Bad Business Page 21

  Tozzi furrowed his brow. What the hell was he talking about?

  “So if I’m the hero, what does that make you?”

  “Smart.” Augustine’s snickering echoed over the line.

  Prick.

  “So what’re you offering? Whattaya want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  Augustine wasn’t going to say it. Did he really think he was being taped?

  “No, Tom, I don’t know what you want. You’ll have to tell me.”

  “You know what I want. The rug.”

  He said it without hesitation. Either Augustine had turned stupid or he was absolutely certain he had all his bases covered. Augustine wasn’t stupid, though, not by a long shot, and that made Tozzi nervous.

  “I don’t have the rug,” Tozzi said.

  “Then get it.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “What makes you so sure I can?”

  “You’re a hero. You can do anything if the cause is just.”

  If the cause is just? What the fuck was he talking about?

  “I’m telling you, Tom, I don’t have it.”

  Augustine sighed. “Well, then let’s just assume that you did have it. Hypothetically speaking. How about that?”

  “Assume whatever the hell you want. I don’t have it.”

  “Just be a good sport and play along. It won’t hurt.”

  “You mean, not like the shiv that fat slob stuck me with last night. Is that what you mean?” Tozzi sat up too fast and his stitches pulled.

  “I don’t think I know what ‘fat slob’ you’re referring to.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Sarcasm does not become the hero, Mike.”

  “Then fuck you. How’s that?”

  “Your directness is admirable.” Augustine’s sarcasm oozed out of the phone. “But let’s not get off the subject at hand. We were assuming that you did have the rug. To humor you.”

  “I’m real amused.”

  “Now, if you did have the rug and you accepted my offer, I would want you to deliver it to a certain place at a certain time.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “A restaurant in Manhattan. La Bell’ Isola on Grand Street in Little Italy. Do you know it?”

  Tozzi didn’t bother answering. That was Salamandra’s restaurant, in the tenement building where he keeps an apartment. Tozzi recalled the painted map of Sicily on the sign in front. Sicily with the toe of Italy’s boot kicking it like a soccer ball.

  “Hello? Mike? Are you still there? You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I thought you had dozed off.”

  “I said I’m listening.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Apparently, it’s not something you do very often or very well.”

  “I’m hangin’ up, Augustine. This is a lot of bull—”

  “No, wait. You can’t do that. You’re the hero, remember? You’ll miss your big opportunity to be heroic if you don’t get all the information.”

  “I’m sick of playing around with you.”

  “Don’t you want to know when I would want you to deliver the rug? Assuming you had it, of course.”

  Tozzi sighed. “All right, when?”

  “Eight o’clock. This morning. If you’re late, the deal’s off.”

  “What deal?”

  “The deal will likewise be scotched if you bring reinforcements of any kind. Let your friend Gibbons get his sleep. He looks like he needs it.”

  “What deal?”

  “There’s no need to yell. I’m talking about the deal that will further your heroic self-image, foolish as it may be.”

  “You must need some sleep, Augustine. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Why would I give you the rug? Even if I did have it. What’ve you got to trade that’s so valuable? You gonna tell me you’ll drop the case against me in exchange? Is that it?”

  “No, no, no. That wouldn’t be heroic. That would just be a matter of self-preservation. Too selfish a reward for you. Think hero. Think selfless deeds. Think in terms of love.”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to be prudish now? McCleery has seen you visiting Ms. Halloran’s apartment. Late-night visits with early-morning departures. Do you deny it?”

  “You’re dealing with an empty hand. If you’ve got nothing to trade, don’t bother me.”

  “Oh, I do have something to trade. You can be sure of that.”

  “What?”

  “Call your attorney and ask her.”

  Augustine hung up, but Tozzi could picture the smarmy grin on his face before he did. Bastard.

  The dial tone sounded, and Tozzi let the receiver drop to his chest. What did he mean, Lesley would know? Know what? He must be stupid, bringing her into this. Does he think he can keep her quiet? No way. But if Lesley had already talked to him, why didn’t she say something? Why didn’t she call? Unless Augustine called her just before he called here?

  Tozzi got up on his elbow and took the phone down from the night table. He started to punch out her number, then realized he’d forgotten to dial the area code first. He started all over again. It rang twice before she picked up.

  “What?” She was asleep.

  “Lesley, it’s me. Tozzi.”

  “What do you want?” She was moaning. Augustine probably hadn’t gotten her up or else she’d sound more awake. “Do you know what time it is?” She sounded pissed. He hoped he didn’t wake Patricia up—

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Lesley, listen to me. Get up, get out of bed.”

  “What?”

  “Go check on Patricia.”

  “What?”

  “I said, get up and go to your daughter’s room. Go check on her.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? Mike, speak to me.”

  “Just go do it. Hurry up!”

  She dropped the phone in the covers, the black-and-white plaid comforter. Tozzi knew the bedroom, knew the layout of the whole loft. She was running across the bare wood floors to Patricia’s room at the other end of the space. She was opening the door, looking in. The room was dark, just like his. His heart was hammering again.

  “She’s gone! Where is she? Oh, God, Mike! We’ve got to do something. Hang up! I’ve got to call the police.” She was hysterical.

  “No, no, listen to me, Lesley. Just calm down. We’ll get her back.”

  “But she’s gone! She’s not here! I’ve got to—”

  “Listen to me. We will get her back. They won’t hurt her if they get what they want.”

  “But, Mike . . .” She was sobbing and screaming and hyperventilating, gasping for breath. He could feel her panic. “She’s gone. . . . Who took my baby?”

  “Just listen. There’s no time to explain.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Just try to calm down.” He glanced at the clock. 5:57. They had two hours and three minutes. “Listen to me now. I’m gonna pick you up in an hour. There’s an all-night coffee shop on Second Avenue and St. Mark’s Place. It’s called Nestor’s. That’s where I’ll pick you up. And don’t go out the front door of your building. Go out the back. I’ll pick you up outside Nestor’s at seven o’clock. You got that?”

  “Yes . . .” She was moaning. Tozzi wasn’t sure if she’d understood what he said.

  “Meet me at Nestor’s. And don’t bring your gun. Leave it home. Do you understand me? We’re gonna go get her back. I promise you.”

  She was sobbing uncontrollably, fighting for air. “Where . . . is she?”

  “I’ll tell you when I pick you up. It’s too complicated to explain right now. I gotta go now. But listen, there’s one more thing. Don’t call anyone. Not the police, not your mother, no one. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is very important. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand, I understand.”

  “Okay, good.
I gotta go now, but it’s gonna be all right. You have to believe that. They won’t hurt her if they get what they want.”

  “But she’s not here!” She wailed so pitifully tears welled in Tozzi’s eyes.

  “You’ve got to believe me, Lesley. I will not let anyone hurt Patricia.” He remembered the fear in Patricia’s eyes when Augustine had talked to her at Uncle Pete’s. “It will be all right. I gotta go now, okay? We don’t have much time.”

  Lesley was sobbing as he hung up the phone. He sat up and looked at the clock. They had two hours and two minutes now. Tozzi threw the covers off and rubbed his face as he went toward the bathroom, thinking about Augustine, about something Augustine had just said. “Think hero . . . Think in terms of love.”

  How the fuck does he know? I don’t even know if I love her.

  Tozzi flipped the wall switch and saw himself in the bathroom mirror, naked and groggy. Heroes have no options. They have to do the right thing. He glared at his own image. His eyes were dark and brutal.

  No options, huh? I’ll rip his fucking heart out and make him eat it if he touches that kid. How’s that for a fucking option?

  — 21 —

  Gibbons picked up the extension in the kitchen and trapped the receiver between his shoulder and his ear as he opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of orange juice. He’d thrown on a pair of pants when he got out of bed after answering the phone, but his feet were freezing on the linoleum floor. “I’m back,” he said. “So how much time do we have?”

  “He said we had to be there by eight or the deal’s off.” Tozzi sounded like he had it all together, but Gibbons knew he was wired. He was worried about Ms. Halloran’s kid. With good reason.

  The clock on the stove said it was five after six. Gibbons poured some juice into a coffee mug and carried it out of the kitchen, stretching the long cord on the wall phone as far as it would go so he could peer down the hallway into the bedroom. Lorraine was in bed, half asleep, on her back with one arm draped over her eyes. She had gotten used to phone calls at all hours. She knew they were always for him, always FBI business, and they didn’t upset her that much anymore.

  “Okay, listen to me,” he said, going back into the kitchen. “Get the rug and go pick up Lesley. Drive around town and make sure no one’s following you. For eighty million bucks’ worth of junk, these friggin’ Zips may start thinking they’re Apaches and try to ambush you right in the middle of Broadway.”

  “Don’t worry. I thought of that. I told Lesley not to meet me at her place.”

  “Good. I’ll call the field office and get us some manpower. The whole block will be well covered by the time you get there.”

  “Augustine said I should come alone.” Tozzi sounded doubtful.

  “If you’re worried that someone’s gonna tip him off, don’t sweat it. I’ll pick the guys who’ll be out there myself, guys we know.”

  “Yeah, but what if he does something to the kid?”

  “He won’t hurt her. She’s his ace. Just like the rug is yours. You gonna put a match to the rug?”

  “No.”

  “See what I’m saying?”

  “All right, all right, you’re right.”

  “Just take it easy and concentrate on getting there with the rug. Don’t worry about Augustine and the Zips. I’ll take care of that. You just make the exchange and get the kid back. That’s the important thing. We get the kid back safely first.” He pictured Patricia in that green velvet party dress, drinking punch and eating cookies with the adults after the funeral. “Then we shoot their fucking eyeballs out.”

  “Right.” Tozzi still sounded dubious.

  “Hey, Toz, listen to me. We will get the little girl back. You gotta believe that.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “C’mon, we’re wasting time here. Go get the rug. I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay. Later.”

  Gibbons hung up the phone and headed back to the bedroom, swigging orange juice on the way. Lorraine was still on her back with her arm over her face.

  “Who was that?” she murmured.

  Gibbons was shrugging into a shirt. “Tozzi.”

  She got up on her elbow and squinted at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “What’s wrong?” Her eyes were open now.

  She’d get all bent out of shape if she knew the truth, and Gibbons didn’t want to upset her. “Your cousin’s following some Zip around Little Italy, one of Salamandra’s torpedoes. He says the guy’s acting suspicious, but he can’t do anything because he’s suspended. He needs me to make an arrest.” Gibbons tried to sound bored and annoyed so she wouldn’t suspect anything.

  “Ummmm.” She flopped back into the pillows and draped her arm over her eyes again.

  Good.

  Gibbons finished tying his shoes and stood up to find a tie. He grabbed one at random off the rack on the back of the closet door and hung it around his neck. It didn’t matter which one he had. They were all blue. He only bought blue ties and plain white shirts. They went with all his suits. It made the mornings much easier.

  He reached up and felt around on the top shelf for Excalibur, his .38 Colt Cobra. The revolver was wrapped in the straps of its shoulder holster. Gibbons unwound it and put it on. He reached up to the shelf again for the box of cartridges—96-grain Deadeye Safety Slugs—and tried not to make too much noise rattling the box. He hoped to God he wouldn’t be needing the extra ammo. Not with the kid around.

  He snatched his suit jacket off the hanger and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Rushing back into the kitchen, he threw the jacket on and shoved the cartridge box in his pocket. He snapped the phone off the wall and was starting to punch out the Manhattan FBI field office’s night-desk number when he suddenly felt something cold and hard dead-center on the back of his neck.

  “Top of the morning to you, Cuthbert.”

  The cold, hard thing retreated from his neck, and Gibbons turned his head enough to see a blue-steel revolver out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t have to look at its owner. He knew the blarney all too well.

  “What the fuck is this, McCleery?”

  “It’s Wednesday, Cuthbert. Now, if you’d be so kind as to hang up the phone and put your hands up against the cabinet there.”

  Gibbons hesitated.

  The blue-steel revolver encouraged him with a sharp jab to the base of the neck. “Please,” McCleery added emphatically.

  Gibbons hung up the phone and assumed the position, trying to remember the statutes for justifiable homicide when McCleery unsnapped Gibbons’s holster and removed Excalibur. Gibbons was fuming. Next to touching Lorraine, violating his weapon was the worst thing a man could do to him. Justifiable homicide had to apply here. When he got his hands around the son of a bitch’s neck, he’d try his absolute best not to enjoy it. But he couldn’t guarantee anything.

  “Put my gun on the counter and get the fuck out of my house immediately and maybe, just maybe, I won’t kill you, McCleery.”

  “Oh, you’re such a tough boy-o, Cuthbert. I’m shivering in my boots.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “And I’m arresting you.”

  “What?”

  A folded piece of paper appeared over Gibbons’s shoulder in his peripheral vision. He didn’t need a real good look to tell what it was.

  “It’s a warrant for your arrest, Cuthbert. From Judge Morgenroth.”

  “I’ll take it to the john and put it to good use.”

  “Let’s not be heathen about this now, shall we, Cuthbert? I think it’s important that you maintain your dignity. If not for your sake, at least for your bride’s.”

  “Go fuck yourself, McCleery. This is bullshit.”

  “Oh, no, far from it, Cuthbert. It’s the fruit of sound investigative procedure, is what it is. You see, despite what you think, I do know a few tricks in this law-enforcement game.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like wh
at?”

  “Well, I did manage to get in here without you hearing me. By the way, you ought to invest in one of those New York police locks, the ones with the steel brace. Picking the lock wasn’t all that difficult. Invest in some home security. I know you’re a tough guy, Cuthbert, but do it for Lorraine’s sake. She won’t be having you around to bite the burglars anymore.”

  “Whattaya talkin’ about?”

  “You see, I did a little digging in the right places, and I met a fellow over at the Tribune, a photographer who showed me some of his work. He had a very interesting series of pictures of you, Cuthbert, strolling along Mulberry Street with guess who? Ugo Salamandra. You two jawing away while he was walking his dog, a couple of his henchmen following behind. Now, when I showed these handsome photos to the judge—well, frankly he became a bit bilious. Seems he didn’t like the implication of guilt the photos conveyed—you know, the partner of the prime suspect in the murders of Giordano, Marty Bloom, Cooney, and Santiago walking down the street with the Barber of Seville himself. There was one shot in particular of you tilting your head into old Figaro’s ear that really got the judge riled. Consorting with the Zip boss outside of your official capacity, he felt. Anyway, the upshot of it all is that he issued this warrant for your arrest. He wrote one out for Tozzi, too, so not to worry, you won’t be alone. They should be picking him up about now.”

  Gibbons chewed on his upper lip. He hoped to Christ that Tozzi had gotten out of his apartment before the posse showed up.

  “Now, Cuthbert, if you’ll be so kind as to put your hands behind your back so I can affix the handcuffs—”

  “What’s going on?” Lorraine came padding into the kitchen, squinting and holding her robe together.

  Gibbons turned around with his hands in the air and stared McCleery in the eye. “We got roaches.”

  “Good morning, Lorraine. I had hoped we wouldn’t wake you.”

  She pushed the hair out of her face, then suddenly noticed the gun in McCleery’s hand, and her eyes widened. “What’re you doing? Gibbons, what’s he doing?”

  “He says he’s arresting me. Can you beat this shit?”

  “What?” Her voice was shrill and panicked.

  “I’m sorry, Lorraine, but I’m afraid it’s so. I’ve got a warrant here. I’m sorry.”