Bad Luck Page 13

  Gibbons strolled through the dinosaur hall, stopping at the information plaques, keeping his eye on Mistretta. He and Lorraine used to make it up here to the Museum of Natural History at least once a year. This place and the Metropolitan Museum of Art were their favorites. She really liked the room at the Met with the armor and the swords and the lances. It wasn’t her period, but the sight of all those knights tilting forward on their armored chargers gave her a thrill. Plate armor is early Renaissance, not medieval. He’d learned that from her the first time they went there together. In the Middle Ages they wore chain mail. He used to like to bait her with his bias for the ancient Romans, telling her that in the days of the Caesars, an imperial legion could’ve beaten the shit out of any army from the Middle Ages, Christian or barbarian. As proof, he’d take her to the case where the Roman short swords were kept. Faster, lighter, more compact. They were like Uzis compared to the heavy broadswords the French and the English had used in the late Middle Ages. But then Lorraine would always point out that the long bow was the product of the late Middle Ages, and he’d say that projectile weapons marked the beginning of pussy-shit fighting. Toe-to-toe, man-to-man the way the Romans did it—that was fighting.

  Gibbons sighed. He and Lorraine didn’t seem to do stuff like that anymore. Now they went to malls and looked at curtains. He stared at Mistretta and wondered if his wife made him pick out curtains. No, Mistretta probably didn’t give a shit about curtains. Probably thought replacing perfectly good curtains that only needed a good washing was a waste of money. He was supposed to be a cheap son of a bitch. But it was a waste of money.

  He walked over to the other side of the big dinosaur skeleton that Mistretta was looking at and watched him through the dark copper-colored rib bones. Gibbons had to laugh. It looked like the boss was back in prison. That’s where he should be, the little shit.

  Mistretta looked up from the information plaque in front of him and stared Gibbons in the eye. Gibbons looked away. Mistretta probably just assumed he was being followed. The parole board had had someone on his tail from the minute he arrived at the halfway house here. That’s why he spent his days on the I-Love-NY tour, religiously avoiding all contact with his mob boys.

  According to Mistretta’s watchdog, that guy Saperstein, Mistretta hasn’t seen anybody since he’s been back, except for Immordino’s sister, the nun. That was last Friday, two days before the big powwow at Immordino’s house. According to what he and Dougherty had overheard from the surveillance van, Mistretta has given his blessings to whatever scam Immordino’s got going, the one that has something to do with Vegas, Golden Boy, and Mr. Mad—whoever the hell they were. But somehow this didn’t jibe with Mistretta’s profile. He was a hands-on boss, and his family had been unusually quiet while he’d been in prison. Why would he let his people start something now, so close to his release? If in four years he hadn’t trusted Sal Immordino to be anything but a caretaker, why trust him now? It didn’t make sense.

  Unless Immordino was making an end-run play on his own. One big score before he has to surrender the reins? Behind Mistretta’s back? If it has something to do with Las Vegas, it has to involve big money; and if Gibbons had learned anything in his career as a special agent in the Organized Crime Unit of the Manhattan field office, it was that when big money is concerned anything is possible.

  Gibbons made like he was examining the bones, keeping Mistretta in his peripheral vision. He wasn’t sure whether Mistretta had made him yet, but the way the guy was staring at him through the bones now seemed to indicate some kind of recognition. But maybe Mistretta was just naturally hostile toward everyone who crossed his path. The Director was like that. Or maybe Mistretta was so cautious that he was constantly on guard, perpetually on the defensive. You don’t get to be capo di capi of the second-largest crime family in New York by being careless.

  “You want something?” Mistretta’s gravelly tones echoed through the long hall.

  Gibbons tilted his head back and stared at him for a few moments. “You offering anything?”

  Mistretta’s eyes narrowed. “You been following me all day. Yesterday too. What do you want with me?”

  Gibbons sauntered around the iron railing encircling the dinosaur, passed under the long neck, and walked up to Mistretta. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his ID.

  Mistretta raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Gibbons’s ID. “I’m impressed.” J. Edgar used to raise one eyebrow in contempt the same way.

  Gibbons scanned the bones, following the dinosaur’s long long neck way up to the little head. “Tell me something, Mistretta. How’s Sal?”

  “Sal who?”

  “Immordino.”

  Mistretta shrugged. “Don’t know him.”

  Gibbons smiled. “You were seen saying your prayers with his sister last week.”

  “I know his sister. I don’t know him.”

  Gibbons pinched his nostrils. “Seems funny that you’d leave a guy you don’t even know in charge of your family.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My kids are all grown. My wife takes care of herself.”

  “I’m sure she does.” Women do.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Gibbons shrugged and smiled with his teeth like a crocodile. “What do you know about Seaview Properties, Incorporated?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Really? You’re on the board of directors.”

  Mistretta didn’t answer.

  “Seaview Properties holds the title to the land that Nashe Plaza Hotel and Casino is built on in Atlantic City. That’s what it says in the tax records down there.”

  “So what?”

  “Sal Immordino has been spending a lot of time down in Atlantic City. Having meetings with Russell Nashe.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Gibbons showed his teeth again. “Now, why would the acting head of your family—your other family—be having meetings with the man who built his casino on your land?”

  “Sal Immordino doesn’t have an acting head. He’s a functional idiot. A very unfortunate person.”

  “I thought you didn’t know him.”

  “That’s what his sister told me.”

  Gibbons nodded and stared down the length of the dinosaur’s tail. Supposed to have had a second brain in the tail. About as big as a walnut. “I’m gonna take a wild guess, Mistretta, but I’ll bet Nashe owes you money on that land and Sal’s down there doing the collecting for you.”

  Mistretta looked up at the dino head. The flesh on the lopsided side of his mouth was all wrinkled and knobby, just like the Director’s.

  “According to what’s on file at the Atlantic City Municipal Tax Board, Russell Nashe signed a ninety-nine-year lease for that land five years ago. Five years and twenty-six days ago.”

  Mistretta shrugged, still looking up at the head.

  “Five years is a nice neat period of time. I’m thinking maybe Nashe was supposed to make some big payment on the fifth anniversary of the lease. Maybe he didn’t make that payment. Maybe Sal Immordino’s trying to find out why, trying to help him along with his delinquent pay ment.” But what’s this got to do with Vegas? Nashe doesn’t have any casinos in Vegas.

  Mistretta fussed with his tie clip until it was perfectly horizontal. He ruffled the lapels of his raincoat, then rubbed his nose and sniffed.

  Gibbons stared at him for a minute, waiting for him to say something. A couple of little old ladies in L. L. Bean mountain parkas walked into the room, took a gander at all the bones, and turned right around. Not their cup of tea. “Does any of this sound plausible to you, Mistretta?”

  He raised that contemptuous eyebrow again, then let it down slowly and relaxed his face. “You see this big dinosaur here? They used to call it the brontosaurus, but then they found out that there was no such thing as a brontosaurus, because this guy who thought he made a big new discovery really only found pieces of the same kind of dinosaur he’d found
a couple years earlier. See, what he thought was a completely new thing was just a plain old—” Mistretta looked down at the plaque and scanned it with his finger—“an old a-pat-osaurus. An apatosaurus.” He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “For years everybody said it was a brontosaurus, but all the while it was just another stupid apatosaurus. See, that’s like circumstantial evidence you guys use. People—experts—they think something is one way. They go to court and swear on the Bible that that’s the way it is, absolutely, couldn’t have been any other way. Juries hear this shit and convict innocent people, ruin their lives. Then, years later, these big experts come back and say they made a mistake. It wasn’t the way they’d said, after all. Turns out it wasn’t a brontosaurus. Just an old apatosaurus.” Mistretta nodded. “Happens all the time that way.”

  Gibbons rolled his eyes. Mistretta was gonna be cute now. “Very edifying. Know anything about any bones buried under Nashe Plaza?”

  Mistretta glowered at him with the bulldog face. Pure J. Edgar. Incredible.

  Gibbons leaned on the railing. “You believe in reincarnation?”

  Mistretta narrowed his puffy eyes and scowled. “Wha’?”

  “Never mind.” Gibbons focused on the dinosaur’s disproportionately big feet. Had to be big to hold up that much weight. “What’s new in Vegas these days?”

  “What the fuck do I know about Vegas? I been in prison. In Pennsylvania.”

  “Juicy Vacarini. You know Juicy? He’s one of your boys. I hear Juicy’s got a lot of close friends out in Vegas. Friends he can trust to make bets for him. Big bets, fifty grand apiece. So what’s the game? Maybe I wanna get a piece of that action.”

  The eyes bulged, and the mouth took a nosedive on the droopy side. For just a moment Mistretta seemed genuinely rattled. Was this news to him? Hell of a way to find out what your people are doing, from an FBI agent. The bulldog snapped then, “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  Gibbons pursed his lips and nodded. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “No.”

  Mistretta seemed impatient now. It wasn’t real obvious, but it was there, Gibbons could sense it. Maybe he was reading in because Mistretta reminded him so much of the Director. Hoover always had that barely perceptible edge of impatience, like he had to get away, be someplace else, see to something more important than what was in front of him. But why so jumpy all of a sudden? Special agents don’t make big mob bosses jumpy. In three days of touring the city Mistretta hadn’t seemed jumpy. Maybe he’d hit a nerve. Maybe Mistretta didn’t know what was going on in his own family. Maybe he knew less than he and Tozzi knew. Great. Three days of tailing this guy and all for nothing.

  Mistretta checked his watch, a big gold Rolex. He wore it loose on the underside of his wrist. “Hey, look, I’m going for a coffee. You don’t mind if I leave you now?” Very sarcastic.

  Gibbons shook his head. They both knew he’d be following along. Mistretta started to head for the elevators. Gibbons was feeling antsy, though. He wanted to accomplish something for his efforts. Well, if he couldn’t find out what was brewing, at least he could stir up the pot.

  “Hey, Mistretta?”

  Mistretta stopped and glared at him. “Whattaya want from me?”

  “Is it true that you’re retiring, that you’re gonna make Sal the permanent boss?”

  Mistretta glared at him. “I dunno what you’re talking about,” he snapped. Very angry.

  “You don’t have to answer that, Mistretta. It’s pretty obvious from the way Sal’s been wheeling and dealing lately. It’s very admirable of you, stepping down and letting a younger man take over. Very admirable.”

  Mistretta turned his back on Gibbons and walked away. Gibbons followed, smiling with his teeth.

  “Hey, Mistretta. One more thing.”

  “What?” He kept walking, sounded annoyed.

  “You gonna have pie with your coffee today?”

  The old boss stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Why? Is that a crime too?”

  “Only if it’s coconut custard.”

  Mistretta’s scowl went south again. “How about pecan? Is pecan pie okay with you?”

  Gibbons nodded. “Sure. Whatever makes you happy.”

  Mistretta’s steps echoed through the dinosaur hall. Gibbons watched him for a moment, then glanced over at another skeleton, a meateater who stood on his hind legs, a million sharp teeth in his deadly grin. Pecan pie, he thought. He loved pecan pie. But that was another one on Lorraine’s hit list. Too much sugar, plus cholesterol in the nuts. Gibbons headed for the elevators to catch up with Mistretta so he could watch him have his coffee and pie, see if he made any phone calls, see how agitated the boss got. If Mistretta didn’t know what Sal was up to, maybe he’d really stirred up the pot. If . . .

  Gibbons glanced up one last time at the skull looming over him and thought about pecan pie again. He suddenly realized that if Lorraine had her way, he could die without ever having coconut custard or pecan pie again. He took off his hat and put it on again. Fuck that. If that little shit Mistretta was gonna have pie, so was he. Lorraine doesn’t have to know everything.

  ozzi unlocked the door and went into his tiny two-room apartment at the Plaza. He stopped short, with his hand over the light switch. He thought he’d kicked something, something that wasn’t supposed to be there. He reached out with his foot, but there was nothing there now. His eyes adjusted to the dark room and then he saw them, all over the floor. Balloons. He grinned. This had to be Valerie’s work. But when he turned on the lights, he saw that they were all the same color. Sort of a thin milky white. He shook his head. Naughty girl.

  “Val?”

  He walked through the living room with the kitchenette along the right-hand wall, kicking these white “balloons,” then turned the corner into the bedroom.

  “Val?” He was grinning, thinking she was here already. He hit the wall switch in the dark bedroom.

  The first thing Tozzi saw was the gun. Then he saw who was holding it—Sal Immordino stretched out on his bed, Sal Immordino holding a 9mm automatic fitted with a silencer, that long, evil-looking barrel pointed right at him. Tozzi suddenly felt very cold, cramps snaking through his stomach. He didn’t move.

  His box of condoms was open on the bed next to Sal, torn tinfoil wrappers all over the place, more milky-white “balloons” in this room than the other. Tozzi couldn’t believe it. There must’ve been two dozen in this room alone. For chrissake, how the hell long had Immordino been here blowing up his rubbers? This guy is bats.

  Sal propped himself up on his elbow, the gun still leveled. “You must be a very hopeful guy, Tomasso. You keep more rubbers here than a fucking drugstore.”

  You need ’em with Sydney. “What do you care?”

  “Oh, Mr. Attitude here.” Sal shook his head disapprovingly. “Sit down, Tomasso. Take a load olf.” He pointed with his gun to the armchair opposite the bed.

  Tozzi took a seat as Sal unrolled another condom and started blowing it up, the gun in his hand pointed at the ceiling. When he finished, he realized he couldn’t tie off the end while holding the gun, so he just let it go. It sputtered and farted, looped over the bed, crashed, and died on the rug.

  Sal smiled at Tozzi. “So how you doin’, Tomasso? You feeling all right?”

  “Oh, I’m just great.” Shit.

  “Good.” Sal squinted and aimed at a balloon. The 9mm went pfitt, real soft, and a balloon popped and disappeared. The others around it skittered away in fear. Tozzi noticed a small entry hole in the bottom drawer of the bureau. The sweater drawer. Son of a bitch.

  “So tell me the truth, Tomasso. What are you? A cop? A fed? What?” Sal squinted down the barrel at another balloon.

  Tozzi waited for him to fire, but he didn’t shoot.

  “I’m talking to you, Tomasso. I asked you a question.”

  “Whattaya want from me? I’m a bodyguard.”

  Pfitt! Another balloon disappeared. “Uh-huh.” Pfitt!
He missed this time, but he plugged the sweater drawer again.

  Sal set the pistol down on his big belly. He was daring Tozzi to try something. Tozzi was sitting on the edge of the armchair with his elbows on his knees, trying to breathe evenly, wishing he didn’t feel so jittery. He was thinking about the little .22 in the holster strapped to his left ankle. Sal had fired three shots; a 9mm like that could hold seventeen bullets in the clip. Tozzi thought about going for his gun, but even if Sal was slow as shit, he’d still get to his gun before Tozzi could get his pant leg up. Fuck.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Tomasso. What the hell are you?”

  “You know what the hell I am. I’m one of Nashe’s bodyguards.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tozzi expected Sal to grab the gun and put a few more holes in his sweaters, but he didn’t. Instead he took in a deep breath and let it out slow. The automatic slowly rose on his big belly, then sank with the exhale. “What’d you do to my boys at the Epps camp? I want to hear your side of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s not be modest, huh? You must’ve messed them up pretty good ’cause they came back like two mamelukes with their tails between their legs. I take it they gave you my message, but apparently it didn’t make much of an impression.”

  Sal yawned and stretched his arms, rapping his knuckles on the headboard. Tozzi was tempted to go for his gun, but he hesitated and lost the moment. Sal laid his paw back on the 9mm before he shut his mouth.

  Tozzi tried not to stare at the gun. “I heard what your guy had to say.”

  “But it didn’t make an impression on you.” Sal scratched his cheek with his free hand.