Bad Business Page 18

  Tozzi caught it and started weighing it again, flipping it up and down. “Too bad. I would’ve bet money that you knew a lot about rugs like this. Oh, well . . .”

  Silence. Muffled voices drifted in from down the hall.

  Tozzi nodded toward the door. “You think any of your guests know anything about Oriental rugs like this? Maybe I could go down and ask around. I’d be quick about it.” Tozzi flashed a grin. “Probably throw ’em for a loop, huh? They’re waiting for you to come in and make your pitch for their support in the next election, and here I come in with this rug business. Pretty funny . . . Oh, but what am I talking about? You just told me you’re not gonna run for mayor. I guess I’m just not thinking straight these days.”

  Tozzi stared at the patch of rug and studied it for a moment. “It is a nice rug, though. I bet some of those people down there would know something about good rugs.”

  “I don’t think so, Mike.”

  “I dunno about that. I’ll bet Reverend Hargreaves would. That was Reverend Hargreaves I saw out there, wasn’t it? Who runs the outreach program for junkies up in Harlem. I have a feeling he’d know a lot about this kind of rug. Or he’d like to know.”

  Augustine took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He lifted his chin and straightened his back. It was as if he were reinflating himself. “You know, Mike, I’ve always found that reasonable men can always come to an equitable compromise when they happen to be at odds on a given issue. Reasonable men are flexible. They realize that any particular problem has more than one solution.” A small smile graced his clenched jaw. “Why else do we have plea bargaining?”

  He sat there smiling at Tozzi in all his Ivy League glory.

  Bastard.

  Tozzi got up off the fainting couch. “You know, I’ve often wondered why we do have plea bargaining. It always seemed like used-car-lot justice to me. Maybe we could discuss it some time. Some other time.”

  Tozzi moved toward the door and Augustine quickly got up.

  “You don’t have to see me out, Tom. I know the way.” He was still flipping the rug swatch in his hand. Augustine’s eyes were glued to it.

  “Here.” He tossed it back to Augustine, who reached out for it but missed again. It landed on top of the glass lampshade. “You can keep it.” Tozzi let a grin spread across his face, slowly, like cream seeping into iced coffee. “So you don’t forget me.” Tozzi opened the study door, and the conviviality of the party spilled in. “You better get back to your guests now, Tom.”

  Augustine took the rug swatch off the lamp and put it in his pocket, glaring at Tozzi all the while. A piano started to play a vamp, and a few people applauded. Tozzi looked up and listened for a moment. “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Gradually a few voices started singing along.

  “Sounds like a good party. Have fun.”

  Augustine pointed his Yale chin at Tozzi, his eyes glistening. “I will.”

  — 17 —

  The house was silent. It was late. Augustine couldn’t sleep. He was sitting at his desk in the study, feet up, eyes closed, fingers spread out across his forehead, time suspended. He was having another one of his damn cluster headaches, and his left eye socket was throbbing. The rug swatch Tozzi had brought was on the blotter under the lamp. He forced his eyes open and gazed at it blankly, wondering what in God’s name he was going to do, wondering what in God’s name Tozzi was going to do. He kept running down worst-case scenarios in his mind, but he couldn’t be sure if his scenarios were worst-case enough. His prospects for winning City Hall were becoming increasingly dimmer. Even if he got the money he needed from the Sicilians, Tozzi was now standing in the way. Tozzi knew, and he wasn’t going to be quiet about it. Augustine considered the possibilities, the alternative routes, but no matter what, it all came down to that little nothing, Tozzi.

  He squinted his eyes shut as the pain suddenly became excruciating. Tozzi was the little drill bit boring into his skull right under his eye. Damn him!

  But how much did Tozzi really know? Enough to get him indicted for conspiring with the Sicilians? Maybe not, but the mere allegation of a mob connection would be enough to besmirch his reputation and ruin his career in public service. No matter how Augustine figured it, he wound up the loser. He stared at the patch of rug—burgundy, blue, and beige. It all came down to Tozzi. And even a murder conviction with a death sentence couldn’t silence him. If anything, that would get him more attention and make things worse. Tozzi’d start screaming at the top of his lungs what he knew. He’d want to deal, plea-bargain for a reduced sentence, make a trade for his knowledge of the dirty Assistant United States Attorney. Augustine swallowed on a dry throat.

  The telephone suddenly rang, shattering the quiet. The ring slammed into his chest like the butt end of a flying log, and the drill screamed into his skull. He snapped up the receiver before it rang again. He didn’t want it to wake his wife. He was miserable enough. He didn’t need her.

  “Hello.”

  “You answer quick. Why you no sleep?”

  Augustine recognized the thick accent and the snide amiability. It was Salamandra.

  Augustine took his feet off the desk. Why the hell was he calling him here? “What do you want?”

  “You fuck up very bad. Is no good. You remember my friend from the farm? He tell me he is very disappoint in you.”

  Augustine pictured the scrawny little man nonchalantly eating grapes in the sun, spitting the skins into the dust. Zucchetti.

  “Tell your friend he has no reason to be disappointed. I have everything under control.”

  Salamandra coughed up a laugh. “That is not how we see. You suppose to do that thing for us. Maybe you try—I don’ know—but you no do. We still must go down to that place every day, sit there and listen to all the bullshit. You know what I say?”

  Augustine knew. Salamandra was talking about the mistrial he’d promised them.

  “You’re panicking. Tell your friend that I’ll take care of everything.”

  Salamandra laughed again. “No, no, no, no. You were the one who panic. You were the one who send the other guy on vacation.”

  Giordano . . . killing Giordano . . . sending him on vacation.

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Augustine stopped and considered his wording. He had to be as careful about what he said as they were. You could never tell who might be listening. Like Tozzi, maybe. “Are you telling me he shouldn’t have been . . . sent on vacation?”

  “No, no, we no blame you for that. You did what you should do because that guy, he had a big mouth, he was going to say things about us. But you forget one thing.”

  “What?”

  “The rug.”

  Augustine stared down at the swatch on his desk. “What about the rug?”

  “We no have it. That guy, he knew where it was. You should have made him tell you before you send him on vacation.”

  “Now, wait a minute. I made it clear to you that I would have nothing to do with that end of it. And what about”—he stopped short before he said Nemo’s name—”what about the little man, the short man, the other guy’s friend? Doesn’t he know where it is?”

  “The little man is gone. Can no find.” Salamandra suddenly sounded very displeased.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but that’s not my problem.”

  “Yes, patron’. Is your problem.”

  “What are you saying? We had an understanding. I was to have nothing to do with that end.”

  “We no get rug, you no get paid. Very simple.”

  “Hold on now. My responsibility was to get you a—you know—so you wouldn’t have to go to that place every day, so you would be free.”

  “Yes, that is still your responsibility. If you no do, then we send you on vacation.”

  Augustine’s mouth was very dry, too dry to speak.

  “You see,” Salamandra went on, “if my people had send the other guy on vacation, we would make him tell us things before he goes away. We know how to
do those things. You don’ know these things. You no experienz’. We no have rug now. Is your fault.”

  “How can you say it’s my fault?”

  “This is what my friend say. My friend say, then must be true.”

  “Listen to me now. You’re not being fair. This isn’t the arrangement we had—”

  “We know what is fair. You find rug for us—everything is beautiful. You no find rug? You go on vacation.”

  “But—”

  Click. Augustine stared at the phone in his hand. The dial tone sounded, filling the silence. His head and his heart were pounding in tandem. Fourteen million dollars, gone unless he found their goddamn heroin for them. How in the world was he supposed to get it? Good Christ, even if he did know where Tozzi had it, was he supposed to do it himself? Throw it in the back of his car and deliver it to them, like a pizza? Salamandra said it himself—he doesn’t have the experience for this kind of thing. They’ve got people, little people, who do that sort of thing for them. Who did he have? No one. Just himself. Jesus, Lord.

  The phone started to blare then, demanding to be hung up. His heart was thumping with contemptible fear. It was only when he put the receiver back on the cradle that he realized he’d had Tozzi’s rug swatch gripped in his other fist. Goddamn Tozzi. It all came down to him. He was holding all the cards.

  The pain suddenly seared through his face. He doubled over in his chair and pressed his cheek into his knee.

  God Almighty, what am I supposed to do, fight him for it? Send him on vacation too? I don’t have people who know how to do it the right way. I don’t know how to make him talk. Salamandra said so, and this time he’s right, dammit.

  He opened his hand and the crushed piece of rug unfolded itself in his palm like a newborn butterfly uncurling its wings.

  Unless . . .

  He remembered something. The day he’d met Zucchetti at the farm in Sicily, Nemo had been wearing a T-shirt for a gym somewhere in the Bronx. Or was it Brooklyn? Dumbo’s? Jumbo’s? No, Jimbo’s. That was it. Giordano had asked him about it in the car on the way to the farm, and Nemo had said that it was his favorite place in the whole world—his exact words—a bodybuilder’s paradise, every piece of equipment you could possibly want, and best of all, it was open all night, which was when he liked to work out. He also said something to the effect that it was practically his home away from home.

  Augustine sat up, picked up the phone, and dialed 555-1212.

  “Directory assistance. What city, please?”

  Augustine swallowed to wet his mouth. “Yes, operator, in Brooklyn, I’d like the number for ‘Jimbo’s Gym. That’s J as in judge’ . . .”

  Augustine was peering through the small window in the door. Nemo was inside, sitting at the Nautilus machine, doing leg-lifts with some obscene amount of weight, limbs trembling, sweat pouring off him. He stopped suddenly and got to his feet. He faced the mirrored wall and pulled down his sweatpants to admire his leg muscles. This was the third time he’d done this, and Augustine hadn’t been here fifteen minutes. God, he was pathetic.

  Augustine checked his watch. It was twenty after four in the morning. He’d been watching Nemo doggedly grapple with the weights, defying his withdrawal symptoms. He was a slave to his reps, shivering and wrapping towels around his neck, stopping to blow his drippy nose now and then, but determined to complete his workout. He was obviously cold, and the pain must’ve been gnawing at his gut. He needed a fix badly. That was clear. But he fought his pain and carried on as if nothing were the matter. Augustine was unimpressed, though. He was doing the same.

  The other idiot who’d been in there lifting barbells had left five minutes ago. Augustine listened for the running shower across the hall. He didn’t want any interruptions. Nemo had to be taken in hand, firmly and directly, shaken by the scruff like a willful mutt. He had to get Nemo’s attention and keep it. The little man was vulnerable now. Addicts don’t like to be alone when they’re in need. They become dependent on others very easily. He had to make the little man understand that his future well-being depended on him and him alone.

  A sudden stab pierced Augustine’s face under his eye. He clenched his eyes shut and balled his fists.

  Ignore it, just ignore it.

  Nemo moved on to the weight bench, loosening the set-screw and loading the bar on the rack with more metal disks. When he got the weight he wanted, he sat on the edge of the bench and started looking around for something. It was the disgusting handkerchief hanging on the Nautilus that he wanted. He grabbed the rag and swiped at his nose again, then got into position on the bench, lying back with his feet flat on the floor. He rubbed his hands and settled on a good grip, then pushed the heavy barbell off the rack and lowered it to a point an inch or so off his chest. Augustine glanced at the sign on the wall. NO BENCH-PRESSING WITHOUT A SPOTTER.

  Perfect.

  He moved fast, opening the door without a sound and whisking into the weight room on the balls of his feet, circling the Nautilus to sneak up behind Nemo lying on the bench. Nemo’s dulled senses helped. He was so preoccupied with himself, he’d hardly acknowledged the other bodybuilder when he was in there with him. Augustine stood over Nemo’s sweaty face, his hands in the pockets of his taupe cashmere overcoat. Nemo didn’t even know he was there. He just kept lifting that ridiculous barbell, up and down, up and down, grunting and sweating, his face in agony.

  When Nemo let the barbell down once more, Augustine inched in closer. When the barbell came up again, Augustine moved his knee out so that Nemo wouldn’t be able to get the weight back on the rack. He bumped the bar slightly as it came up. Nemo’s eyes shot open. He started huffing and puffing, blowing hot air, moving his lips to talk, but nothing came out.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” Augustine said. “Continue.” He leaned on the barbell a little more and Nemo let it drop, just catching it before it crushed his neck. Augustine figured Nemo had between 250 and 300 pounds on that bar.

  Nemo squinted and strained to press it back up and get it on the rack, but Augustine’s knee prevented that. Nemo locked his elbows to keep the weight up high. The little man grunted, “Hey, c’mon, man.”

  Augustine’s face twitched. “Shut up and listen. You’re in big trouble, Nemo, and you need me to get out of it. Do you understand?”

  Sweat was running down Nemo’s cheeks and pooling on the red vinyl bench cushion behind his head. “Get away, will ya?”

  “You’re working for me now—”

  “Go fuck yourself. I work for Salamandra. You know that.”

  The drill pressed into his skull again, a slow, relentless grinding. Augustine pressed down on the barbell.

  Nemo’s elbows nearly gave way. “Stop!”

  “Salamandra is very upset with you. He wants to know where you’ve been. He wants to know where the rug is.”

  “Jesus, I tried to get it back, but that fucking Tozzi guy was there. He wasn’t supposed to be there.” Nemo was whining like a baby.

  “Salamandra doesn’t know you’re a junkie, does he?”

  “Whattaya talkin’—?”

  Augustine leaned on the weight.

  “Noooo!”

  “Made members of the Mafia aren’t supposed to take dope, are they, Nemo? Salamandra’s got two reasons to be angry with you.” Augustine shook his head. “You’re in very big trouble.”

  So am I. But not for long.

  Nemo could only grunt as he struggled to keep the weight up.

  “Salamandra doesn’t want you. He couldn’t care less about you. He’ll kill you if he ever sees you like this. He may kill you anyway. He thinks you have the rug. It does make sense, though, doesn’t it? What junkie wouldn’t want a lifetime supply of heroin? Isn’t that right, Nemo?”

  Nemo’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face turning an unnatural shade of purple-red.

  “Now, there is a possibility that you can save yourself, but you need me to do it. I could fix things with Salamandra for you. All you have to do is tw
o things.” The drill ground on and on.

  “What? Whattaya want from me?”

  “Kill Tozzi and get the rug. He’s the one who has it. Make him tell you where it is, then be done with him.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a resourceful fellow. You figure it out. As to where you can find him, I can tell you that.”

  “Why do I have to kill him? Why not just get the rug?”

  “Two reasons. One, he knows too much. And two, I won’t give you any dope if you don’t.”

  “You’re lyin’. You ain’t got no dope.”

  “At this point, I don’t think Salamandra will argue if there’s a packet or two missing from the rug.”

  He can deduct it from my fee.

  Nemo seemed to pulse with renewed strength when he heard that. He opened his eyes and stared up at Augustine.

  “And what if I don’t do it? What’re you gonna do about it?”

  Augustine flinched. Another stab under the eye.

  Why, the arrogant little prick.

  Augustine knelt on the barbell and gritted his teeth. “Do you recall what happened to your friend Giordano? Hmmm? I can arrange for a repeat performance, little man.”

  Nemo made a sound somewhere between a groan and a wail. “Whattaya talkin’ ’bout? I don’t understan’.”

  “Don’t worry about understanding. That’s not your concern. Just do what you’re supposed to do and the story will have a happy ending.”

  Nemo was struggling pathetically, huffing and puffing to get the barbell back on the rack, but Augustine’s knee was on it. Nemo was still fighting him. He needed more convincing.

  “How much dope do you think there is in one of those packets, Nemo? About 300 grams, I believe. About a third of a kilo. If I let you keep, say, three packets, how long would that last you? One whole kilo of uncut heroin. That’s the same as—what?—about ten kilos of the adulterated stuff they sell on the street.”

  He moved a little farther forward, pushing the barbell more toward Nemo’s abdomen, where he couldn’t hold it up as well. Augustine stared at Nemo’s contorted, purple face as he winced against his own torture.