Breaking Point - Chapter 35 - Medieval Madness
In which our hero meets an excommunicated Ringmaster
A few days before Mia’s memorial, dispatch directed me to the Colosseum, the “party palace” that began life as a bowling alley in the mid-1920s.
Six tiny lions’ heads poking out from the facade and a small, sad trellis creeping along the side of the building were as Roman as it got. Unless you consider gigantic raves, wet T-shirt contests and midget wrestling an appropriate homage to the Roman Empire.
The Colosseum’s Free Play Bar had a different vibe. A small admission fee bought unlimited play time on a wide selection of classic arcade games and pinball machines.
Unlike the main club, fights and ODs were conspicuous by their absence. As you might expect from a crowd busy trying to stop a digital gorilla from killing an Italian plumber.
I arrived early in the night.
The Colosseum’s Emperor stood by the bar, glaring at a group of college kids playing air hockey. Every one of them could have passed for an Abercrombie & Fitch sales associate – before the retailer abandoned its policy of only hiring Adonises.
“Officer!” the manager called over the clacking of air hockey pucks and digital sound effects.
The air hockey aficionados barely looked up. I’m not saying it was white privilege, but I got the sense that they’d grown up without once wondering if a police officer was about to ruin their life.
“Hihowareya?” the manager asked, shaking my hand as if we were bosom buddies. “Tonito Manolo.”
“I’m good,” I said, slipping into my Rhode Island accent. “John Canali. How you doin’?”
“I’m doin’ good. You want something to drink?”
“Diet Coke, thanks.”
“You sure you don’t want something harder?”
“I’m sure.”
“Hey Angela,” Tonito said to his bartender. “Give Officer Canali a Diet Coke, willya?”
Angela was a beautiful budding teen dressed in a black, skin-tight crushed velvet crop-top hoodie and matching sweatpants. She tossed her dirty blond hair over her shoulder with studied indifference and poured me a Coke. I accepted the glass and leaned back on the bar next to Tonito.
“What can I do you for?”
“That guy,” the Colosseum’s capo said, nodding at the tallest of the high-fiving, beer-drinking college clique. “He’s dealing drugs.”
The air hockey alpha looked like a drug dealer like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir looks like a biker gang. Tonito wasn’t telling me the whole story – not that anyone in Rhode Island ever does.
I put my empty glass on the bar. Tonito looked back at his employee. As Angela picked up my empty glass she gave air hockey boy a lust-laden look. He flashed her a “you’re mine tonight” smile. Tonito’s angry scowl told the tale.
“What did you see him sell?
“Heroin? Crack? Something. He handed a baggie to one of those other guys.”
“You saw money change hands?”
“Definitely. Baggie guy transferred money on his phone right afta.”
“You sure he wasn’t checking his social media?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Tonito asked testily. “You can look into his phone can’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I lied. “Meanwhile I’ll have a word with the perp. What’s his name?”
“Justin something.”
“Justin Time?”
“I don’t think so,” Tonito said, searching his memory. “You gonna arrest him or what?”
“Or what.”
Tonito looked at me like I’d pissed in his corn flakes.
“Look, Tonito, I get it. You want Angela to see lover boy for what he is: a big baby. Not a real man like the boss.”
Tonito puffed himself up, oblivious to sarcasm.
“I got better things to do than fill out a mountain of paperwork. And I’m thinking you don’t want customers worrying about getting busted for possession. Am I right?”
“You’re not as stupid as I look,” he half-joked.
I walked up to the group, nice and calm and friendly.
“Hey Justin,” I said, beckoning my new pal with a smile. “A word?”
I could see Justin trying to figure out how I knew his name. He gave his posse an “I got this” expression. The slight hesitation in his walk betrayed his bravado.
“What’s up?”
“You see that cute bartender over there? Don’t look.”
“What about her?” he asked, wresting his eyes from her comely countenance.
“That’s Angela Patriarca,” I said, christening her with a legendary mobster’s last name. “I’ve arrested her father like, I dunno, seven times. It’s strictly catch and release. He’s connected, you know?”
“Sure,” Justin said, looking at his friend group longingly.
“Patriarca’s parole officer thinks he’ll calm down if his ‘baby doll’ is in a healthy relationship. Someone with a future, not like her usual hook-ups. Meth addicts and gang bangers mostly. Ever heard of Bobo Genovese? Angela hooked-up with him before did a bullet for assault. Where was I?”
“Healthy relationship?” Justin prompted nervously.
“If you could, you know, get friendly with her, it would take the heat off the whole situation. Take your time. Angela won’t be legal for another two months.”
Justin shook my hand with a firm if unsteady grip.
“One more thing,” I said, moving closer and whispering conspiratorially. “Officer Doldrums is outside doing stop-and-frisks. You and your friends might want to make a quick trip to the bathroom before you leave.”
Justin returned to the air hockey table, sharing our conversation with his peeps.
“What did you say to him?” Tonito asked.
“I told him if he so much at looked at Angela wrong you smash his balls with a hammer and light his fancy haircut on fire.”
“Damn straight,” Tonito said, delighted that I thought him both macho and stupid enough to torture a college kid for hitting on an underage girl that wouldn’t give him the time of day.
“Thanks Officer. You can play free here anytime.”
I was happy to accept the perk.
As a college student, I spent a lot of free time and no small amount of disposable income playing Medieval Madness. I scanned Free Play for the pinball machine that sucked-up my pin money.
I caught sight of an older man playing Cirqus Voltaire. He was dressed as the Ringmaster, the trash-talking pop-up character who dominated the game’s playing field – waistcoat, blue hair, blue eyebrows, magnet-topped hat and all.
I suspected that some of Tonito’s regulars were into cosplay, but the Ringmaster looked familiar. His over-sized ears gave him away.
“Tommy?”
And so it was: Mia’s consiglieri Tommy Mulvaney. Tommy stiffened, like a man was preparing to get shot.
“Tommy, it’s me. John Canali.”
Tommy’s shoulders relaxed as he turned around.
“Hello John,” he said in his fake Irish accent, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Tommy and I shared a moment of silence, cowed by Mia and Cristina’s death. I found comfort in Tommy’s eyes, the sadness amplified by his thick glasses.
“Are you going to their memorial?” Tommy asked.
“Not my crowd. You?”
“Are you kidding? Why do you think I’m wearing this ridiculous get-up?”
“I take it Boston’s made some redundancies.”
“More like permanent retirement. You’re not working for them are you, John?”
“Fuck no. I hear Mastriano’s the new boss.”
“He’s not a fan of the fighting Irish. May the cat eat him, and may the devil eat the cat.”
"Why don’t you go into witness protection? You’d be quite the catch.”
Tommy turned back to the machine and launched the ball. He played well: drop catching, flimflamming and nudging the machine just so.
“I’m like this pinball Johnny my boy. I exist for one reason: to score points bouncing around the field. Take me out of the game and what am I? Nothing.”
“You’ve watched “Caddyshack” too many times. You’re the player, not the ball. And a damn good one,” I added at the exact moment the pinball drained.
“Foc!”
Tommy launched another ball.
“I’m sure you’d find gainful employment in some other city, some other state.”
“I’m an old man, Johnny. I’ll just lay low until I find some leverage… or get a pair of cement overshoes. You wanna play?”
“No thanks. I’m nowhere near as good as you.”
“The luck of the Irish.”
“Hey Tommy. You got a burner?”
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” he said, reminding me of Officer Donovan.
“If he can bear it.”
Once again, I was surprised by my own banter. There was still an ominous cloud hanging over my every move, but my last few sessions with Dr. Kilroy had opened a ray of sunshine. A small sliver of light in my heart of darkness.
“I’m gonna text you a list of people, recently deceased. See if you can find a connection between them. I’ll pay you two-fifty now, another two-fifty if you crack the case.”
“Crack the case is it? Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”
“You look deranged.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. Hang on…. Replay!” Tommy shouted as Voltaire’s internal hammer slammed into the machine’s wooden side.
“You gonna help me out?”
“Do or do not,” Tommy said, switching to a spot-on Yoda impersonation. “There is no try."
“I’ll try to remember that.”
Tommy gave me the burner phone’s number. I patted his hat and returned to the cruiser.
Maybe I could face my mother…
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