Private

Chapter 31

I WALKED SIX blocks to an address in downtown LA that Uncle Fred had given me. The building was three stories high, pink paint flaking off the stucco and a sun-bleached green awning over the front door.

To the left was a bike shop and to the right was a bodega. There was a locked metal gate barring the stairs to the second floor.

I spoke into an intercom, said my name, a code number, and that Fred Kreutzer had sent me. A voice told me to hang on, he'd be right down.

A minute later, a wiry man with dark skin and a face shaped like a weasel's opened the gate and said, "Barney Sapok. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan."

I followed Sapok up the stairs to the third floor, where he opened a freshly painted door and showed me into a space filled with cubicles, about twenty of them, each occupied by a man or woman with a telephone headset, a scratch pad, and a computer.

They were taking bets.

The place looked like a police command center or a telemarketing office, but in fact it was a bookmaking operation that brought in tens of millions a year. Just this branch.

Sports wagering is illegal in every state but Nevada. As a result, it's become a cash cow for organized crime. Barney Sapok was either a family associate or he was forking over a substantial amount of money to the Mob for collection and enforcement and writing it off as a cost of doing business.

Sapok's office was in a corner, overlooking the street. He said, "Mr. Kreutzer told me to trust you. He told me to show you some things. But nothing can leave this office."

"I understand," I said.

He opened a drawer, removed a spreadsheet from a file, and put it on his desk.

"I pulled this data off the encrypted network. Bettors have code names and numbers, so I spent last night decoding it for you."

"I'm sure that will help, Barney. Thank you."

I dragged a chair up to the desk and began to scan the list. Familiar names jumped out at me immediately, players on a dozen teams in both leagues.

"These are their bets over the past year," Sapok said, running his finger down the columns under the names. "Notice something?" he asked.

"I see some fifty-grand bets on a single game."

"Anything else?"

"None of the players are betting on their games."

Sapok nodded. "If the players are putting in a fix, I don't know about it." He dropped the spreadsheet into a bucket of water he kept next to his desk.

The spreadsheet and all other documents in the bookie's office were printed on rice paper. I watched the pages and the ink that was printed on them dissolve in the water.

Sapok asked, "Mr. Kreutzer is your uncle? Is that right?"

I nodded. "More like a father, actually."

"There's something else he thought you should see. We've got a certain client who's into us for over six hundred thousand dollars. He's in big trouble. Could have a fatal outcome."

"A football player?" I asked.

Sapok wrote block letters on a pad of paper, turned the pad so I could read it, then ripped off the top page, which followed the spreadsheet into the bucket of water.

The rice paper dissolved, but the afterimage of those block letters hung in front of my eyes.

Sapok had written down my brother's name.

Tom Morgan Jr.

Tommy owed over $600,000 to the Mob.

Chapter 32

I THANKED BARNEY Sapok and left his place of business in a fury. I wasn't mad at Sapok. That guy was trying to help by telling me about Tommy's $600,000 debt. Clearly, Uncle Fred wanted me to know that Tommy was in trouble, and that he couldn't help Tommy himself.

Fred and Tommy hadn't spoken in a dozen years. I'd never known what their fight was about, but Tommy held grudges and he had a big one against Uncle Fred. I guessed that Fred had tried to stop Tom from getting into a jam like the one he was in now, and of course my brother had resented it.

I was enraged at Tommy and I was disgusted with him. And I didn't know what to do next.

Through Tommy, I'd become familiar with the cycle of the sickness. Gamblers gamble for the rush. It goes from compulsion to addiction. They win and place another bet. They lose, which is far more likely, and the elation turns to deflation, and they bet again to cover the loss. Either way, they keep betting.

Small losses go onto their tab with their bookie. If the debt isn't paid, the Mob's loan sharks sometimes move in. The interest on the loan, the vigorish, is obscenely high and it's due weekly. Too often, the bettor can't gather enough money to pay back the principal, and when he falls behind on the vig, the threats start, and then the beatings. The next thing he knows, a Mob guy owns his business.

Tommy had a business. He was doing okay. But a weekly interest charge of 20 percent on a $600,000 loan? That was $12,000 a week before he ever put a dent in the principal.

Had Tommy borrowed against his house? His business? Was he hanging over the abyss by his fingertips, or was he already falling into a bottomless hole? Sapok had said the outcome could be fatal.