Hours of Gladness Read Free Page B

feather-trimmed dress looked like it was going to split her in half. Mick still wasn’t used to seeing Rose Gargan wearing that kind of dress. Rose had been pretty when she was in high school. She did not seem so pretty now. Her red hair was twisted into something that looked like the strands of a mop. She had about three inches of lipstick on her mouth.
    â€œHe’s down at least twenty thousand,” she said. “You better get him out of here.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” Mick said.
    Mick knew exactly where to go, the craps table nearest the casino credit window. There sat three hundred pounds of Irish beef known as William P. O’Toole. Lately, he seemed to get fatter every time Mick looked at him. A bar girl was serving him a dark brown Scotch. Mick took it out of her hand and drank about half of it. He grinned and patted her sequined behind. “I’m a relative,” he said.
    Mick watched Bill O’Toole lose $2,000 on a pass nine. “Not goin’ too good,” Mick said.
    â€œIt’ll come back,” Bill said. “It always comes back.” There seemed to be some truth to that. Uncle Bill had won amazing amounts of money at these tables last year. But nothing had gone right since September. This was the third time Mick had been told to ride to the rescue.
    â€œMaybe you ought to give it a rest,” Mick said. “Maybe the date’s against you.”
    â€œWhat day is it?”
    â€œMarch thirteenth.”
    â€œThat’s my mother’s birthday, you idiot.”
    â€œMaybe you still ought to give it a rest,” Mick said as his uncle bet another $2,000 on a straight seven and lost so fast it sent needles of pain dancing through Mick’s forehead. He knew exactly what Uncle Bill got paid to be chief of the Paradise Beach Police Department, $26,000 a year. Mick also knew how much he got paid—$16,000. Uncle Bill had just blown a quarter of Mick’s salary.
    He was tempted to throw an arm lock on Uncle Bill and drag him out of the place. He was messing up what was
left of the small but beautiful deal the Monahans and the O’Tooles and the McBrides had worked out in Paradise Beach. Even without Dan Monhan’s $5 million in bearer bonds in the cellar, it was a lot better than no deal at all.
    â€œHey, Chief, how’s it goin’?”
    Joey Zaccaro inserted his swarthy fox face between Mick and his uncle. Joey’s eyes were straight from the zoo, glittering, wary, stupid. But his mouth smiled in a way that was almost human. According to the laws of New Jersey, Joey was not supposed to be allowed in the door of any casino in the state. He had Mob connections two pages long in the FBI printouts. But New Jersey tended to stop enforcing the laws after midnight in Atlantic City. Maybe even before midnight when a guy rolled as high as Joey Zip.
    â€œI’m goin’ lousy. How you goin’?” Uncle Bill said.
    â€œCouldn’t be lousier. I’m down forty.”
    â€œSee what I mean?” Mick said. “It’s a bad-luck night.”
    â€œWho’s this?” Joey Zaccaro asked.
    â€œMy nephew.”
    Joey introduced himself. It was the third time they had done this turn. Joey had a lousy memory for faces. He slapped Uncle Bill on the back. “When this guy’s hot, he takes the joint home. Never seen nothin’ like it.”
    Suddenly Joey’s eyes jumped from the craps table, where Uncle Bill was losing another $2,000 on a pass four, into the middle distance. “Jesus Christ!” Joey snarled.
    He hurtled away from them as if he were on wheels—across the carpet past the roulette tables and the draw-poker players to the baccarat table where Jacqueline Chasen was still playing with her mountain of chips. Without even breaking his stride, like a quarterback throwing a pass on the dead run, Joey belted her in the face.
    She flew about twenty feet and landed on her back