Bad Guys Read online

  Joanne turned her face away.

  “Too noisy in here,” Jules said, and wandered off toward the nearest exit.

  “Hey, you all right?” Tozzi put his hand on Joanne’s arm.

  “Yeah, fine.” Her face was still turned away. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and abruptly headed for the ladies’ room.

  Tozzi followed Jules through the purple-black tinted glass doors that kept the casino in a state of perpetual midnight. The slanted sunlight streaming into the vestibule was so strong it looked like the old man was at the bottom of the stairway to Heaven about to go up and meet his Maker. Tozzi went over to the window where Jules stood looking out at the boardwalk and the ocean beyond. The sun was hot on Tozzi’s face, and it made him squint. Jules stared at the waves, his skin almost white in the sunlight. He was like a sad little ghost.

  “Do me a favor,” he said to Tozzi. “Be nice to her.”

  Tozzi didn’t know how to respond to that. “Sure . . . I mean, why wouldn’t I be nice to her?”

  Jules laughed scornfully. “Richie was a real son-of-a-bitch to her. I don’t want that to ever happen to her again.”

  “Well . . . I’m not Richie.”

  Jules didn’t answer that. He was frowning at the ocean.

  Tozzi wasn’t sure how much about Varga he should let on that he knew. He wished Joanne would get back.

  “She used to tell me that he hit her,” Jules said, squinting up at Tozzi. “I don’t think he ever did, though. Not really.”

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Collesano?”

  Jules gulped his drink. “Wasn’t his style.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The guy was a sneak. He’d never hit anyone. He was afraid they’d fight back. Even with a woman, he was afraid, I bet.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah, he was something. Yeah, I remember at a confirmation party one of my men threw for his kid. Matty O’Brien’s oldest boy, it was. Some punk from Matty’s crew thought Richie was making eyes at his wife, and he called Richie on it, right in front of everybody. Richie just stood there stuttering and mumbling and getting red in the face like a real dummy. The guy roughed him up, right in front of everybody, and Richie just let it happen. I wanted to kill the jerk myself, I was so mad. How do you think it made me look? My goddamn son-in-law, my right-hand man, acting like a fucking mameluke in front of all those people.”

  “Maybe he acted that way on purpose,” Tozzi said. “To make you think he was a mameluke.”

  “He was a mameluke! He was a little yellow, back-stabbing sneak. You think that fat-ass pencil pusher would’ve ever been able to run a crew like a real man? Never. There was no way in the world he’d ever get made on his own, not the way he was going.”

  Tozzi nodded and sipped his drink. Keep talking, Jules.

  “But he wanted to get made. He told me all the time. I told him to be a good boy and stay with me. I gave him a good job, you know. Better than he deserved. But I guess a lot of guys do that when their daughters get married—am I wrong? Even big businessmen. I took care of the bastard . . . and then he took care of me.”

  Jules shaded his eyes with his big hand and peered out at the ocean. There were half a dozen ships far out on the horizon. “Who’s that? The Russians come to bomb us?” Jules asked. “They don’t like fun, the Communists. People have too much fun here at Atlantic City. They like to bomb places where people have fun.” He laughed, but it wasn’t convincing.

  “I would think they’d hit New York before Atlantic City,” Tozzi speculated.

  “I wouldn’t shed any tears if they did.” Jules gulped down the rest of his drink. “No tears at all.”

  “They put Richie up to it, didn’t they?”

  “Of course they did,” Jules said bitterly. “What do you think? They promised to make him in New York if he helped them get rid of me. Richie knew it was the only way he could ever get made, so naturally he went along with it. He was ambitious, my son-in-law. He associated with big men—Mr. Luccarelli, Mr. Mistretta, and Mr. Giovinazzo.” Jules swiped the fingernails of one hand under his chin, the old Italian gesture that meant “May they spit blood.”

  Joanne poked her head through one of the tinted doors then. “There you are,” she said, and she walked over to put her arm around her father and kiss him on the cheek. “How’ve you been, Daddy?”

  Tozzi was touched by the sight of this sophisticated lady in a silk top, linen slacks, and high-heel sandals doting over her old man, but then again he’d never known people to use their office persona or, God forbid, their bedroom persona with their parents.

  “I love you, Daddy.” She hugged him tight.

  Jules squeezed her close in a way that would have made her seem like a little girl if she didn’t have four inches on him.

  “Okay, enough of this,” he declared brusquely, and suddenly let go of her. “Don’t want people to think I’m fooling around with young girls again, do you?” His booming laugh filled the vestibule.

  “Lunch,” Jules said. “You gotta eat”—he sized up his daughter’s slender figure—“and don’t say no.” He turned to Tozzi. “You’re hungry, no?”

  Tozzi smiled. “Sure.”

  “We’ll have the clams oreganata. They know how to make them here. Nice, not all bread crumbs. You won’t believe.”

  He grabbed his daughter’s hand and started to lead her away, then made an about-face and pointed at Tozzi. “You like calamari?”

  Tozzi shrugged and nodded.

  “I’ll bet you never had it the way they make it here. Tender like you won’t believe. Come on, Richie. Let’s eat.” Jules pushed the door open and pulled Joanne with him.

  Tozzi caught a glimpse of the pained expression on her face as she went through the doorway.

  Joanne leaned back in the passenger’s seat and stared through the windshield as Tozzi drove. She was wearing a pair of oversized Jackie O sunglasses. Tozzi noticed her fidgeting with the straps of her purse as if they were a set of rosary beads. The Saab had a nice ride, but it took some getting used to. He kept glancing at the dash, making sure things were where they were supposed to be because the ignition on the floor under the stick shift had thrown him for a loop.

  Joanne had been crying, but she’d stopped now. Jules had gotten a little boisterous at lunch, and she couldn’t get him to settle down. It was hard for her to see him acting as if he were still the big man in Atlantic City. It must’ve been even harder hearing him promise her the moon, assuring her that the next time she got married it would be “beautiful.” And Jules didn’t say things just once. She’d kept up a good front all through lunch. It was only after they’d said goodbye and Jules went back to the blackjack tables that the tears came.

  “I know I shouldn’t, but I avoid coming down here to see him,” she said. “He seems to get a little worse every time I see him.”

  Tozzi went to shift, then remembered to clutch first. It had been a while since he’d driven a standard transmission. “Your father seemed okay when I was talking to him.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  He glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the road. “Richie.”

  He looked at her again.

  “Your father brought him up,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “Did he tell you how he and his pals are going to find Richie and make him pay?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised. That’s one of his big topics. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to help.”

  Tozzi kept his eyes on the road. “If he’d asked, I might have said yes.”

  She didn’t respond.

  They fell silent. After a while Joanne put a tape in the cassette deck. Tozzi hoped it wasn’t classical music. It was, but as he listened he was relieved to hear that this music was very soothing and meditative, more traditional than that cat-screech string quartet in her bedroom. He liked it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Telemann fugues,” she said.
“Turn left here. I’ll show you how to get back on the Parkway. The expressway’s always jammed on Saturdays.”

  Tozzi followed her directions and drove down a wide residential street lined with large homes, old Victorians alternating with more modern houses. The newer homes were either one-story ranches with expensive stone facades or center-hall colonials with big pillars on the front porches. The lawns were all neat and manicured. A solid upper-middle/lower-upper-class neighborhood. Tozzi imagined banker-types living in these houses.

  Joanne sat up and stared at one of the colonials, a white house with big pillars and red geraniums in clay pots flanking the front steps. She seemed very interested in that house.

  “Somebody you know?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That house. You know who lives there?”

  “Somebody I used to know,” she said. “When I was a kid.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “A girl I went to grammar school with used to live there. Linda Tuckerman was my best friend in third grade. We used to play there all the time until one day after school the maid rushed out as we got to the porch and told me I had to go home, that I couldn’t come in. A big black woman from Jamaica. She shooed me away like a chicken. I didn’t understand at the time. Turned out that Linda’s father was running for councilman and he didn’t want to be discredited by his daughter’s association with Jules Collesano’s kid. It was so cruel.” She leaned her head against the headrest.

  “Did your father find out about it?”

  “Oh, yeah. I told him all about it, bawling my eyes out.” She sighed and shook her head. “You know what he did? He sent one of his men to Mr. Tuckerton’s office bearing gifts. Linda’s father got an anonymous ten-thousand-dollar campaign contribution . . . and a broken hand. A few days later when I came home from school, there was a new Barbie doll and a Ken doll in my room with the complete Barbie and Ken wardrobes and every Barbie accessory available, the little sports car, the boudoir, everything. I already had a Barbie and some clothes, but getting the whole thing in one lump was a little girl’s dream come true. That night at dinner I asked my father where it came from. He told me not to worry about it, just enjoy it. From then on Linda and I played at my house after school.”

  Tozzi raised his eyebrows. “Fathers and daughters,” he murmured.

  “Take a right at the stop sign,” she said, and turned up the volume so that the music filled the car.

  Fathers and daughters, she thought wistfully as she looked into the side mirror and saw the terraced lawn in front of the big white house with the geranium pots on the steps, her father’s house.

  FOURTEEN

  Gibbons sat down opposite Brant Ivers, who ignored him as he studied the papers on his desk. The SAC was wearing a pastel pink shirt and a contrasting paisley tie under a gray double-breasted suit. The desk’s writing slide was pulled out where Ivers’s lunch awaited him: a spinach salad in a clear-plastic container and a cup of strawberry yogurt. Gibbons stared at the fare. J. Edgar would’ve croaked if he’d ever seen this.

  “Well?” Gibbons finally said.

  Ivers peered over his half-glasses. He didn’t say anything. Gibbons assumed this was supposed to be meaningful.

  “You called me in here, Ivers. What do you want?”

  Ivers took off his glasses and dropped them on top of the papers he’d been reading. Gibbons wasn’t sure what the SAC meant to convey with this gesture. It could have been the prelude to either a pep talk or an ass-reaming.

  “I just read your last report, Bert.” He reached for the cup of yogurt, pried off the lid, and started to stir it with a plastic spoon. “It’s a little . . . spare.”

  Gibbons watched him stirring up red glop from the bottom of his cup. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s what I’ve got so far.” Gibbons resented being called in to explain himself. What he and Tozzi were onto was a hell of a lot more important than playing games with Ivers. He wished he could tell the SAC to fuck off.

  Ivers dug into his yogurt a little more, then set it aside. “Have you forgotten that you’re required to include everything you’ve done during the previous week in your reports? Even leads that bear no fruit?”

  Gibbons smiled with his teeth. “Yes, Brant, I do remember how to write a weekly.”

  “Then why did you omit your work with the Varga files?” Now Ivers was showing his teeth.

  When the immediate flash of hate passed, Gibbons cooled down and realized that Ivers had been working on that line all morning. Dropping a bomb was one of Ivers’s favorite ploys.

  “The Varga stuff was a dead end,” Gibbons said. “Just a bad hunch.”

  Ivers nodded and went for his yogurt again. He shoveled a drippy spoonful into his mouth. The sight nearly turned Gibbons’s stomach. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I know you went into the Varga files.”

  “Hayes the librarian told you.” That big dumb-ass.

  Ivers shook his head, smiling like the cat who caught the canary. “We’ve got a new system with the files. It was installed after you retired. Every Monday I get a printout of all the files that were called up and who requested them during the previous week. It includes hard copies too since Hayes records all traffic in the File Room on the computer. From what I see here, you spent a lot of time with the Varga material. It took you that long to figure out you were running up a blind alley?”

  “I’m very thorough.” All of a sudden Gibbons had heartburn. He had Rolaids in his pocket, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Ivers see him popping them.

  “I’m curious. What did you think Varga had to do with Tozzi?”

  Gibbons was in a corner. He didn’t want Ivers to know anything about his research into Richie Varga. Fucking Tozzi. Why didn’t he say something about this goddamn new monitoring system in the office? The asshole never did think about the details. Well, fuck me, Gibbons thought, I’ve got to say something. Sometimes you’ve got no choice but to throw down a good card.

  “I thought Tozzi’s next target might be Richie Varga. It seemed crazy enough for Tozzi.”

  “I don’t follow you, Bert.”

  “Tozzi thinks he’s on a roll. He’s three for three with this vendetta business. I thought he may be ready to take on something more challenging.”

  “Like gunning down a guy hidden under the auspices of the Witness Security Program.” Ivers squinted skeptically. He was digging through his yogurt again, staring into the cup as if he were reading tea leaves. “Why would he go after Varga? Varga cooperated with the prosecutors. A lot of hoods were put away thanks to him. Varga turned out to be a good guy.”

  Yeah, so are you, Brant.

  Bile was burning the back of Gibbons’s throat. “Tozzi didn’t think so. I remember some comments he’d made about Varga at the time of his grand jury testimony. He thought Varga was just as dirty as the guys he was ratting on.”

  “And that’s why you thought he might be after Varga? Sounds pretty weak to me.”

  “It was just a hunch,” Gibbons said. “And not a very good one, as it turned out.”

  Ivers set down the yogurt and picked up Gibbons’s weekly report. He had a feeling the SAC was going to pick through the whole thing, point for point. What an asshole. Gibbons shifted in his seat. On top of everything else, his goddamn hemorrhoids were acting up.

  But just as Ivers was about to say something, his intercom buzzed. He picked up the phone and listened. “Send him right in,” he said.

  A second later the door opened and in walked Bill Kinney. Gibbons noticed his paisley tie and the matching handkerchief artfully stuffed in the breast pocket of his navy blazer. The young heir apparent to the SAC’s paisley throne, Gibbons thought, then realized that he was just in a bad mood. Kinney wasn’t such a bad guy.

  “Sit down, Bill.” Ivers pointed to the chair next to Gibbons.

  Kinney pressed his lips together into a smile and nodded to Gibbons as he took his seat.

  “Bert, your investigation is going
too slow. Tozzi has to be found before he strikes again. I’ve decided to assign Bill to this case. You’ll work together on this.” Ivers’s tone suddenly turned pompous, as if he were orating to a roomful of recruits. Gibbons knew this was all for Kinney’s benefit.

  “Bill, I want you to go over Bert’s reports and read the file on Tozzi. Then consult with Bert and see if you can take a new approach to this investigation. This is top priority, Bill, so do whatever you feel is necessary to find Tozzi. You two are partners now on this.”

  Kinney threw a sympathetic glance at Gibbons. That was a real low blow. It was understood that this was Gibbons’s case, even if Kinney was being brought in to help. By stating that they were partners on the investigation, Ivers was letting them both know that from now on Gibbons’s seniority meant shit.

  “Now I have a lot of respect for the old gumshoe method of investigation,” Ivers continued. “It’s how the Bureau made its name back in Hoover’s day. But you’ve got to take advantage of the available technology. The labs in Washington are there for a reason. Use them. Also, the files. Don’t think of it as a vast library full of isolated reports. Now that everything is computerized, you can make the files work for you. Employ a little creativity in calling for universal searches. You may come up with something unexpected. Talk to Hayes. He can help you there.”

  Gibbons’s asshole was on fire. This was just a lot of bullshit, meant to show him what an antique he’d become. In thirty years with the Bureau, no one had ever complained about the “gumshoe method,” as Ivers called it. The fucking “gumshoe method” got results. Always did and always would. The fucking “gumshoe method” already found Tozzi, you goddamn nitwit.

  Kinney’s arms were crossed. Gibbons could see that it was even uncomfortable for him to have to listen to this crap. Ivers was using him, making him the sounding board because the SAC didn’t have the guts to tell Gibbons this to his face, the spineless jellyfish.

  Ivers sat up straight and folded his hands on the desk. He looked like a politician making a campaign address on TV. “Now, Bill, I expect you to give Bert a little refresher in what’s developed here at the Bureau since he retired. Bert, I think Bill will save you from making any more time-consuming detours, like the Varga business. You two will make a good team, I think. Expertise combined with experience.” Ivers looked at Kinney and nodded as if he were very satisfied with this marriage.