Chapter 64

Randy was a sore loser. He always expected to win and had never developed the skills needed to accept defeat with grace or humor. He sulked all the way to Atlantic City.

By contrast, Bruno approached life as a 50-50 proposition at best. When things didn’t work out, he took it for granted that someone, if not everyone, would blame him. As a result, he felt deeply guilty—and totally blameless—at the same time. This fundamental inner schism rendered him temporarily incapable of speech, which Randy interpreted as sulking. He figured Bruno was trying to lay the blame on him for letting Jurevicius escape.

In fact, both men had wanted to continue the pursuit. After Jurevicius exited, Randy cut across three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt on the shoulder. Bruno was terrified he’d attempt a U-turn; fortunately a solid concrete divider made that impossible. Instead, Randy slammed the Charger into reverse and drove along the shoulder at speeds approaching 40 miles per hour. Somehow they arrived at the off-ramp without incident.

Then Randy radioed the Chief to explain the situation.

“Break off pursuit,” came the reply.

“What?” Randy exploded. “I can catch him. He’s headed north on the Parkway.”

“You lost him,” said the Chief. “The State Patrol can handle it from here.”

“I’ve come this far, no way I’m quittin’…” Randy sputtered.

“I understand. Here’s the situation. We picked up some of the NewGarden security guards. You wouldn’t believe the weapons they’re carrying. State-of-the-art military-grade stuff. Late-model Russian Veresk submachine guns and high-powered Heckler and Koch sniper rifles. If Jurevicius has a couple guys like that with him, they could hold off a small army.”

“He’s by himself,” Randy protested.

“Randy, listen to me. You’re traveling with a civilian. Bruno has no training; we can’t put him in harm’s way. You guys are done for the day. Go have a drink or something. You did the best you could.”

Randy practically destroyed his radio, slamming it down on the center console. Bruno wished he could just disappear. Somehow, the natural flow of traffic led them to the parking garage of Caesar’s Palace. From there they were drawn like stumbling zombies into the casino’s garish lobby, which combined reproductions of friezes from the Parthenon, mosaics from the Roman Forum, statues from St. Peter’s in the Vatican, and Baroque trompe l’oeil paintings. Finally, the sight of a 30-foot statue of Caesar Augustus, holding an American flag, broke the spell.

“If I’d known that Jurevicius was going to get away,” scowled Randy, “I’d have let you go ahead and shoot those people in the Subaru.”

“My mother drives the same way,” Bruno agreed sadly. “And what do they think they’re going to do with mountain bikes in New Jersey?”

They drifted upstairs to one of the lounges that had slot machines built directly into the bar. They nursed a couple of beers, while Bruno fed a steady diet of quarters into the machine in front of him.

“So what happened at the end of your story?” asked Randy.

“What story?”

“The ‘Yeah, boss’ one.”

“Oh, Ganefs,” Bruno said listlessly. “Let’s see, Melvin—that’s the boss—kills Bumble so he doesn’t have to share the loot. He makes it to his secret desert island hideaway and he’s cackling with glee. But then he opens the package and, guess what? It’s a stink bomb.”

Randy didn’t crack a smile. “Bumble’s fault, I take it?”

“Yeah, he mixed up the packages …”

Bruno had had enough. “What do you say we get out of here? Go for a walk on the boardwalk or something.”

“Sure,” Randy agreed.

Bruno put one last quarter in the slot, but it was another bust.

“You didn’t win at all, did you?” Randy observed. “I’d have thought a psychic would have more control over winning and losing here.”

“Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Same with me,” Randy sniffed.

Out on the boardwalk, the sun was shining and the sea breezes were invigorating. They wandered aimlessly. Bruno excused himself. He walked to the water’s edge and studied the surf, hoping Randy would pull himself together by the time he came back. No such luck.

“Hey, look,” Randy called out with fake enthusiasm. “There’s a psychic, Madame Celeste. Let’s go see what she has to say.”

“No way,” Bruno protested. “I’m not going in there. Look at that potted plant. Look at the pink vase …” Obviously, Randy was trying to humiliate him. But after several minutes of arguing, Bruno decided to humor him, hoping it might help the venom work its way through Randy’s system.

Madame Celeste was a woman in her 50s, with dark eyes and dyed black hair piled up on top of her head. Her place was not much larger than a closet. Celeste was talking on a cell phone when they walked in; apparently she was trying to convince her daughter into going grocery shopping for her.

Randy pressed a $20 bill into her hand and told her to read Bruno’s fortune. He was acting drunk, even though he’d had only one beer.

“Why not you, sailor boy?” she leered. “Don’t you want to know your future?”

“He’s the interesting one. I’m just a dumb cop.”

“I can see that.” She turned to Bruno: “You don’t mind if he listens in? This could get personal.”

“I’m resigned to my fate.”

He sat down and Madame Celeste took his right hand in both of hers. She examined the back side, noting the shape of his cuticles, then turned it over, tracing the lines with her index finger.

“This is some hand you’ve got.” She looked first at Bruno, then at Randy, then back at Bruno again. “Let me do the cards.” She reached for a tarot deck; Bruno cut the cards before she could even ask him and watched while she laid out a basic pattern. “Can you read it?”

Bruno shook his head in the negative. “I can’t see my own future.”

Madame Celeste sighed deeply. “I have to tell you, sweetheart, you better be ready to accept all kinds of good things coming your way. I see long life, good health, and a fabulous love life along with great wealth. You got the whole package, baby.”

Randy couldn’t believe it. “You can’t be serious?”

Madame Celeste ignored him. She shook Bruno’s hand and stroked it invitingly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Today is your lucky day.”

“What a bunch of baloney,” Randy exploded when they were back on the boardwalk. “Admit it.”

“I wasn’t the one who wanted to go in there,” Bruno retorted. “Without question, today is one of the worst days of my life. But I have to say I feel better after talking to her. That’s the kind of reading you need to give if you want repeat business.”

Randy didn’t comment. As they wandered down the boardwalk, each casino or eating establishment was blaring music at high volume—a premonition of what to expect inside. Jungle drumming, country and western, Puerto Rican salsa bombarded them in turn. Finally Bruno caught sight of a friendly-looking restaurant, with its windows wide open so they could sit inside and still enjoy the ocean air. “Let’s grab some lunch before we head back,” he suggested. “I’m buying.”

The restaurant was a Greek taverna called Penelope. Randy and Bruno grabbed stools at the counter looking out over the boardwalk and the beach. Behind them on a giant screen, Shakira wiggled her pupik while they munched on souvlaki sandwiches.

By the time lunch was finished, their temperaments were restored to something approaching normal. Bruno felt comfortable enough to ask Randy for a favor: Would he mind driving him back through the Pines? That way he’d get home at least an hour earlier. He’d worry about his car later.

Randy said it was no problem. He’d had enough of the Expressway to last him quite a while. The back roads would be a relief.

They headed up Route 9, following the contours of Absecon Bay, home to marsh grass, thousands of gulls and egrets, and the occasional billboard. After about 10 miles, Route 9 dumped them onto the Garden State Parkway, which is the only road that crosses the Mullica River. The bridge spans a considerable length, perhaps a quarter or a half-mile, as the river broadens into an estuary. Bruno marveled at how empty it was, as if Atlantic City never existed. From the bridge, his view was unimpeded across the bay to the barrier islands beyond it.

Then he saw something that made him stop. His heart was pounding so hard he wasn’t sure he could see straight. On the other side of the bridge was a rutted lane leading to what appeared to be an abandoned building. Next to it was a red speck that could only be Jurevicius’ car.