Luck to Lose

By Michael Fox

Mickey Burns took pride in his dead-end job: It wasn't everybody who got to say they worked for the Queens District Attorney's Office. So what if it was a dead-end job. At least he got to work on his stand-up comedy routine. Unfortunately he had another hobby. . . gambling. And now he had to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars to pay off his bookie. That was about as low as Mickey Burns could go, until his best friend was arrested for the murder of a cop.

Jack Moran, once a great cop and now hip deep in the bottle, asked Mickey for a favor, a favor he was willing to pay for. So what if it was illegal? Mickey could use the money to pay off his gambling debts. Mickey's investigation leads behind the shiny facade of a police shield to the seamy underbelly of law enforcement—a place where pay-offs and rip-offs are as much a part of the job as handcuffs and Miranda warnings. They soon find out how scarce friends become once they cross the thin blue line. Luck to Lose blurs the line between cops, prosecutors and criminals until the only thing that can be trusted is a man's word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2000
• ISBN: 9781475902075

Book preview

1

The phone booth reeked of urine and cigarette smoke. I picked up the receiver, placed it to my ear, and immediately regretted it. Some jokester had placed his bubblegum in the ear piece, and from the texture of it, the perpetrator couldn’t be too far away. I pulled the receiver from my ear and a long pink strand clung to my hair. It stretched farther and farther away from my ear until it finally snapped. I removed my keys from my pocket and did my best to dislodge the gum from the ear piece. I dialed the number that had become all too familiar over the past few months.

A gruff gravel voiced man answered on the other end. Yeah.

Hi, it’s 320x, can I have my figure? I knew the figure but I was hoping for an accounting error in my favor. I did my best to remove the gum from my hair.

Minus twelve. I didn’t get the error I was hoping for.

What’s the line on the Met game tonight? I asked.

Mets 6 to 5.

Okay give me the Mets 2400 times. Each time represented five dollars. I had just bet twelve thousand dollars on the Mets. In the vernacular of sports gamblers, I was playing catch up.

320x, 2400 hundred times on the Mets. Anything else?

That’s it.

Good luck 320x.

Thanks. I said and hung up.

The Mets game was about to start. I had to get into Manhattan to meet my friend Johnny. I left the phone booth and headed toward the Continental Avenue subway station. I was planning to make it by the end of the first inning. Johnny had invited a few of his buddies to watch the game with us. I was hoping they would be big spenders because if I lost this last bet I wouldn’t be able to afford the complimentary beer nuts at the bar.

The E-train to Penn Station is packed during the week. It was a Saturday so the crowd wasn’t too bad. The subways are a lot safer then they used to be. Gone are the graffiti scarred cars and the roving packs of gangs. The new Mayor had adopted a zero tolerance policy on crime, particularly quality of life type crimes and the new system was starting to work. There was still the occasional homeless person that rode the subways getting a warm place to crash for a dollar fifty.

The tracks clacked out an uneasy rhythm, somehow taking its cue from the city above. I stared at a young black woman who sat across from me. She had bright yellow braids woven into her hair. Her fingernails were two inches long and curved inward towards her palm. She had a small boy who stood leaning on her lap. He had two small plastic figurines that he marched across his mother’s ample thighs. At first the green birdlike one had the clear advantage but the blue robot dinosaur soon gained the upper hand. The woman saw me staring and rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth at me.

I focused my gaze on the blackness of the subway tunnel. Slacker, generation-xer, underachiever, wannabe stand-up comic—these were labels. All of them applied to me. I took comfort in them. I swaddled myself in these names who comforted me like a warm blanket. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing who I was and my place in the order of things, so I wore them with a twinge of pride. My newest label, though, degenerate gambler, fit me like a hand-me-down suit, I wasn’t so comfortable with it. A little too large and a bit out of style, yet I was forced to wear it. I was embarrassed by it the same way I would be if I wore an old suit to a high school dance. My newest label had attached itself slowly to me. Its tendrils crept up into my soul and fastened themselves to my core.

It started out innocently enough. I was in a football pool at the local comedy club where I used to hang out. That was enough for me. It made the games more exciting and it seemed an innocent way to enjoy a Sunday afternoon. The week I won the pool marked my downfall. I went twelve and two and collected an easy five-hundred bucks. On the advice of the local bookie, Howard Greene, I put it down on Dallas in the Monday night game. They were playing Green Bay on the road and were a three point underdog. The Cowboys cruised easily and before I knew it I had a thousand dollar bankroll to play with.

In the beginning, it seemed like a license to print money. I mean I couldn’t believe how easy it was. I wondered why everybody wasn’t betting on football. Then I bet on the New York Jets and my luck sank into the swamps of the Meadowlands. When the Super Bowl rolled around I was four grand in the hole and a couple of bets away from straightening myself out.

I burned through my meager savings in a hurry. When I had first started I was a casual sports fan. But by the time I had my own bookie code name, 320-x, I knew every possible statistic in the world. How certain teams did on turf, how they did inter-conference, intra-conference, following games when they covered the pointspread by five or more points. You name it, they had a statistic for it and I knew it.

I planned on betting only on football but when the first NFL free Sunday came my way I started to twitch. I held out until baseball season. Now I found myself twelve grand in the hole. I didn’t have twelve thousand dollars. Shit, I didn’t have one hundred dollars. That didn’t stop me from betting another twelve grand on the Mets game tonight. I thought it was remiss of Howard to extend my credit this far, but it was the only way he was going to get any of his money back.

I was sure the Mets were a lock, they were on a three game skid and they were playing the first place Braves at home. This season the Mets seemed to have the Braves’ number. I figured it was as good a time as ever to turn it around. They were due and so was I.

I met Johnny at The Endzone, a sports bar on the upper Eastside. The bar had more televisions than Crazy Eddie. Each one was tuned to a different sporting event. The place was mostly a Yankee bar, but Manhattan being such a large place they had fans of every persuasion. On NFL Sundays the pay phones in the back have lines starting during the pre-game. I’m sure most of them are not calling their mothers.

Johnny was already there. He had a table in the back that had a view of the Mets game. He was seated with three of his buddies. Two guys I had met before. Stan worked with Johnny at the radio station. He had that heroin chic look that a lot of young Manhattanites are affecting. Dressed completely in black, tall, Biafran thin, and corpse white. He never laughed at anything I said. He would just nod his head and say, That’s funny. It drove me crazy. Whenever I hung out with the guy I would waste my entire evening trying to get the guy to crack a smile.

Johnny’s pal Jimmy was a good guy. He was a cop. I believe he worked out of the 103rd Precinct. He and Johnny had been friends since high school. In college, he would come up and visit us once every so often. He was always the sane one in the group, and despite all the jams we got in, he managed to stay out of trouble. Jimmy had no problem with peer pressure. He was quieter than most of the cops I usually ran across. He was soft spoken but firm. People who mistook his quiet demeanor for weakness were shocked when his soft glance would turn diamond hard if he was pushed too far. He brought along a friend of his, his partner Tony Cicely.

Tony was about the same height as me but at least twenty-five pounds heavier. He looked like a cop or a criminal. It was a toss-up. He had a thick Simian forehead that sloped down to his eyebrow and I say eyebrow because he had only one. It was about an inch from his hairline. He had thick wiry hair that was cut short but long enough to comb straight back. He was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger golf shirt. The short sleeves fought to contain his biceps, which were the size of honey dew melons. The guy would have been handsome in a brutish way, except for his lips or lack thereof. He spoke through a thin razor slash of a mouth. It made it hard to read his facial expressions.

I took the last seat at the large round table and went through some informal greetings. Since I was the last one seated at the table I had the worst seat. It offered only a partial view of the Mets game but it was closest to the restroom. When life hands you lemons make lemonade—then find a seat close to the can because you’re going to have to piss a lot after drinking all that lemonade. That’s my motto. I watched Jimmy as he dug into a huge pile of nachos that was in the center of the table. A long string of cheese hung from his chip to the pile, a lone Jalepeno stuck to the string of cheese. He ate the chip, then the string of cheese until his face was about an inch from the plate.

Get your face out of the nachos, you pig. Johnny said.

Hey watch what you say about us men in blue. Tony said. At that point I gathered he was a cop not a criminal. Hey Mickey, let me fill up your mug. He picked up a half full pitcher that was on the table and gave me a perfect pour. The white foam gently washed over the side of the glass. Good enough for a beer commercial. I knew I was going to like this guy. There is something almost religious about the first sip of a beer from a freshly filled mug. I took a small sip followed by three long swallows. I drained the glass.

I looked up at the screen to check on my investment but the game hadn’t started yet. Ralph Kiner was introducing the opposing team’s starting lineup. He mispronounced four of the nine names. He was on top of his game tonight. We sat around talking through the first couple of innings as the Mets jumped out to an early two-nothing lead. I was in good spirits, getting along fine with the guys around the table. I think I even managed to get Stan to crack a smile. Tony had a sharp sense of humor and he directed most of his barbs at Jimmy. Jimmy hurled some insults of his own. They knew each other’s weaknesses and were able to exploit them with some wisecracks that mere acquaintances could never have gotten away with. The teasing was good-natured. I started goofing on Johnny and since everyone else was also a friend of his he found himself getting it from all angles. After a particularly vicious comment made by Stan regarding Johnny’s ham-handed approach to picking up women, Johnny shot back, Hey Stan, the undertaker just called, the hearse is parked up front.

Funny, very funny. Stan must have thought it was hilarious.

The score stayed the same. Bill Pulsiper was in a groove and he was putting the Braves down one two three. I didn’t want to think about it. If I thought about it I knew I would jinx myself. By the eighth inning I blocked out whatever conversation was going on around the table. My stomach tightened with every wind up. My gut would unclench when I heard that hard smack of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt.

Mickey you’ve been staring at the game like your life depended on it. What, do you have some action down on the game? Tony asked.

A couple of bucks. I lied.

Gee, I’d hate to see if you had any real money down on the game. I’ve got a hundred on the Mets myself. I’m not sweating it. How’s your luck been?

Bad. I didn’t lie.

Great. I’ve got my money tied in with a black cloud. he said half joking. I’ve been on a hot streak, I’ve hit five winners in a row. I’m up close to a grand for the season.

Well, whoopee for you. I hoped his good luck would balance out my bad. But I thought my bad Karma would destroy whatever good mojo he had working for him.

Oh Tony, you screwed up. If your bet is in with Mickey you might as well give your bookie the money now. I think he’s down like three-four grand this week, isn’t that right Mickey?

Something like that. I said weakly. I hadn’t called Johnny with my good news.

Man, you have to love this guy, Tony said and clapped me on the back. Mickey, you’ve got a set of rhino balls on you man. Whew, I would be wetting my pants watching this game. Please don’t tell me you have four large on this, I can’t even watch myself now.

Don’t worry, I don’t have four thousand on this game. More like twelve, you babies.

The conversation stopped suddenly as everyone rode my gambling rush. Hey, if you want the thrill, take the chance, you vampires. Lay down your own money. Stop horning in on my fun. Yeah right, some fun, I felt like chasing my beer with Maalox and if they lost, an arsenic spritzer.

The Mets went down quietly in the bottom of the eighth. The Mets manager, Bobby Valentine, put in a pinchhitter for Pulsiper. The bum struck out looking. I wasn’t sure why they gave him the hook. Kiner mentioned something about Pulsiper’s pitch count being up over a hundred. I think he was referring to how many beers he knocked back during the game. With Kiner you could never tell. The next three Braves hitters flashed on the screen before they went to the break. Tucker, Jones, and McGriff, the heart of their order. Someone must have turned off the air conditioner in the bar because I was sweating.

Stan and Jimmy got up to play pool in the back. I guess they had about as much excitement as they could stand. Jimmy motioned the waitress over and ordered a round of tequila for us. She came back and set them down on the table. All right boys let’s have a toast, let’s hope the Mets win and our pal Mickey here gets out of his jackpot, Tony said.

Here, here. I raised my shot glass.

I agree, said Johnny, especially since this mutt owes me fifty bucks. He raised his glass and we all downed our shots. I was feeling pretty good. I think my luck was beginning to turn.

In the ninth inning it all turned to shit.

Franco plunked Tucker with the first pitch. He got off to an 0-2 count with Jones, then Jones singled to center. Tucker moved over to second on the single. The winning run was at the plate and there were no outs. My mouth was dry and all the beer I was guzzling couldn’t quench it.

My god Mickey, you’re a black cloud, you’re bringing us down. He pointed his index finger and pinky at me and made a spitting noise. Go away evil spirits be gone. He smiled.

McGriff was up next. He hit a slow grounder back to the box and Franco was little slow getting off the mound. He fielded the ball with his bare hand and threw the ball to second. The throw beat the runner by an eyelash. Ordonez, the shortstop, pivoted and threw in one motion but he wasn’t quick enough. McGriff beat the throw.

Franco got his act together long enough to strike out Klesko. Two on, two out; this was what it was all about. This moment here is why people bet. I don’t think it’s as much the thrill of winning but I think for a lot of people it’s the relief of not losing. God, I didn’t want to owe twenty-five thousand dollars.

Lemke took one low and away. Pop up. Pop up. Pop up. I thought. Just give me a damn pop up, the game will be over and I’ll be even. Franco threw. It was a pop up. A deep pop up. Gilkey took a step in and then began to backpedal furiously. He hit the blue padded outfield wall a split second ahead of the ball and jumped. He mistimed the jump and the ball sailed inches over his outstretched glove and landed in the first row. Franco hung his head and I hung mine. The Mets had one runner on in the ninth but weren’t able to put anything together. They lost 3-2.

Man, Mickey, that was a heartbreaker. I’ve got to go take a leak. Tony said.

I needed a little cold water splashed on my face as well, so I joined him. Inside the bathroom, men stood at the urinals and read the sports sections that were taped to the walls. I took a piss and went to the sink. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked sick. I felt sick. The mark of a loser was clearly imprinted all over me. I splashed more water on myself and rubbed my face harder. The stink of a degenerate gambler would not wash off.

I turned and bumped into a wall. At least I thought it was a wall. It turned out to be the chest of a rather large man. He said from somewhere up in the clouds, Watch it asshole.

I don’t know if it was all the beer, the fact that I was about to be killed by my bookie or that I just hit rock bottom but I looked up at him and said, Want a peanut, Jumbo?

What are you, a wiseass? The mountain of flesh asked.

Well I guess we can rule out rocket scientist for you, huh?

You’re dead meat shithead. He grabbed me by the neck then and smacked me with an open hand on the side of the head. I felt a ringing around my head, in my head and everywhere else.

I put both of my hands over the wrist that was locked around my throat. He was beginning to squeeze harder. Small black dots began to appear before my eyes. Then suddenly his grip released around my neck. The big guy’s head was yanked to the side by some unseen force. He was spun around in the same motion and I caught a glimpse of Tony behind the behemoth. He had the guy’s right arm jacked up between his shoulder blades. The guy made a small mewling sound. It was a rather high pitched noise for such a big man. Oh man, all right, all right, knock it off. It’s over. It’s over, man. Please, you’re breaking my arm.

It’s not over yet. Hey Mickey, you want a crack at this clown?

Nah, let him go.

First he’s got to apologize. He yanked on the guy’s hair again. Apologize to my friend here.

I-I’m sorry man, he said.

Tony let go of the guy’s hair. He turned and looked at Tony. He looked as if he was trying to decide if he was going to make a move on Tony. Tony leaned back against the sink and smiled but the smile never reached his eyes. He returned a hard hard stare. The big guy looked away and mumbled something under his breath. Tony walked over to me and put his arm around me.

Thanks man. I said.

Don’t worry about it, he answered. We’re friends now. We watch each others backs. Who knows? Someday you might have my back.

We all said our good-byes. I went to catch the E-train back to Queens. As I was walking my beeper went off. I checked the number. It was my bookie.

2

On my way to work, I made a right turn and headed down Queens Boulevard. It was the sort of June day that made one’s thoughts turn to baseball and picnics. The sun hung high in the air making it bright and sunny, but it did not match my disposition. Howard Stern was on the radio and Howard Greene was on my mind. Being stuck in traffic I had time to assess the situation. Greene was a bookie and I was a gambler. I was a gambler the same way the New York Mets were a baseball team; lousy. Franco blew the save in the ninth and now I have to give Howard Greene’s kid a twenty-five thousand dollar Bar Mitzvah present.

Construction had snarled traffic on Queens Boulevard. I drove slowly past the Korean delis, Greek diners, and other closed stores that still had the sheet metal riot gates pulled snugly down. In between these entrepreneurial endeavors were storefront law offices. These lawyers were mostly ex-Assistant District Attorneys or ex-Legal Aid Attorneys who had decided to hang out their own shingle. Most of these attorneys left the District Attorney’s Office because the pay was terrible. Still a good portion also left because they couldn’t deal with the old boy political structure that dominated these offices. There were also those who left because they lacked the necessary skills that were required to become a good litigator. These low rent sharks made their living plea bargaining drunk drivers, low-level thieves, and drug dealers.

I drove past the Queens Borough Hall building, the courthouse and Queens House of Detention for Men. I was stuck behind a big blue and orange school bus. It had thick steel mesh covering the windows and a sturdy lock on the back door. This was the Rikers Island bus transporting some of our more charming citizens to their court appearances. I got lucky and made the light at Hoover Avenue. I parallel parked my 1989 red Hyundai Excel under a construction awning. Using the Braille method, I hit a white Accord backing up and then pulling in I hit a silver Acura. I was an inch and a half away from the curb. Good job.

I was halfway to the office when I remembered I didn’t put my parking permit in the window. I hustled back to my car but I was too late, a brownie was slapping a ticket against my windshield. Brownies are meter maids. They are a tough bunch. Most of them have to be. There are countless stories of their being attacked by irate drivers. In New York, where parking is scarcer than a virgin at the playboy mansion, people often have to get creative in fulfilling their parking needs. Brownies comb the streets of the city looking for such scoundrels. She was about five-foot-two with an ass nearly as wide. The double knit fabric was stretched impossibly tight across her rear-end.

Hey, that’s my car. I pleaded.

How wonderful for you. She continued to look at the car probably trying to find a reason to give me another ticket.

My permit’s in the car, I work for the District Attorney’s office. I said, more urgent.

Then you can afford it. She boomed. Her vocal chords must have been in her ass.

C’mon, give me a break, I’m only a paralegal.

See, lack of an education can really hurt. She punctuated this witty retort by slapping her ticketbook back into its holster.

I stood there for a moment and watched her waddle away. I hoped the friction from her thighs rubbing together would cause her to spontaneously combust.

I turned and headed for my office. I walked past a construction site and peered into a hole that had been drilled into the blue plywood fence that surrounded the new addition to the courthouse. The workers were gathered around a roach coach drinking coffee and talking. I looked into the peephole every morning and every morning I spied them drinking coffee and talking. I think the only thing they had managed to build so far was the blue plywood construction fence. When I reached the District Attorney’s Office, which was sandwiched between the Queens House of Detention for Men and the Courthouse, I realized we must have had a celebrity guest down in central booking. Central booking was in the basement of the courthouse. It is where people who are arrested begin their long slow trek through the maze that is our legal system. I passed the perp-walk, a long sloping concrete ramp where the newly arrested are paraded down into