CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I’M STARTING TO EARN a reputation around school as the guy who really doesn’t want to be Homecoming King. People get that impression from the cursing and muttering I do every time I tear down another Vince-and-Kendra poster.

Yes, the posters are still coming, more than there ever were before. There’s even a group of nitwit football players who think it’s funny to shake me down over it.

“Hey, Luca,” one of them will call, “give us twenty bucks or we’ll all vote for you!” And everybody cracks up laughing.

If we win, my first action as Homecoming King will be to demand a recount.

There’s one bright spot. At least now I know Kendra isn’t doing it.

Alex disagrees. “Don’t be so sure, Vince. Chicks get off on this Homecoming stuff.”

“Impossible,” I say flatly. “It would ruin everything.”

“It’s a psychological thing with women,” he goes on reasonably. “On the one hand, there’s logic. But pulling from the other side is an irresistible desire to be queen.”

My life may be in turmoil. But it’s going to have to get a lot worse before I’m taking advice about women’s irresistible desires from misterferraridriver.com.

Speaking of our Web sites, iluvmycat.usa has moved into second place on the hit parade and is gaining fast on cyberpharaoh.com. I’m thrilled when I get a second message on Cat Tales, but it turns out to be the same eighty-five-year-old talking about her dear departed Fluffy again.

Fluffy: a good name for a cat. Ides of March: not such a good name.

Prime ministers. Movie stars. Quackers. Eight balls. Inky cats. Cats that’ll have you in seventh heaven. What are the odds that more than one person takes his pet to a toga party? How about fourteen? I counted yesterday.

I don’t know what to do. Alerting the police would be too extreme, especially for a Luca. Besides, they’ll think I’m nuts. So I bring in the next-best thing: a real FBI agent’s daughter. Kendra applies her considerable talents as an investigative reporter to my case.

“Well, obviously these aren’t real ads,” she says after two minutes.

“How can you be sure?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Vince, for five hundred bucks you can get a cat with a pedigree that stretches back to the saber-toothed tiger, not a Heinz fifty-seven whose only claim to fame is that he can quack. And these names—they’re not even real names. Just phrases or expressions: Military Intelligence or I Love a Parade.”

I can’t help but marvel at the logical, methodical way her mind works. Maybe it’s true that the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree—although, in my case, that’s a pretty scary thought. The last person I want to be like is Anthony Luca.

She looks up from the monitor to face me in the cramped library cubicle. “Could it be a hacker?”

I shake my head. “There’s no hacking involved. Anybody with a computer can place ads on the site.”

“A joker, then,” she suggests. “Somebody from the class. How about Alex? He’s got a pretty warped sense of humor.”

“It still wouldn’t explain the traffic,” I tell her. “I’ve got seven hundred hits. No way all that’s coming from a single user.”

“There’s only one other thing those ads could be,” she muses. “Coded messages.”

“Aw, come on!” I explode.

“I’m serious.” She swivels the screen so I can see it. “Each ad has two numbers, a dollar amount and a lower number: a real eight ball, four on the floor, seventh heaven. Then there are key words that come up again and again: quack, toga party, prime minister—”

I’m horrified. “But that’s crazy! This is real life, not a Tom Clancy novel!”

I take her theory to Mr. Mullinicks, mostly because I’m hoping he’ll laugh in my face. But he sticks to his guns, insisting that whatever’s happening on iluvmycat.usa, it’s my problem. The other kids agree that something weird is going on. But they’ve got their own Web sites to worry about.

As for Tommy, he doesn’t see anything strange at all. The one good thing to come out of New Media class is the interest all this has kindled in my brother. He even found himself a computer and set it up in his apartment in the city. I got my first e-mail from him last night:

hey vince how’s it going write me back so I know this crap works tommy

Tommy’s computer apparently has no punctuation marks or capital letters.

Of course, I see the guy practically every day. So by the time I retrieve that message, he’s standing right there beside me. He practically shrieks with delight when his words pop onto the screen. It’s like taking a four-year-old to Disney World.

Mom appears in the doorway, a heaping tray of s’mores in her hands. “Look at you two, working that space-age gizmo like a couple of professors.”

My mother loves to watch us with our heads together at the computer. It helps her see her family as the wholesome folks she deludes herself into believing we are.

“Who’s dying?” I ask suspiciously. S’mores are Mom’s version of first aid. She only makes them for incoming wounded.

“No one, smart guy,” she retorts. “Your uncle Cosimo dropped by, poor man. His gout is acting up again.”

I grimace. Uncle Cosimo’s last attack of “gout” came via a shotgun full of rock salt as he was hotwiring a Range Rover.

Tommy heads for the stairs. “I’d better talk to him.”

I watch as he disappears to take care of business. I’ll never change my brother, I realize. But I’m glad I was able to turn him on to something that’s actually legal, although I’m willing to bet that his computer was liberated rather than bought and paid for.

To be honest, I’m spending less and less time on any kind of schoolwork these days, because I’ve got a new project that’s occupying all my powers of reasoning. There must be some way for Jimmy Rat and Ed Mishkin to get back on track with their debts, while at the same time paying me the six hundred dollars I owe on my/Dad’s/somebody’s credit card.

The thing is, Jimmy and Ed both seem to make plenty of money. But since they pay my dad only once a month, they always manage to blow all their cash so there’s not enough left when the uncles come around to collect. Ed apparently spends everything on women, and Jimmy Rat? Who knows what happens to his money? He clearly isn’t spending it on fine clothes and good grooming, and definitely not on deodorant.

Basically, these two don’t need a wiseguy; they need a financial planner. And so long as I’m going to lose sleep over Jimmy’s fingers and Ed’s great-aunt, I guess it has to be me.

The first problem is expecting these blockheads to think ahead a whole month. So I calculate the amount each man has to take out of his cash register every night and not touch. From there, I add in an installment plan so that I get my six hundred back, and Ed returns the one-fifty I made Jimmy lend him last week. Then comes the tricky part. I fix it so that Ed overpays Jimmy for the first two weeks when Jimmy’s tab is coming due, and vice versa after that.

I’m pretty proud of myself by the time I put it on an Excel spreadsheet and print it out. Then I call up Jimmy. All this time I’m being Thank-you-PaineWebber, I forget that Jimmy is about as convenient to reach as Saddam Hussein. Ed’s easier to get on the line because he’s usually waiting for a call from a lady friend. I know this because he always answers “Hey, there, hot stuff.”

I tell Ed about my new system, but he doesn’t even seem interested. Then he starts talking about a movie he saw!

I remember something Tommy says: nobody can ignore you when you’re standing on their neck. Well, I’m not going to hurt anyone, but I’m also not going to be ignored.

I interrupt Ed’s graphic description of the leading lady’s lingerie. “Listen, Ed. I’m coming down there tomorrow after school. If you and Jimmy don’t show up, I’m washing my hands of both of you.” I slam down the phone.

That night I show Dad my payment plan spreadsheet. He laughs so hard that he mauls an expensive piece of walnut on the table saw.

I’m deeply wounded. “What’s so funny?”

Tommy isn’t as amused. “You know how that’s going to help a guy like Jimmy Rat? He’ll save money on toilet paper, that’s all.”

Ray is the kindest of the three, but even he isn’t very encouraging. “You’ve got a good heart, kid, but you’re wasting your time. These guys could start the month with Fort Knox in their pockets and be tapped out by the fifteenth.”

“You’re wrong,” I say defensively, “and I’ll prove it.”

All the way through bumper-to-bumper traffic into the city, my mind is in Kendra’s basement, where I would be if it wasn’t for this meeting. To stay focused, I keep glancing over at the passenger seat where my spreadsheets sit rolled up and waiting, like blueprints for a better life for those two idiots. It takes an hour and a half to creep into Manhattan and another twenty minutes to park.

Frankly, I’m pleasantly surprised to find Jimmy and Ed huddled in a corner booth at Java Grotto, Ed’s place.

I hand out the spreadsheets and say my piece, going into real detail about exactly how it has to work. Amazingly, they follow me. They’re money guys, businessmen.

There’s a long silence when I’m done, and then Jimmy says, “No can do, Vince.”

I’m shocked. “What do you mean, no can do? You don’t have a choice. Don’t you know what the alternative is?”

Ed clears his throat. “Hey, Vince, how about a latte on the house?”

“No!” I exclaim. “This isn’t about coffee! And nothing should be on the house until you straighten out your finances!”

Jimmy pipes up. “We’re real grateful for all your help. In fact”—he rolls up the spreadsheet and slips a rubber band on it—“I like this so much that I’m going to frame it and hang it on my wall.”

I almost blow a gasket. “Don’t patronize me! You don’t like my way? Fine, do it your way! How much money have you saved up so far?”

They stare at me.

“None?” I howl. “Nothing? What are you doing—flushing it down the toilet?”

“See, the thing is,” says Jimmy, “there’s stuff about us you don’t know. A few months ago me and Ed became investors in an establishment.”

“What kind of establishment?” I ask suspiciously.

“It’s in the entertainment industry,” Ed supplies. “Adult entertainment.”

“A strip joint,” I conclude.

“Correct,” says Jimmy. “I see you’re a man of the world, Vince. We bought into the Platinum Coast up on Thirty-Ninth. Used to be the Wiggle Lounge before the mayor’s boys shut it down on account of too much wiggling and not enough lounging. Real classy place.”

“So what’s the problem?” I demand. “Use the profits from the Platinum Coast to help pay my dad.”

“There are no profits,” Ed breaks in. “The place is eating money right now. And Boaz—he’s our partner—he keeps coming to us to kick in more.”

I shrug. “Tell him no.”

“But we’ve got so much invested already!” Jimmy whines. “If we let it fold, we lose everything!”

“It’s still better than throwing good money after bad,” I argue.

“But these places are gold mines,” Ed groans. “If we could ever get the Coast off the ground, we’d be rolling in cash! It’s been nothing but headaches so far—beefs with the cops, with the liquor license, with the landlord. We’ve spent more time closed than open. Once that gets straightened out—”

Jimmy grabs my arm. “Come see the place, Vince!”

I pull myself free. “Why?”

“It’s such a thing of beauty! Once you see it, you’ll understand why we can’t let it go.”

“It’s a strip joint!” I exclaim.

“Not a strip joint,” protests Jimmy. “A gentleman’s club, where prominent men of this community can go after a hard day’s work to relax and unwind.”

“And the chicks are smokin’!” adds Ed.

I think it over. Of course I don’t want to see this cesspool. But I guess I’m sort of their financial advisor. And this is an asset. Someday their equity in this place could be a bargaining chip to trade for these guys’ kneecaps.

They’re right. I’d better go check it out.

We take my car. That way I can hustle those two into a cab and zip right out the Midtown Tunnel after I’ve viewed this objet d’art. I’m dying to rush right home and take a shower. Dealing with Jimmy and Ed makes me feel like I’ve been dipped in cooking oil.

Even in broad daylight, I can see the place glowing half a block away. That’s where the money’s going, to pay the electric bill. I find a parking space right across the street, and we sit staring, mesmerized by the chaser lights and the pink neon. I can see us reflected in the mirrored doors, Jimmy, Ed, and me. What in God’s name am I doing in this place with these people?

“Ain’t it a sight?” raves Jimmy.

“A sight and a half,” I agree.

“Come on, we’ll show you the inside.”

“Wait a minute,” I protest. “I’m underage.”

“Nobody’s going to card you,” laughs Ed. “You’re with us.”

“Besides,” adds Jimmy, “you’ve got to meet Boaz. Maybe you can straighten him out. You know, get him to stop bleeding us.”

I quail. “Me? I’m a high-school kid! What could I possibly say to a guy who runs a place like this?”

“Well, for starters,” says Ed, “you can tell him your name.”

“Vince?” I echo, bewildered. And then it becomes clear. Teenager or not, my last name is Luca. Jimmy and Ed are hoping that this Boaz person will take one look at me and assume I speak for my dad.

I’m really mad. “You planned this!” I accuse. “I wondered why you showed up just because I asked you to! You’re not interested in budgeting! You just want me to convince this guy you’re under my father’s protection!”

“Aw, Vince,” pleads Jimmy, “it’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that! Well, I won’t do it! What’s more, if you guys go in there and tell them I’m with you, I’m going to make sure my dad knows you’re using his name when you’ve got no right!”

Well, that gets a reaction. I’ve never heard so much apologizing in my life. The two of them scramble out of my Mazda and hotfoot it past the velvet rope into the club. Just before the door swings shut, I catch a quick glimpse of a lone dancer wrapped around a shiny silver pole. The silhouette of her figure keeps me sitting there, hanging out the car window, long after the door closes. I guess I’m hoping it’ll open again and give me another look.

It does, a minute later. And this time I don’t even see my dancer, because out onto the red carpet step three of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Even through baseball caps and bulky sweatshirts, it’s obvious they’re knockouts. Good old Ed was right about one thing: the ladies of the Platinum Coast really are smokin’.

Then one of them looks right at me, and calls, “Vince?”

I almost tumble out the car window. But then I recognize her. It’s Cece, my “present” from Tommy. She remembers me! Then again, she probably doesn’t run into too many guys who turn her down.

I get out of the car and move to shake her hand; she hugs me. I’m uncomfortable at first. But she says, “No hard feelings, right?” and the awkwardness passes.

“You dance here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’m not a dancer. I work my appointments out of the office. It’s not a real club, you know.”

Confused, I motion toward the mirrored door. “There’s a girl onstage—”

“That’s just for show,” Cece assures me. “Boaz and Rafe move swag in and out of the back, and a lot of us girls take our calls here. That’s all there is.”

It’s hard to concentrate with her standing so close, but I think I get the message. “Are you saying this place is a front?”

“Jeez, no!” she exclaims. “This is Boaz’s masterpiece, his biggest score. He and Rafe sold about seven hundred percent of the club to silent partners. And they’re milking them dry, the poor dumb jerks.” She stares at me. “Are you okay, Vince? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I—I’ll give your regards to Tommy.” On wobbly legs I climb back in the car. I’m three blocks away before I realize I’m going in the wrong direction, heading for New Jersey instead of Long Island. Turning around is an act that requires almost more than I can give. I can’t make the simplest decisions. Should I warn Jimmy and Ed that they’re getting scammed? Of course! So how come I’m driving away? It’s as if I think that by putting distance between me and the Platinum Coast, I can remove myself from this whole sick business.

I go through the Midtown Tunnel, but pull over just past the tolls. If I drive on the expressway in this state of mind, I’ll be in grave danger of wrapping myself around a telephone pole.

My brain is in overdrive, figuring angles like a computer analyzing thousands of permutations. How stupid I was to think I could get those two over a hump and back on their feet again. They’ll never get square. Even if they cut off Boaz, the loss of their investment and the interest on the debts they incurred to make it will drag them under. And what does that mean? For starters, I can kiss the six hundred good-bye, but that’s not what bothers me. It’s Jimmy and Ed. They might be able to bluff through a month here, a month there. But in the long run, the cards are stacked against them. And they’re going to pay with their bones and fingers, which is appalling enough. But one of these days, they’re going to pay with their lives!

I pull back into traffic, calmer, but far from calm. If I ever needed proof that the vending-machine business isn’t for me, here it is. I’m barely grazing the surface, and I’m already in way over my head. There’s only one person with a prayer of being able to sort all this out.

When I pull up in front of our house, there’s a big limo parked on the circular drive, and Dad, Tommy, and Ray are climbing into the back.

I hit the ground running. “Dad!…Dad!”

My father pauses. “I’ve got a meeting, Vince. Mom’s keeping some ziti hot for you.”

“Dad, just give me a minute!”

“You okay, Vince?” calls Tommy from the car. “You don’t look so hot.”

I just blurt it all out. “Jimmy and Ed are getting ripped off! They’re never going to be able to pay back that money!”

“That’s not my business,” my father says firmly. “And it’s definitely not yours.”

“How can you say that?” I explode. “Of course it’s your business! You’re never going to get paid! And you’re going to have to do God knows what because of it!”

My father fixes me with the Luca Stare, which shuts me up in a hurry. “I don’t want to hear it. And I definitely don’t want it hollered all over the neighborhood. Do you think you’re the first scared kid to come to me wild-eyed and babbling like this? I’ve seen it a million times, and it always means the same thing: something you’re arrogant enough to think you’ve got under control is starting to get away from you.”

“You’re my father!” I manage. “Help me!”

“I am helping you,” he barks, “if you’d pull your head out of your butt long enough to see it! I cut you a lot of slack, Vince, because I was trying to let you find your own direction. It stops today. Listen good: starting now, you don’t talk to Jimmy Rat and that Ed guy. And I’m going to pass the word on to them that they don’t go anywhere near you.”

“You’re signing their death warrants!”

But Dad doesn’t answer. In his opinion, the law has been laid down and the issue is closed.

I hear Ray’s voice: “Is it okay if I catch up with you guys in my own car?”

“Sure, why not?” my father says wearily. “Go bang your head against a brick wall for a while.”

Ray gets out of the stretch, and my dad climbs in. As we watch the limo drive off, he puts an arm around my shoulders.

“Friendly piece of advice. Never say ‘warrant’ to your old man.”

I laugh, but I feel like I’m on the verge of crying. “It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees solemnly. “It’s business.”

“Business sucks.”

He’s kind but firm. “Maybe your father’s right to be worried about you, Vince. You don’t know the difference between work and play. Work is hard. It takes all day, and nobody questions the fact that some people aren’t always happy with the results. You think it’s different in any other business? You think on Wall Street, if you screw up, you don’t get fired?”

“Fired, yeah,” I reply. “Nobody gets killed.”

“You don’t know for sure that anybody’s going to get killed here either,” he reminds me. “Your old man’s a tough guy, but he’s not a monster. He’s happiest when everyone gets paid, and your uncles sit around all day playing cards.”

“But he’s not going to get paid.”

Ray shrugs. “There’s probably going to be unrest in East Bumwipe tomorrow. I don’t like it, but you don’t see me getting on a plane to try to stop it. There are a million things you can change and a million things you can’t. You’re a seventeen-year-old kid with a big future. You’re going to college next year. You’ve got a great girlfriend—that’s still going on, right?”

I nod. “It’s a little complicated, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s what you should be focusing on. Tell you what. I know this guy, owns a restaurant down in Lido. Real romantic, right on the water. Take her there tomorrow night. I’ll set the whole thing up.”

“You’re buying me off.”

“Women love this place,” he persists. “Trust me.”

“Now you sound like Alex.”

“Except I can get a date,” he reminds me.

“All right.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Ray.”

“Anytime. Hey, I’ve got to fly. Can’t keep the boss waiting.”

I almost ask it then, the question that’s been on my mind ever since I was old enough to understand that the vending-machine business isn’t really about vending machines. It’s true. I’m seventeen. I’ve got my whole life in front of me. Ray Francione was my age once too. What would make a stand-up guy like him choose to become a gangster?

Was it the money? The women? A rebellious streak? Who knows what makes a person choose a career outside the law?

My father says it was his first paycheck that did it for him. Supposedly, Dad took one look at the deductions for tax and Social Security and decided Uncle Sam was shaking him down. Now he’s a kind of government, and in his world, a percentage of everything goes to him. As far as he’s concerned, he just turned the tables on a raw deal. It’s no small accomplishment. Lawyers, doctors, bankers—Dad’s as sharp as the best of them. He could have been anything.

Could have been…

Is there really any point to applying those three words to Anthony Luca and the people who work for him? They make their choices and that’s it. For all I know, with the right agent, Uncle Pampers might have been Garth Brooks. Instead, he keeps undertakers in business.

Choices.

I hope I make the right ones.