Jojo Black sat ramrod straight in the metal chair, tapping his hands and feet. Not a worry in the world. He looked at his watch.
“Forty-five minutes till kickoff.” The 10x10 room swallowed his words. The only break in the white floor, walls, and ceiling was a one-way mirror reflecting his image back to him.
Jojo began humming. Then he launched into a dirge.
“Nobody knows, the trouble I seen…”
He drummed his fingers on the white table and regarded the empty chair opposite his.
“You’re definitely working the interrogation vibe and I dig it.”
Another glance at his watch. He had a fair amount resting on the Pats, but that didn’t worry him. With TB12, it was a lock. He didn’t sweat Parker, either; he’d find a way to get money to the bookie somehow. But this unexpected detour to a bullshit holding cell proved inconvenient.
“Nobody knows the trouble I seen,” he continued in his best baritone, “Nobody but Jesus.”
He stood up and stretched. Walked over to the mirror and cupped his eyes. No dice. Jojo took a step back and spoke to the mystery folks behind the glass.
“Look, fellas, you’re making a mistake. I understand you want to intimidate me, but it’s not necessary. You don’t have a legal recourse here. However, I could be a real asset to your casino. You could hire me on as an in-house psychiatrist. Remember The Godfather? Dr. Jules Segal? That could be me doing great things for your establishment.”
Jojo shrugged, checked his teeth for any food particles and sat back down.
As chief of security for Kilimanjaro, Terry Dickman had seen it all. Heard it all. But this fucking guy broke the mold. Singing, talking. Terry stood behind the one-way mirror, arms folded across his chest watching and enjoying, then got on his walkie-talkie.
“Get me Bobby. He’s got to hear this shit.”