Robofootball: Doublespin

“Send him in,” Dano Verlucci hit a button after Reynolds checked his .357 Ruger 6-shot magnum revolver at the door with one of Mr. Verlucci’s body guards. Though Reynolds was his nephew, Mr. Verlucci did not make exceptions, not even for family. Reynolds had a CCW and preferred the old fashioned revolvers over those with clips. There was something about a heavy nickel-plated revolving cylinder that felt good. Mr. Verlucci had a Glock 10mm in his right top drawer within his massive mahogany desk. Unbeknownst to Reynolds or nearly anyone else, Dano Verlucci also had a sawed off double barreled shot gun with 2 triggers clamped under his desk above his thighs, something his grandfather Vincent Verlucci had instituted as a family tradition. Dano’s father Benicio was the last of the Verlucci’s to actually fire it in the line of duty as boss. One of his capo’s had been pegged as an FBI informant and paid the price. The FBI had found a witness that tied him to a murder and they were attempting to use him to get to the Verlucci’s. Dano’s grandfather had done so twice, once against an unruly pushy rival who had gotten a little too close to the desk to get into Vincent’s face, another against a surly but traitorous insider.

“Gabriel! Come in.” Dane Verlucci, now 57 years of age with dark black hair with a touch of professional gray that was too perfect for his age, rose up and kissed Reynolds on both cheeks. With a small flick of his hand, Bruno the massive tree trunk of a body guard was waived off. Reynolds was thinking that Bruno would never qualify for the RFL, he was already several inches above the height limit and many pounds north of 300, a genuine scale breaker. When Mr. Verlucci stepped back, Reynolds noticed another man in the room, an old leathery figure seated in one of the two dark wooden chairs that matched and sat in front of his Uncle Dano’s desk.

“Uncle Sal?” Reynolds questioned. It was actually Dano’s uncle, the younger brother of his deceased father, Benicio “Benny” Verlucci.

“Gabriel,” the old man somewhat half whispered and half graveled out a greeting as he held out his arms. The elder Verlucci was past 80 now and suffered from throat cancer brought on by smoking too many cigars. A vice he had for both Cuban and Venezuelan hand-rolled gems. He actually preferred those rolled in Venezuela; however, there was more prestige associated with the Cuban namesake. These days, he had to sneak one in, lying to his doctors that he had completely given up smoking. What did he care? He was dying, but when you thought about it, who wasn’t? It was just a matter of degree and timing, the cloaked dude with the giant scythe got everyone in the long run, or in Salvatore Verlucci’s situation, the short run, if that, since even a short run was beyond his physical capability.

Reynolds bent down and kissed both of the old man’s cheeks, careful not to bump his oxygen tank. “Uncle Sal, it’s good to see you.”

“Gabriel,” the old man sputtered, “You married well kid!” It was an old joke and aside from Dano Verlucci, Uncle Sal was about the only other one in the family who called him by his first name with the only other exception being his wife. Uncle Sal had told him repeatedly through the years that people had it all wrong about angels though Gabriel had been named for one. It was Uncle Sal’s contention that when angels were sent down to earth, it was trouble, and death was usually not far behind.

“That I did,” Reynolds grinned.

“Have a seat,” Dano Verlucci motioned as he settled into his giant leather chair behind his desk. Reynolds sat and waited patiently for his uncle to continue. “I see you lost one yesterday to those Numbheads, what happened?”

Reynolds knew better than to correct his uncle in that it was the New York Numbskulls, not Numbheads, “Tough game, we’re still having a little trouble with the quarterback.”

“Yes I was there, he did seem to throw a nice pass, but wasn’t quite the same afterward.”

“Yeah, tough luck, some minor software glitch, we’re getting it worked out.”

“We’re 2-3,” Dano Verlucci let it linger before continuing. “New York and Texas are 5-0.”

“Chicago finally lost one, we’re only 2 games behind them at this point.”

“Only because they played Texas,” Dano smirked.

“There’s still time, we’ve got a couple of easy ones coming up.”

“That’s one reason I brought you here, along with Uncle Sal,” Dano nodded in respect to his own uncle.

“Oh?” Reynolds inquired.

“Next Sunday’s game is against the Seattle Slayers, our Vegas friends have listed us as 21 point favorites.”

“Yes, we should win that one, Seattle is 1-4 and they barely beat Arkansas 28-27 yesterday.”

“Right, I want you to win the game, but not cover the spread, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Reynolds who was a little confused.

Uncle Sal reached out a gnarly old wrinkly liver-spotted hand and clutched Reynolds’ thigh, “Do this for me, okay?” The words were hissed with pauses between them.

“Thank you Uncle Sal.” Dano Verlucci said and turned his attention back to Reynolds.

“Uncle Sal still has a lot of connections in Vegas and we’re going to cover some low 7-figure betting against the spread. Work it out, win the game, but make sure it’s by less than 21 points.”

“Okay, I’ll do my best,” said Reynolds.

“I’m sure of it…..very sure.” Dano Verlucci understated in a very low under his breath tone. The meaning was quite clear. “That’s all,” he added. Reynolds stood up, nodded to his uncle, placed his hand on Uncle Sal’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. He made for the door that magically opened before him before he could grasp the knob by a man who would make Jaws in an old James Bond movie look pale in comparison. Bruno smiled at Reynolds with a shiny gold tooth and closed the door shut behind them. Reynolds wondered how Bruno always knew the exact moment in which to open the door.

When the door closed, Uncle Sal rasped out, “So how’s the Mick doin’?” They referred to Reynolds as “The Mick” behind his back out of a small measure of respect; it was different in joking if they were having a family party like a wedding or what have you, then, if Reynolds was outnumbered 20 to 1 by Italians, he didn’t dare take offense, not that he would anyhow with his Uncle Dano around. One respected the family Don at all times, no exceptions. To take offense at a family occasion would be both dishonorable and disrespectful, and if there was one thing Reynolds learned early on, was the chain of command and the Italian, no Sicilian way of respect as both Uncle Sal, and his brother Benny Verlucci emphasized it in turn from their own father, Vincent Verlucci.

Dano Verlucci sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and shrugged, “The kid’s got some iron, but he did promise me a winner.”

“He’ll come through,” Uncle Sal muttered and nodded his head between short labored breaths.

“Yeah, he’d better, I gave him a lot of leash with this one. I don’t want to haul it in unless I really have to.”

Uncle Sal nodded knowingly and labored to stand up. Dano hit a button on his desk and Bruno sauntered in blocking the light exposed by the open door almost efficiently as the door itself. The withered tilted bald head of Salvatore Verlucci barely came past Bruno’s hips as he leaned on the big man for support, too stubborn and ornery to use his wheelchair. Bruno just picked up the oxygen cylinder cart in all with his free hand, and helped the old man out the door with the other.

“If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score? Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”

Vince Lombardi