The End Game

“I’m not,” he said. Before I could even exhale with relief, he said, “But I think they’re being fixed behind me. The Pax Bellicosa should not be winning as we are. Not with me as the helmsman.”

“You think?” I looked at Sam. He was puffing on his Cuban and attempting to look absolutely engrossed by the moon.

“Look,” Gennaro said, “this hasn’t been the best year for me, for my family, so I called in a favor a few months ago. One favor. That was it. Just to get me pointed in the right direction. Take me out of the cooker.”

“Let me guess. You put in a call to Christopher Bonaventura.”

“One race. That was it. Just asked him to help me get in position to place. I didn’t even have to win.”

“Was this before or after he was warned away from you?”

“After.”

“Stay right here,” I said to Gennaro, and gave him a big, big smile, the kind I normally reserve for angry mullahs preparing to torture me, and pulled Sam away from the terrace and back inside. “Your friend Jimenez. He fail to mention this to you?”

“This is all news to me.”

“You recognize that this isn’t an easy job, correct?”

“I’m beginning to sense that it might be more intricate than first was apparent. New intel. All that. But what can you do? I don’t see anyone flying around Miami with a cape on these days.”

I pointed at Sam. I didn’t have words to speak. So I just kept pointing until I felt calm enough to go back outside and speak to Gennaro. “So I understand,” I said when I got back to the terrace. “The mafia has fixed races so that you win, is that correct?”

“No.” He was starting to look green. That’s what happens to a guy when he realizes he’s spent all day digging the grave his wife and child could be buried in.

I said, “I am not here to judge you. I am here to help you. If you lie to me, there’s nothing I can do. I walk out this door and you and I never met.”

Gennaro leaned over the balcony and exhaled hard. His shoulders slumped, and I could see the muscles in his jaw working. It wasn’t pride that was keeping him from giving the whole story-it was shame. Sam stepped back outside, but I gave him a little wave to let him know I wanted Gennaro to myself for a minute, which Sam took to mean now would be a good time to stretch out on one of the two-dozen chaise lounges with his Cuban and a bottle of Utopia. You get the chance to drink a hundred-dollar bottle of beer, I guess you take it.

“This hotel used to be owned by Jack Dempsey,” I said. “Did you know that?”

Gennaro looked up at me, eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure where I was headed. “The boxer?” he said.

“Yeah. Back in the 1930s it was called the Dempsey-Vanderbilt. But it was just the small Art Deco part down below,” I said. I pointed over the ledge, and Gennaro craned his head to get a look. “When I was a kid, my dad brought me and my brother, Nate, down here. Dempsey was signing autographs and pretending to hit people. Putting on a show, basically. By that point he didn’t own the hotel or anything. He was an old man from history books, really. But here was a guy who, back in the day, was considered the toughest man alive. 1919, 1920, when you were heavyweight champion of the world, it wasn’t like now where you fight once or twice a year; you fought all the time. Plus, he was the kind of guy who’d fight just for fun. Go into a bar. Call someone out. Even after he retired, he kept fighting in exhibitions, just to keep hitting people. Now, I’m not an athlete, so I don’t know what that’s like, that need to always be competing, but I’d guess that’s pretty intoxicating?”

“Better than just about anything,” Gennaro said.

“Thing of it is, you know what people remember most about Dempsey? What everyone wanted to talk to him about that day?”

Gennaro said he didn’t know.

“One of his last fights, he got in the ring with a guy named Gene Tunney. There was a dispute about how much time the ref gave to Tunney after Dempsey knocked him down, and how little time was given to Dempsey when Tunney knocked him down. No one said the fix was in, but that hint of impropriety, it followed Dempsey around for the rest of his life. He never knew if he really won, or if he really lost. So there he was, sitting downstairs behind a table covered in bunting, talking about a fight that took place fifty years earlier. And you could just see it on him. The doubt. Like he wanted to fight the fight all over again.”

I paused to let what I’d said to Gennaro sink into his skin. That I didn’t know anything about Gennaro prior to that day didn’t change the fact that, to a segment of society, he was considered one of the world’s finest athletes, if helmsmen can be considered athletes. I suppose if NASCAR drivers and jockeys are classified as such, competitive yacht racers probably have equal claim to the designation.

“Christopher just told me he’d give me a better chance not to lose, that’s all,” he said. “I still had to race to win. I wanted my skill and my boat to win out at the end, not have it be something where I just coasted in.”