Bad Business Page 2

  “I would hope that Nemo would be more careful than to be caught with that kind of quantity. But for argument’s sake, let’s suppose he was. In that case, we would have to go to trial, and I would have to lose the case.”

  “You can do that, Saint Augustine?”

  “It can be done. There are many pitfalls in the American judicial system. It’s very easy to make a small technical mistake that can be disastrous to a case. And it’s even easier when you’re trying to.”

  “And what does it cost to have a saint work in my business?”

  Augustine squared his shoulders and tilted his head back. “However much money it takes to get me elected mayor of New York City. Fourteen million or so, I’d say. Not an unreasonable price to have a friend in City Hall, when you think about it.”

  The old man stared at him. The crooked smile was gone. He looked at Salamandra and gestured with his head for the fat man to follow him. They walked back toward the vineyard together. The old man threw the bunch of grapes away and clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the volcano as his corpulent lieutenant whispered into his ear again.

  The drill bit was smoldering as it ground on and on and on.

  Nemo was in a state. “I told you to shut the fuck up, Augustine. You shoulda listened. You can forget about it now. Just forget about it.”

  Giordano was in shock. His eyes were bulging and his bottom lip hung slack. He looked like Lou Costello trapped in a haunted house. He was totally perplexed. Like all accountants, he knew numbers, not people, and people were never as predictable as numbers. If only they were.

  Salamandra pointed to Nemo then and summoned him over to the huddle. The old man wasn’t talking, but the other two were in hot negotiation. Augustine guessed that Salamandra was looking for assurances and Nemo was frantically making promises. The dwarf and the fat man ended their powwow with a lot of solemn head nodding. The deal was then formally presented to Zucchetti, who studied them both in cold silence. Augustine clenched his hands. Then Zucchetti nodded once.

  Nemo turned on his heels and headed for the barn. “C’mon. Follow me. The both of you.”

  Augustine frowned but obliged, following Nemo into the barn with Giordano clinging to his coattails, Salamandra and Zucchetti bringing up the rear. It was cool inside the barn, with shafts of light piercing the dim, hay-strewn interior, but the place stunk to high heaven.

  “Which way?” Nemo asked. “Over here?”

  “Over there,” Salamandra said. “In that one.”

  Nemo found the stall Salamandra had indicated and threw back the coarse blanket that covered the opening. The only light in there came from the sun beaming in through chinks and seams in the plankboard wall. When Augustine’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, he was suddenly startled by an unexpected figure seated against the wall. It was a man tied to a straightback chair, hands bound behind him, legs bound to the chair, his clothing soaked through with sweat. His head was covered with a black cloth hood taped securely around his neck. Sensing that visitors had arrived, the man started murmuring frantically, thrashing his head. He was obviously gagged under the hood.

  Salamandra moved behind the prisoner. He had a grimy length of rope in one hand. “Mr. Zucchetti he reconsider your idea. He think maybe it can be done. If you can prove to him that he can trust you. He must know that your loyalty is like steel, can never be broken. Also, he must know that you have the guts to work in our business.” Salamandra tossed the rope to Augustine, who caught it as if it were a rattlesnake.

  “I don’t understand,” Augustine said. He turned to Nemo. “What’s going on?”

  “You ever hear of the Italian Rope Trick? Well, you’re gonna learn it now. You too, Vin.” Nemo took the rope from Augustine’s hand and looped it twice around the prisoner’s neck. The man started thrashing his head like a fish on a hook. “Here. You take one end, and you take the other. Now, when I say go, all you have to do is pull.”

  Giordano didn’t move. Neither did Augustine.

  From the stall entrance, the old man coughed up a bitter laugh. “See? I tell you. No guts.”

  Augustine looked at Zucchetti. “Who is this man?”

  Salamandra answered. “He is magistrate from Palermo. A stupid young man who think he can be big shot, persecute the Mafia. Like you, Augustine.”

  Augustine stared at the black hood for a moment and imagined the face underneath. They were asking him to commit murder to prove himself. It was the standard Mafia ordeal, the test that all their members had to pass before they’re admitted. He’d read about it, but he never thought he’d . . . He suddenly remembered the mayor’s race then, and the fact that running for public office was his only viable option since his boss had made it clear that he wasn’t looking to move on and make room for him. There was the possibility of private practice, but the only firms he’d consider were headed by founding partners who ruled like mandarins. The only career move left for him was in politics. But he needed money to climb that ladder, a great deal of money. He looked Zucchetti in the eye. “My price—do you have a problem with that?”

  Again Salamandra answered for the big boss. “We have no problem. Is cheap.”

  Augustine held his breath. The drill was suddenly whirring fast, bearing down hard. Augustine took one end of the rope and wrapped it around his hand. “Okay. Fine.” He looked at Giordano. “I’m ready.”

  Giordano was still doing his Lou Costello impression, looking lost and scared. He was holding on to his end of the rope, but just barely.

  Augustine blinked against the pain in his head. “Wrap it around your right hand,” he ordered under his breath. “As if this were a tug-of-war, one on one. You did play tug-of-war when you were a little boy, didn’t you, Giordano?”

  “Yeah . . . sure.” His voice was a vague murmur.

  “All right, then do it.”

  “Huh?”

  Augustine’s face was drenched. “You do want this, don’t you? I think they’ve made their conditions pretty clear, Giordano. They want us to prove ourselves before they’ll sanction us.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . I know . . .”

  The drill was spinning fast, the pain becoming unbearable. “Now, you listen to me, Giordano. Just hold on to your end and don’t let go. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Fighting the pain, Augustine gripped the rope and took up the slack, bending his knees and leaning back, bracing himself for the chore. The magistrate was mumbling wildly, screaming behind his gag. This had to be done fast, no hesitation, just do it. Augustine looked to Nemo, ready for the go-ahead.

  “Aspett’.” The old man pointed to the magistrate. “Does he have children?” he asked Salamandra.

  The fat man shook his head. “Not even a wife. Just the fiancée.”

  The old man nodded. “Continue.”

  “Go ’head, do it,” Nemo said.

  Augustine pulled, but Giordano just stood there like a mental patient, the rope loose in his hands. Augustine yanked harder. The magistrate’s chair tipped and nearly toppled over. “Come on, damn you. Pull!”

  But the more Augustine pulled by himself, the more lively the magistrate became, grunting and struggling, fighting his restraints.

  “Damn you, Giordano! What happened to your big dream? You told me you wanted to be a millionaire? You had it all figured out. What happened? Don’t you want it anymore?”

  “See?” the old man snorted. “No guts.”

  The jovial fat man was frowning gravely.

  Nemo’s eyes were burning. “If you fuck up here, Vin, you’ll never do nothin’ with any family anywhere. Never ever. Remember, I brought you here, Vin. Don’t embarrass me.”

  Augustine squeezed the rope, waiting for Giordano to show some sign of comprehension. The drill was screaming into his skull. His chances of becoming the next mayor were slipping away, thwarted by this spineless jellyfish. “Buck up, Giordano. It’ll take one minute of your life. That’s all. It’s the only thing that’s standing between you a
nd all that money you told me about. Now come on. Pull!”

  Giordano seemed to wake up a bit then. He still had that stupid expression on his face, but he was wrapping the rope around his hand and bracing himself.

  Augustine gripped his end and started to pull again. Unfortunately Giordano’s contribution was minimal. He glanced at the others: the contorted anticipation in Nemo’s face, the confident skepticism in Zucchetti’s, the malevolence in Salamandra’s smile. He knew he was going to have to do this by himself, the way he’d always done things. He clenched his elbows over his rib cage and forced himself not to think of this as murder. After all, who was this man? Another greasy dago as far as he was concerned. He thought of the campus at Yale, the most wonderful times of his life, rowing on the crew team, sculling on the Housatonic. He put his back into it, the way he always did in a regatta, pulling hard and long with each stroke, forcing the other lazy bastards to pick up the pace and keep up with him.

  He bent his knees and dug in, yanking hard. But Giordano wasn’t holding tight enough. The chair tipped over, and the hooded man fell onto his side in the foul straw, thrashing and struggling, a big fish on the deck fighting to get back into the water, fighting to escape. No. He couldn’t afford to let this one get away. Just don’t let go, Giordano. At least make it look like you’re participating.

  Augustine propped his foot on the man’s shoulder for balance and put his back into it. To do it right, you had to do it alone. His neck muscles were straining as he pulled long and hard and steady, no letup, none, not until the thrashing finally stopped. The masked head lolled over then, a dead weight in a black bag.

  Giordano was looking at him with shocked, bulging eyes. Lou Costello.

  Augustine stared down at the body. The drill was quiet, the pain subsiding. He did it. He actually did it. He smiled on one side of his face. It wasn’t that hard really.

  “Way to go,” Nemo said with begrudging admiration in his voice. “I didn’t think yous had it in you.”

  “Take off the hood,” the old boss ordered. Nemo stooped down and ripped the tape, pulling off the hood. Zucchetti stepped forward and kicked the chair over so that the dead magistrate was on his back, faceup.

  “Look at him,” the old man said. “All of you, look.”

  The dead man’s face was blue and contorted, a bloated tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, eyes half open and slightly crossed.

  The old man looked at them, one by one. “This is death,” he pronounced. “Do not disappoint me.”

  Augustine took a deep breath and wiped his brow with his handkerchief as he stared at the dead man.

  Don’t worry. I won’t.

  — 1 —

  Manhattan, two years later

  FBI Special Agent Cuthbert Gibbons stood in the aisle with his coat over his arm, surveying the scene. The courtroom had that smell: fresh legal pads, sharp pencils, wet wool, too much cologne, dust, ammonia, a lot of arrogance, a hint of fear. Defense lawyers were seated at their long tables, heads buried in open briefcases. Defendants loitered in small groups, mumbling to each other, eyes darting, checking out what the other guys were wearing today. The prosecution team huddled at their table, crisp conservative suits and bright eyes—the varsity team. The jury box was spooky when it was empty, and everyone kept his distance, even the wiseguys.

  Gibbons shifted his gaze to the expert witnesses—FBI agents, DEA agents, NYPD mob watchers, surveillance technicians—who were assembled in the first two rows of the spectator pews. They looked like a pack of restless guard dogs in church. The mangiest mutt in the kennel, hands down, was Gibbons’s partner, Mike Tozzi, who was sitting at the far end of the front row, perusing the Post, already looking bored. Staring at Tozzi as he walked toward him, Gibbons marveled at how much like a dog his partner really was—the stance of a shepherd, face sort of like a good-looking hound, dark deep-set eyes, but a little too close together, like a rottweiler. A gigolo mutt with intense eyes and a bad attitude.

  “Shove over, Tozzi.”

  Tozzi glanced up and bared his teeth. “Yeah. Good morning to you too.”

  Gibbons threw his coat over the bench and sat down. “What’s your problem? Where’s your Christmas spirit? You better be good or Santa won’t come down your chimney.”

  “Fuck Santa. I wanna get outta here.”

  Gibbons smiled like a crocodile. “Better watch your mouth, Toz. If I tell your cousin Lorraine you’ve been naughty, she won’t put any goodies in your stocking.”

  “She’s your wife. Go stick the goodies in her stocking.”

  “My, aren’t we nasty today.”

  “Well, your butt must be a lot harder than mine, Gib, sitting here week after week waiting to take the stand. I’d rather be back on the street, working.”

  Gibbons shook his head. “See? That’s what I mean about you. The attitude stinks. You think being a special agent is playing cops and robbers all day. You think you make an arrest and it’s all over. That’s just the beginning, my friend. You gotta try the bastards in court to put ’em away. In case you didn’t know, that’s the way the legal system works in this country.” Gibbons loved busting Tozzi’s balls.

  Tozzi folded his newspaper in half. “How can you call this a system? There’s no system here. This trial is bullshit, and you know it.”

  “You a lawyer now?”

  “Come on, will ya? This thing is a monster. Whoever heard of putting nineteen defendants on trial together, for chrissake? They’re seven months into this thing and the prosecution isn’t even halfway through the evidence.”

  “What’re you complaining about? You’ve only been here two weeks.”

  “I’m complaining because this whole thing is bullshit. They’re trying low-level mules and hairdressers from Iowa together with Sicilian kingpins. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Gibbons shook his head. “It’s a RICO case, Toz. They’re trying to prove conspiracy.”

  “RICO schmico, the case is bullshit. The DEA had a good lead on a forty-kilo shipment coming into the country—eighty million dollars’ worth of heroin!—but the U.S. attorney couldn’t wait. He must’ve had a real hard-on, because they rushed this thing through like there was no tomorrow. And so what happens? They have to try this thing dry. No drugs in quantity to enter as evidence. No heroin at all and a few traces of coke that they vacuumed out of a car trunk. You can’t even prove use with that—forget about dealing. Tapes, that’s all they’ve got. Hundreds of hours of audiotapes and thousands of pictures of guys hanging out in barbershops. They’re gonna prove a lot with that.” Tozzi looked disgusted.

  “Let the prosecutors worry about that stuff. Your job is to just get up on the stand and tell them what you saw and what you heard. That’s all.”

  “Wrong!” Tozzi turned on him and snarled. “My job is to catch these bastards so they can be put away. I’m supposed to have enough leeway to follow an investigation all the way to the end. Not be cut off in the middle by a bunch of shit-ass lawyers who want to prove how smart they are with the law, trying to get convictions with no evidence. It’s all a game for them, Gib, but not for me it’s not. We do the dirty work, and they play law games. Then, when they lose, they want to blame us.”

  Tozzi was giving that defense lawyer the eye again, the blonde.

  “You’re doing it again, Toz.”

  “What?”

  “You’re staring at that Halloran woman again.”

  “I am not.”

  Gibbons grinned and shook his head. “You know, I can read you like a book, Tozzi. You’ve been in a foul mood for the past two weeks because Ms. Halloran won’t give you the time of day.” Gibbons jerked his thumb at the woman shuffling through a sheaf of papers at one of the defense tables on the other side of the courtroom.

  Lesley Halloran was a fair-haired blonde with small delicate features and huffy shoulders. You wouldn’t know it to look at her now, but on cross-examinations she was a tough little bitch with a tongue like a straight razor and
eyes like a hawk looking for meat. She was pretty small, but she had nice legs for a short woman. Very nice legs. And Tozzi was a leg man.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Gib. I don’t give a shit about Lesley Halloran.”

  Gibbons smiled. Tozzi’s face gave him away. His eyes momentarily got that wounded, pathetic look when he mentioned her name. It passed quickly, but Gibbons saw it. It was there.

  “I don’t know why you keep harping on her, Gib. Why do you think I would like her? She’s defending Ugo Salamandra, for chrissake. The fucking Barber of Seville. How could I possibly like her?”

  Gibbons stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. “So she’s defending Salamandra. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Salamandra’s only the biggest slime-bucket on trial here, that’s all. Why should that bother me?”

  Gibbons glanced over at Salamandra, who was sitting behind Lesley Halloran, leaning back in his chair and putting drops in his eyes. The Barber of Seville—that’s what they were calling him in the papers because he allegedly distributed heroin through a network of barbershops and beauty parlors in nine states. He didn’t look much like a mobster. More like somebody’s fat-ass brother-in-law, the kind who tells dirty jokes as soon as the women are out of the room and who snores in front of the TV after Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Lawyers usually aren’t pals with their clients, Toz. You know that.”

  “But of all the people in New York who need defending, why did she take him? Why Salamandra?”

  “You can’t figure that out for yourself? Wiseguys pay top dollar.”

  “But she’s not a big mob lawyer. She’s out of her league here.”

  “And that’s exactly why Salamandra hired her. Look at her. She doesn’t look like any of these other greasy shysters. She’s got that nice scrubbed Irish Catholic schoolgirl look, and Salamandra wants some of that to rub off on him. Besides, she doesn’t come with the big price tag that the established mob lawyers have, which supports his whole contention that he’s just a poor, innocent businessman who was mistaken for a drug dealer because he happens to be from Sicily.”