Chapter 2
Atlantic City

May 1976

Jason's original plan was to head to Martha's Vineyard once they parted with the ship, but his intuition told him to stay in Boston. There Willie worked small cons, and his partner visited a dear old friend of his. Details were not divulged, but apparently Jason had helped her when she was in trouble as a young woman by putting her in contact with one of his many acquaintances. It would not do for the lady's husband and children to find out about this, so she gave Mr. McGuire a sizable cash gift as a token of her gratitude.

This windfall was celebrated with a trip to Atlantic City for Willie's first vacation. After acquiring snazzy suits with dress shoes, and lodgings in a better hotel, Jason was anxious to check out the town's first and newly opened casino. His sidekick, however, was not keen to be left behind.

"Sorry, lad; no minors allowed."

"But this says I'm 22," Willie held out his driver's license. "And I really am 21." He was 19, but knew Jason wouldn't remember that.

The Irishman stopped in his tracks, bewildered. "What? Since when?"

The young man thought for a moment. "Since, like, five months ago."

Jason quickly recovered. "Your 21st birthday, now that's somethin.' Why didn't you speak up, m'boy? "

It was Willie's turn to look puzzled. "What for? In all the time I known ya, ya never once asked when my birthday was; why the fuck should I tell ya now?"

"What are you talkin' about? It's right here on your license."

"No, it ain't—that's prob'ly your birthday."

Jason looked closer and laughed. "So it is—well, then we'll celebrate now. Get dressed if you're comin'; you'll be needin' a sport coat to get in."


Willie flashed his ID as usual, nested in his palm as to cast a shadow over the photo, but the casino bouncer was an experienced detector of such misrepresentations and plucked it from his hand. He scrutinized the kid, looked at the license, and tossed it in the trash.

"Hey, that's mine—"

"So long, junior. Your card's expired, and it's a fake."

Shit. Willie needed that ID to get into bars. He wanted to fish it out of the waste basket but the bouncer blocked his path. With a big, blarney smile, Jason appeared behind the stone-faced man.

"Is there a problem, sir? The lad is my nephew; we're celebratin' his 21st, don't ya know?" Jason laid his accent on thick as butter when he thought it might impress someone.

"Sorry, he can't get in without valid ID. Those're the rules."

Jason and Willie's eyes met. The Irishman shook his head and shrugged and his young partner growled; Jason was going on without him.

"I'll just be a little while, then." the older man chirped. "We'll meet back at the hotel, son. Now, don't be gettin' into any trouble."

Willie scowled. "Yessir." If Jason improvised a story, he had to go along; that was like a commandment. "Sure an' whatever ya say—Uncle Jason," he retorted in a mimicry of his partner's accent.

With his hands stuffed in pockets, the young man trudged off down the boardwalk, looking for something else to do; he'd find himself a hooker and make his own entertainment. To hell with Jason. Willie glanced up and down the promenade, sizing up the talent. Damn, they're all dressed alike. I can't tell the whores from regular girls.

He plopped down in the nearest clam bar and pulled out his billfold, ready to devour some seafood and beer—or maybe go somewhere else for a burger. It had been ages since he had a hamburger and fries, although whatever it was that Portuguese cook made on their last trip was pretty damn good.

But Willie's wallet was empty; the evening's cash reserve was, as usual, in Jason's pocket and not his. So, he was back out on the boards, scrounging for free samples of fudge and roasted peanuts.

The enterprising young man considered picking some pockets. Crowded tourist areas were prime locations for such activities, but Willie felt uncertain; their usual play was a two-man operation. Jason would stop a man to ask for directions and while they conversed, his accomplice would come tearing down the street looking back over his shoulder, schoolbooks in hand, and crash into the "mark." Jason would help the poor man up and brush off his coat while the kid scrambled underfoot for his books in all directions, both talking a mile a minute.

"Oh, I'm sorry, mister! I didn't see—"

"Now, will ya look at that! Are you alright, sir? Let me be of assistance—"

Jason retrieved the victim's wallet if it was in his breast pocket, Willie got it if it was in the back, and sometimes the watch as well, if he was lucky. It was simple and obvious, so it worked.

The thief decided to try a single hit. It had been a long time, but it was a necessary risk; he needed dough. Again, he scanned the boardwalk, tuning in his radar for spotting an easy target.

At a nearby souvenir shop, two teenage boys were browsing a rack of tee shirts: tall, lanky kids with jewfros and wire-rimmed glasses—and hundred dollar sneakers. Willie tucked the empty billfold up his jacket sleeve and went shopping.

As he approached the sales rack, the young man acquired a slight stagger. He flipped clumsily through the shirts, reading the funny sayings on them, laughing out loud once or twice. The boys looked sideways at the drunken guy, snickered and nudged each other. Soon, the three of them were searching and showing each other the raunchiest ones, laughing harder. Willie spotted something under the rack and reached down to retrieve it. The wallet slipped from his sleeve into his hand.

He targeted the geekier looking kid: Mark 1. "Hey, buddy, look what I found on the floor. Ya dropped your wallet." Willie put his arm around the boy's shoulder, slurring his words. "You gotta be more careful."

"That's not—" Mark 1 cut himself off, thinking maybe they had come into some unexpected cash. "Oh, maybe. Let's see—" He took the billfold and examined it. "Nah, it's empty." The teen patted his back pocket. "Mine's right here."

His friend, Mark 2, took the empty wallet and placed it on a shelf. "Let's put it here in case someone comes back for it."

"Good idea. Ohh—" Willie looked like he might lose his dinner as he staggered into Mark 1, who grabbed him in support. Mark 2 jumped in to help.

"Hey, man, are you okay?"

Willie regained his balance and chuckled, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, sorry. I sure did party hardy tonight—it's my 21st birthday."

The teenagers were duly impressed. "Wow! You had your first drink tonight?"

"Hell, yeah!" They shared another round of laughter. Then young man's face went suddenly serious. "Shit. I'm supposed to be home; someone's waiting for me—" he winked at them "—if you know what I mean."

"Lucky guy, get outta here!" The teenagers guffawed, pushing him out the door, and Willie ran off down the boardwalk.

A short distance away the pickpocket found a public restroom and huddled in a stall to count up. He scored both billfolds and was feeling extremely pleased with himself. This is what it feels like to take candy from a baby. He tossed the wallets in the trash receptacle, put a few bucks in his pocket and tucked the rest in his shoe.

Taking a deep breath of sea air, Willie stepped back onto the boardwalk with the bankroll and resumed his original plan to score some seafood. However, the pork roll sandwiches at a nearby stand smelled damn appealing, so he had one with a Coke.

As the young man dumped his trash into a litter basket by the railing, Mark 1 jumped him from behind, knocking himself, Willie, the container and its contents onto the ground. They scuffled. Willie rolled and sprang to his feet, and Mark 1 followed suit. If the other one helped out, the pickpocket could be in trouble, but Mark 2 stood at a safe distance, holding his friend's glasses.

As the opponents lunged at each other, Willie got increasingly frustrated by the teenager's surprising strength and ability to hold him in locks from which he escaped only because they were slipping in melted ice cream and soggy French fries. Who is this guy, captain of some high school wrestling team? If so, then he plays by rules, which meant the solution was to fight dirty. Usually effective was a blood-spurting punch to nose, followed in quick succession by a jab to the throat and kick in the balls.

The mission was aborted by the sound of a whistle, and the two were pulled apart by boardwalk patrol officers. Suddenly, Willie couldn't breathe and dinner lurched in his stomach. In the aftermath of his former profession, he still had a dire fear of cops.

"Sir, are you alright?" The officer was helping him up. It was a policewoman—not large, but strong and capable, with short, brunette hair and big, beautiful brown eyes which instantly captivated him. Holy crap, honey, if you weren't a cop… He seriously considered losing his balance in order to accidently grab a breast. She called me sir.

Willie forced himself to focus. "Thank you, I'll be—I'm…the boy jumped me from b-behind." It was obvious the poor fellow was visually shaken.

"Bullshit!" Mark 1 bellowed. "We were just talking back there, and this asshole stole our goddamn wallets!"

The cops appraised the polite young man, trembling slightly as he took stock of his soiled, ripped suit, then the angry, bushy-haired, foul-mouthed teenagers. Well, one was angry; the other looked scared.

"I promise you, I don't have anyone's wallet." Willie turned out his pockets as proof, producing nothing but a condom and handful of change. He looked up in wide-eyed dismay. "Not even my own. Looks like I've been robbed too."

"But it was—" Mark 1 patted his back pocket.

"Seems like you made a big mistake, kids," said the male officer. "You all got hit, which is a shame, but I think you owe this guy an apology."

Mark 1 kicked the boards angrily, put on his glasses and glared into Willie's weary face. Was this a trick? He detected the faintest glint of smugness in the man's eyes, one that said, Gotcha, sucker.

"Sir, do you want to press charges?" the female cop asked, almost simultaneously with Mark 2 who called out, "Sorry! We're sorry."

With a nod toward Mark 2, the young man replied, "No, it's okay. I just really need to get home. My mom and dad're gonna be worried." Mark 1 shot a look at him as Willie quickly patched his story. "—and Mary Lou, that's my girlfriend."

"Would you like a lift in the patrol car?"

"No!" was the hasty response. "We're staying just around the corner. Thanks, though, for all your help. G'night." He headed towards the boardwalk ramp that led to the side street, not running, not too fast, and wondered with a grin if the scrappy lads would get a lecture and escort home.

Willie stopped a block away and wondered what to do next. Returning to the hotel was not an option, as he didn't have the key. The thief had cash now but nowhere to spend it, looking like he just walked away from a car wreck. He circled back and settled in on the beach, deserted and dark.

Backlit by the noisy, neon boardwalk, the continual crash of waves before him was peaceful and soothing. Even with the smell of rotting fish, it was a pretty nice night. The scrapper pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin there. He could feel repercussions of a few bumps and bruises, but in the end, it had been a good time. Messy. Willie liked to fight, as long as he didn't lose. The sounds of the tide lulled him to sleep, and he dreamed about an accommodating female with big brown eyes.


"Get up, Willie." Jason nudged his shoulder. "I knew I'd find you here. Do you see that sign? No trespassin' on the beach after 10 pm."

His junior partner looked up at him, yawning. "Oh my, yes, we wouldn't wanna break the law." He stood up and brushed the sand off his dress slacks.

"Nor do we want to attract unnecessary attention to ourselves—Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at the blood!"

The young man checked the front of his shirt and laughed. "That's ketchup. I had a fight with a trashcan."

"You need to be on a leash—ruinin' your nice new clothes that cost us dear." The Irishman gave him a push towards the boardwalk. "Move!"

The pair stopped briefly on a bench so Jason could empty the sand out of his shoes.

"Hey, why'd you leave me out here all alone with no key or money?"

"Why did ya show that gorilla an old, expired driver's license?" The boy looked confused. "You should have used your passport; it's excellent quality, impossible to detect."

"Why didn't ya tell me to?"

The older man looked him in the eyes. "Because ya have to learn to think for yourself. Someday I won't there to save your arse, and if you're not careful, you'll go down, m'lad." He fished Willie's license out of his pocket and handed it over. "Here ya go. We can have this doctored to be up-to-date, even put your real birthday on it."

"How'd ya get it back?" Willie no longer had a wallet, so he slipped it into his breast pocket. The other man took note of this.

"No matter," he replied. "This is small time. When we go to Monte Carlo, you and I will do some real gamblin.'"

They sat quietly. Willie considered bragging to his senior partner about the score tonight. Maybe he'd show him later—on the other hand, maybe not. I can have secrets, and I don't need you to hold my money. Suddenly, another thought came to mind.

"Don't make me call you Uncle Jason ever again. That was sick."

"And was that you attemptin' a brogue? Oh no, no, there's only one of us."

"Oh no, no, only one of us," he parroted, imitating the man's Irish accent.

"Willie." Jason pointed a finger in the kid's face with exaggerated disapproval. Willie cracked up and slapped it away.

"Let's go home."

Jason hung his suit on a closet hanger, carefully so it wouldn't wrinkle, and donned his cotton pajamas and threadbare robe. It was a bit frayed at the cuffs, but the man promised himself to someday have a fine silk robe—and a velvet smoking jacket. He settled into the armchair and read from his dog-eared copy of Finnegan's Wake asWillie stripped to the waist and threw his clothes on the floor in a corner.

"Wherever I may roam
on land or sea or foam
You can always hear me singin' this song:
Show me the way to go home!"

"Willie Loomis, you have got to be the worst singer on God's good earth. Why do you want to torture the other guests who are tryin' to sleep?"

"Aw, don't hurt my feelin's; I'm gonna be a movie star," his roommate returned jokingly.

"Sure ya are. Wash up."

The young man plopped on his bed and proceeded to pull off his oxfords but stopped short. Jason looked up, one brow raised. "What's in your shoe, Willie?" he asked casually.

"Sand. I don't wanna get it all over the carpet."

"Ah, because you're so neat and considerate."

"Because I don't want it in my bed. I'll take 'em off in the bathroom—over the sink." He moved into the next room, not too quickly, and shut the door.

Willie emerged showered, toweled and dressed for bed in boxer shorts and tank top undershirt—what his shipmates called a wife beater. He tossed his pants in the corner and placed his shoes carefully under the nightstand. "Guess I haveta throw out them new clothes," he remarked indifferently. "Can I watch TV?"

"Yes, you will; and no, it's late." His partner flopped onto his bed. "So, kiddo, let's see what's in your shoe." Jason's tone was still patient and even.

Willie jumped back up and stuck his head in the mini bar refrigerator. "I dunno what you're talkin' about; I knocked out all the sand."

"Don't play games with me, mate. I know you stash in your shoe, and your wallet has gone missin'." The Irishman put down his book and stood. "Show me the score."

His young colleague stood up as well, in a standoff. Their eyes locked. "No, it's mine. I made it myself."

Jason swept the shoe from the floor as Willie threw a punch at him. The larger man blocked it and struck him across the face with the well-heeled shoe, sending the teenager sprawling. Jason dumped the cash onto his bed, along with a sprinkle of sand. "You're forgettin' we're partners, lad. Share and share alike." He counted up, tossed $10 at Willie and pocketed the lion's share—for the nest egg.

"Don't ever hold out on me again," Jason added with an unmistakable undertone of menace, and went out on the balcony to smoke.

With a smear of blood on his cheekbone and a shiner on the way, Willie sat where he landed on the floor, stunned and angry—not so much because of the blow. He and Jason hit each other all the time, though not usually with shoes. But his ego was bruised, and he was mad because the Irishman always had to win; he had to be the boss, had to hold the money. Willie was tired of being the junior partner, always pushed around—someday he would call the shots.

I can do whatever the fuck I want.

The young man helped himself to a beer from the minibar, lit a cigarette in bed and turned on the TV. He held the cold can up to the flushed swelling on his face and flipped channels. Willie was asleep when the Irishman returned to their room. Jason quietly threw away the brew, put out the lad's cigarette and covered him with the bedspread. Then he retired for the evening.