

“One more video,” said Mr. Violenti.

The image was of Erin, by an elevator bank, talking on her phone and looking at the ceiling. This video had sound.

Mr. Violenti's voice said, “Figure out how Lupo's doing it. You get answers, I'll give you the Midnight manager job. Do what you have to.”

Erin smiled and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you!”

The screen turned to snow.

Fredo's eyes burned. He struggled to stay in control. “Well, that was a lot to take in all at once.”

“The betrayal of your girlfriend at the end,” said Mr. Violenti, tsking. “She screwed you for a job. That's got to hurt. What exactly did you drug my pets with, by the way? The vet needs to know.”

“Ativan.”

“That's like Valium? You kids with your pills. You're all popping some shit. Friggin' addicted generation.”

“I happened to have a medical condition that—”

Mr. Violenti interrupted Fredo by slapping him across the cheek. “Time to settle up, Lupo. You're running a big tab. The hotel charges, the incidentals related to the drugging, kidnapping, and recovery of my pets, destruction of property, comps and payoffs to injured parties. You owe me thirty thousand dollars. Payable”—he checked his watch—“now.”

Fredo held his stinging cheek. “I'd like to report a robbery. A con man broke into the suite and stole sixty thousand dollars from our safe last night.”

“You mean the known grifter your roommate invited into this suite numerous times? For all I know, she paid him for his services. Or she gave him the combination of your safe when she was drunk. Either way, it's not my problem.”

“Mr. Violenti, sir, you might not be aware that my father, Luigi Lupo, is an important businessman in Seaside Heights.”

“I had a nice conversation with Luigi twenty minutes ago. Your father is a great man. The tops. I got a lot of respect. He sends his regards.”

Fredo blinked. “Did he send anything else?”

“Unfortunately, no. He said, and I quote, ‘Fredo's a grown man. He's responsible for his own debts. Makes a father proud when his son is no longer a burden.' End quote.”

If what Mr. Violenti said was true, Luigi had effectively pried Fredo's lips from the family teat. Dad was not going to help him, now or again. It'd been one thing to
want
to prove himself, to dream of returning home as a conquering hero, like Caesar or Augustus. Even if he'd feared the possibility of defeat, he'd never expected his family to abandon him if it actually happened. That wasn't the Lupo way. They stuck together. But, from what he'd just heard, Fredo had been cast out.

His money gone. Spurned by his family. His girlfriend turned out to be a
due facce,
aka a two-faced bitch. He could try calling his mom, but that would be the ultimate humiliation. Gia and Bella, his summer sisters, would try to help him. But he'd die if they got hurt. No, he made a silent prayer that they didn't march in here until Violenti left.

“I don't have the money,” said Fredo. “I
did,
but that
brutto figlio di puttana bastardo
stole it.”

“I appreciate the Italian,” said Mr. Violenti. “Kids these days have no respect for the mother tongue. Even ‘ugly bastard son of a whore' sounds like poetry in Italian. Makes me hungry for fettuccine puttanesca, actually.”

“We can continue this conversation after lunch, if you'd prefer,” said Fredo, trying to get rid of him before the girls got back. Turned out, he got his wish.

“We're done talking. Boys.” Mr. Violenti signaled the goons, and they grabbed Fredo under the armpits. “Take him to the garage.”

They dragged him into
a private elevator to the casino's parking lot. He assumed they had a secret corner or private space where they did the wet work. Or maybe they planned to put him in the trunk of their car and drive him to the Pine Barrens to thrash him and leave his body for the turkey vultures. Best-case scenario? They'd pound him in the parking lot and leave him a splotch on the pavement.

I don't wanna be a splotch,
he thought.
I don't wanna be pulverized and washed away with a hose.
Fredo asked himself,
What would a gorilla do?
He'd beat his pecs or growl. He wouldn't feel terrified, like Fredo. This might be … the end. In his head, Fredo said his goodbyes.
Good-bye, Ma! You hovered like a UFO and taught me to be afraid of everything, but I love you. Good-bye, Pa! You tried to show me how to be a man, but I failed you. Good-bye, Gia and Bella, my only true friends. We should have had more time to party together.

“This is it,” said Goon One.

Fredo was confused. They stopped at Area 3, a well-populated parking level. Dozens of people were milling around. Not a beat-down? For some reason, that made Fredo even more nervous.

Then he noticed the vintage, white Caddie convertible with the red leather interior. His pride and joy. The one thing he valued most in the world.

Mr. Violenti stroked the tail fin of the car in a disgustingly pervy way. “She's sexy, right? Sweet stuff. Whack material. I've always wanted a vintage Caddie like this. I have a fantasy about me
and this car, a broad in the front seat, her head in my lap, driving on Route 66 all the way to Vegas.”

“Please,” begged Fredo. “Anything but the car.”

“The second I saw this baby, I fell in love. I had to have her. And I will have her.”

“It's like you're asking me to give up my heart,” said Fredo, his voice quaking. “The Caddie is a part of me. Whenever I get behind the wheel, my troubles dissolve. This car isn't just four wheels and an engine to me. It's my saving grace. My dignity. It's the one thing I've got that no one else does. I won't just hand it over. You want this car, you're gonna have to fight to the death for it.” Fredo put up his dukes.

The twin goons and their boss snickered at him. “Can you believe this little fart is Luigi Lupo's son?” Mr. Violenti recovered and wiped a tear from his eyes. “Hey, kid, have you heard the one about the guy who came to Atlantic City in a fifty-thousand-dollar car and left in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar bus? That guy, Lupo, is you. We'll give you a minute to say good-bye.”

“I'll never give you the keys and you'll never find them. I've got them hidden in a safe—”

“You mean these?” Fredo's rabbit-foot key chain dangled from Mr. Violenti's fingers. “In a sock in the dresser drawer? You call that
safe
?”

Fredo felt tears forming, but he would not cry. That'd be a degree of embarrassment he'd never recover from. He tried to grab the keys. Goon Two pushed him back and Fredo landed on his ass on the pavement.

“Consider us even,” said Mr. Violenti, opening the Caddie door and slipping into the driver's seat. “Ahhh, like nailing a virgin. I wonder if Erin Gobraugh would agree.”

“I hate you,” said Fredo.

“In that case, you'll want to leave my hotel immediately. Boys, escort Lupo back to his suite and help him pack.”

“What about that other matter, Mr. V?” asked Goon One.

“I'll be right there. Just a quick spin around the block first.” Mr. Violenti put the key in the ignition. The Caddie purred to life. Fredo felt an irrational resentment that the car started for another man.

Fredo could hear the Caddie's motor roaring all the way back to the hotel, but maybe that was just his mind playing a cruel trick on him. He walked ahead of the muscle so they wouldn't see the anguish on his face.

His phone rang.

“Hello?” he asked, numb.

“It's Erin.”

“Oh.”

“You sound strange.”

“Just got out of open-heart surgery,” said Fredo. “Your boss took my car. Gia's boyfriend stole our money. And you screwed me for a job. I thought you really liked … whatever. I should have known you were faking. I
did
know, but I let myself believe.”

“I do like you. I defended you! I told Mr. Violenti you were innocent, and he fired me.”

“I guess you whored yourself for nothing.”

She paused. Her voice catching, she said, “That's not fair.”

“Do you always do what your boss tells you? Were you sleeping with him, too?”

Long pause. Then Erin hung up.

I guess it's true what they say,
thought Fredo, utterly defeated.
Gingers have no souls.

“Fredo's not here,” said
Gia. “He has no money, and no other friends. Where did he go?”

“I'm sure he'll walk in the door any minute,” said Bella. She found a few sheets of hotel stationery and a ballpoint pen. It wasn't a sketchpad and a Sharpie, but she would make do. “I'm going to draw a portrait of Ponzi and we'll ask around if anyone has seen him.”

“Like a wanted poster. America's most wanted dickhead.”

“Describe him.”

“You know what he looks like.”

“Not really. Whenever we were all together, you and Ponzi were making out. I never got a good look at his face, just the back of his head.”

“All right. His shoulders were about this high.” Gia held her wrists in the air, like she was tree-branchin' the Invisible Man. Then she made a circle with her arms. “His waist was this far around.” She patted her tummy. “His braciola hit me here when I wore four-inch wedges. Okay! Let's see what you got.”

“I got nothing! I need a description of his
face
. You must have a picture on your phone.”

Gia checked, scrolling through her photo album. “Here's one. Meh, he turned his head at the last minute. Same thing with this
one. The next is just a blur. He ducked out of the shot here. It's like he purposefully bombed each photo.”

“He did, Gia. It doesn't matter. Just try to picture his face in your mind. Start with his hair.”

“He had dark hair, slicked-back gorilla style. He was tan. I think he had brown eyes, but maybe dark hazel. He had a nose, a mouth, cheeks, and chin. Definitely a neck. Okay! Whaddaya got?”

Bella groaned. “I need details. You've got to give me something specific to work with. Use your gift.”

Gia nodded and closed her eyes. “Calling my gift. Hello, gift! Come in, gift. Yeah! I'm seeing something. A fuzzy image, focusing … okay, I got it. Every inch is as clear as if it's right in front of me.”

“Locked in?”

“Yeah. It's about seven inches long, tilting to the left. A big vein running along the right side, red and shiny on the tip …”

“You're joking, right?”

Gia pouted. “I can't to do it, Bells. I'm stuck. My gift is gone.”

“How can you not remember the kid's
face
? You were with him every night for over a week.”