“I didn’t know you were a Cupertine,” Jerry said. “My mother, she was a Lopiparno. Ronnie Cupertine fronted me to get started in the business. I mean, he’s like my cousin. When I dropped out of med school, he was the only person who understood.”
“He is my cousin,” David said.
“I know,” Jerry said. “I mean, Sugar used to talk about the Rain Man like you were Batman.”
Sugar Lopiparno. Ronnie’s guy in Detroit, who came back to work in Chicago after Sal’s fuckup. Who became Ronnie’s number two after Fat Monte kicked his own bucket of shit.
“We ever meet?”
“I don’t think so,” Jerry said. “By the time you were old enough to matter, I was already in college.”
David didn’t know what to make of this.
“When did Bennie come to you with this idea to launder the bodies?” David asked.
“No, no, you got it all wrong,” Jerry said. “I can’t tell you how many times I asked Ronnie to help me with Bennie Savone, but he said he couldn’t, it wasn’t the right time, that he was out of Las Vegas. I kept telling him that we could make some real money out here if we had a rabbi who could make shit happen. That we could hit a lick in the multimillions, David. The multimillions. And then one day you showed up and I told Ronnie, never mind, we had a guy, and he just played fucking dumb, I guess.”
Ronnie was good at playing dumb, David knew. But in fact he was the smartest motherfucker on the planet, if he’d actually orchestrated all of this shit. David was sure he had, that he’d planned it for years, figured out how to franchise his people across the nation, by becoming mostly legit and working with people who either feared him or didn’t know they should.
Bennie Savone thought he had one over on him but didn’t realize he was working for Ronnie all along.
And whenever he wanted, Ronnie could have pulled the plug. Bennie would be stuck holding his dick and a murderous hit man.
“You let the mafia invest in your business, Jerry?”
“I let my cousin stake me,” Jerry said.
“Let me guess,” David said, “he took 80, you took 20.”
“If that.”
“You talk to him lately?”
“Not since whatever happened to him.”
“But before that.”
“Weekly.” He paused. “Daily, when it started blowing up.” He shook his head. “I think I got you here. I think I’m responsible for all this. I brought it on myself. Every dollar you made, you made five for Ronnie.”
And now, David presumed, Peaches. If he wasn’t dead already.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” David said.
“I should have fucking stayed in med school, is what I should have done.”
“Why did you come to Las Vegas in the first place?”
“Ronnie,” Jerry said. “He said I’d be his guy here. I guess I didn’t know what that meant.”
“Yes, you did,” David said.
“I’m not that type of guy, Rabbi. You know that. It’s been eating me up all morning,” Jerry said. “I’m a fucking dead man, aren’t I? You tried to save me, but here I fucking am.” He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “What are you gonna do?”
“See if I can find my wife,” David said.
“And what? Turn yourself in? Would that save my ass?”
David tried to figure out ways in which Jerry Ford might come out of this situation alive. The problem was that he wasn’t safe in prison, he wasn’t safe on the streets, and he wasn’t really the kind of guy they put into witness protection. He had enough money to pay for his own security, which only meant he had enough money to feel safe without actually being safe. No one was taking a bullet for anyone these days. David doubted heavily that the Secret Service was lining up to protect George W. Bush, everyone shit scared about being found out and targeted by some fucking terror organization. Back in the day, you didn’t worry the Soviets were coming for you personally, but now, who the fuck knew? End up getting beheaded just for knowing a guy? Fuck no.
“You’re fine, Jerry,” David said. “You’re just fine. Once I leave, either get out of the country or call the FBI, turn yourself in, make sure they get Stephanie, and you’ll both be safe.”
“That wouldn’t piss you off?”
“Of course not,” David said. “You have to do what you have to do. Maybe I’ll be in Ukraine by then.”
“Oh, Jesus, David, thank you. Thank you. I won’t say your name. We never met. It was all Bennie. That’s what I’m gonna tell them.”
“Everybody dies,” David said. “That’s a fact.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jerry said, and he pointed a finger gun at David, “like that. No one needs to blow up the Chicken Man!” He walked past David, headed toward the hearse, his whole demeanor lightened by his admission, a life of promise stretching out wide before him, because Jerry Lopiparno Ford just made a deal with the Rain Main, saved his own life in the process, secured a future with Stephanie where maybe they’d need to pinch a few pennies, but he was humming a Bruce Springsteen song when Rabbi David Cohen shot him once in the back of the head.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
DAVID STOPPED TO CATCH HIS BREATH A HUNDRED YARDS INTO THE DESERT Inn Detention Basin storm drain, hauling a million dollars in duffel bags more strenuous activity than he’d thought, each bag weighing about fifteen pounds, which shouldn’t have been a problem, but he did not have his wind, having not slept or being in any kind of shape since his time in the hospital. He’d also dragged Jerry Ford’s body into one of the burned-out VA buildings and took his wallet, placing Jerry’s driver’s license in his mouth. Some motherfucker might roll a dead man, but they weren’t going to poke around his orifices.
