5 Bad Moon Page 7

  “You’re bad!” Emerick shrieked. “You want to kill me! You’re bad!”

  Sal dropped his knee to Emerick’s chest and slapped the nut’s clawing hands away as he worked the wooden hammer shaft into his mouth. Emerick bit it like a mad dog.

  Sal was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face. He’d almost bashed Emerick’s head in. Christ Almighty, he could’ve killed the guy and fucked himself royally. He needed Emerick. Emerick had to take the rap for killing Mistretta, Bartolo, Juicy, and Tozzi. That’s why they were bringing Emerick along on the hits, to make him leave his fingerprints. Emerick was Sal’s made-to-order psycho. If they asked, Sal was gonna say Emerick got the idea when they were on the ward together. Emerick heard him mumbling about things and took over his personality, flew the coop, and killed all Sal’s enemies. That’s exactly what Sal was gonna have his old shrink say when the cops came around asking why this nut Emerick did Sal’s dirty work for him. But Christ Almighty, Sal couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. He almost killed his baby here, his ticket to freedom, to power. He swallowed on a dry throat as he struggled to keep Emerick down, trying not to hurt him. He needed Emerick, but he needed him under control, and not next year. Sal had to finish off his hit list this week, especially Juicy and Bartolo, before their hit man found him first.

  “Give him the goddamn pill, Charles. Hurry up.”

  Emerick was struggling, screaming like he was being raped. Charles was sitting on his thighs. He reached over and tried to figure out how to get the pill down Emerick’s throat, but his teeth were clenched on the hammer handle.

  “Whattaya waiting for? Just stick it down the side.”

  “That won’t do no good. He won’t swallow it.”

  “We’ll hold him here till it melts in his mouth.”

  “Can’t wait that long. People be calling the cops pretty soon. Think we killing some girl in here.”

  “Shit.” Sal gritted his teeth. Then something caught his eye on the wall. With one hand holding the hammer steady in Emerick’s mouth, he reached over and pulled the aluminum turkey baster out of the vice president’s wife’s head. He shook out the plaster dust, then worked the small end into Emerick’s mouth between the hammer and his lower teeth, prying his jaw open.

  “C’mon, Donnie. Open up. Be a good boy now.”

  Emerick fought him, his eyes squeezed tight, but Sal put his knee to the skinny nut’s face and managed to pin his head against the back of the couch. Sal worked the metal tube in little by little, getting it down farther and farther until Emerick started to gag.

  “Okay, drop the pill in. Hurry up.”

  Charles dropped the capsule into the wide end of the turkey baster, then he reached around and clamped Emerick’s nose closed. “Swallow, you goddamn little freak. Swallow it.”

  Emerick stopped struggling and started gurgling and grunting. They couldn’t tell if he had swallowed the pill or not.

  “Blow on it,” Sal said.

  “Wha’?”

  “I said blow on it. Like a blowgun.”

  Charles made a face. “Man, what if he got AIDS? What if he blow back and spit in my mouth?”

  Sal growled in his face. “Hurry up and blow that goddamn pill down his throat or you’re gonna fucking wish you had AIDS.”

  “Aw, man…” Charles complained, but he did what he was told, bending forward and blowing on the wide end of the tube.

  “Did he get it?”

  “I dunno. What you want me to do? Stick my finger down there?”

  Emerick was bucking and choking, his face turning blue. Sal pulled out the baster, afraid that he was gonna choke to death and ruin everything. He dropped the baster but kept the hammer in place, still afraid that Emerick might bite.

  After a few minutes, Emerick stopped bucking. His body relaxed and his eyes gradually glazed over. When his lips were wet and loose on the wooden handle, Sal removed the hammer.

  Sal’s heart started to pound. Jesus Christ! He’s dead!

  He leapt off Emerick’s chest and reached into the guy’s shirt to feel for a heartbeat, but when the little nut blinked and looked up at him, Sal nearly had a heart attack.

  “Jesus! I thought he was dead.”

  Charles got off Emerick’s legs. “Three hundred milligrams of Thorazine? Man, you might as well be dead.”

  Tears were streaming down the sides of Emerick’s face, running into his hairline. “This is bad,” he mumbled. He was pathetic now.

  “C’mon, sit up, Donnie. Sit up.” Charles pulled Emerick up by the arms and sat him up on the couch. “Turn on the TV.”

  Sal was puzzled. “What for?”

  “TV mellows him out.”

  “He looks pretty mellow to me.”

  “Yeah, but he gets into a crying jag, he’ll cry all night long. Can’t let him do that. Ain’t fair.”

  Sal felt bad for the little guy. The television was sitting on one of those cheap TV carts with the imitation brass-finish legs. Pieces of aluminum foil were wrapped around the ends of the rabbit ears. Sal turned it on.

  As the picture came on, Sal stood back to see what it was. A lot of shining chrome. Nautilus machines and crap. Then the camera found that friggin’ blonde with the long, curly hair and the jiggly tits, the Pump-It-Up Girl again.

  “Hey, Charles, here’s your friend.”

  Emerick’s face twitched as he let out a long, pitiful moan. “Bad … Very bad…”

  “Turn that off.” Charles was sitting on the edge of the couch next to Emerick. He pulled the nut’s face into his chest to keep him from seeing the TV. “Can’t let him see that. Sexy girls like that get him all upset.”

  Sal switched the channel. The first thing he found was an old World War II movie, guys shooting rifles and throwing hand grenades and shit. That was no good. He switched it again. Black kids with big heads bawling their eyes out, flies getting in their eyes and noses. Kids starving in Africa. Sal changed the channel. That stuff made him upset.

  “Put on Channel Nine.” Charles was still cradling Emerick’s head against his chest.

  Sal turned the dial to nine. A close-up of a can of paint came on the screen. “Yes, friends, this portion of our show is brought to you by Martin Paint.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It should be Joe Franklin.” Charles was letting Emerick watch now. “He like Joe Franklin. Old white people talking shit make him mellow, keep him calm.”

  Sal looked at the screen. Joe Franklin was sitting behind his desk, talking to some blowzy old redhead who looked like she just came back from a USO dance in the forties. Sal couldn’t believe it. Joe Franklin must be about ninety years old now. Little short guy with that dyed hair of his and the gooney moon face. Jesus, Joe Franklin. Sal just assumed the guy had to be dead by now. But there he was. Joe Franklin. Son of a bitch.

  On the couch, Emerick was zoned out, not moving a muscle, just staring at the TV. Those pills really did the trick. He was like putty now.

  Then Sal noticed the turkey baster on the rug. There were teeth marks on the metal tube. Deep teeth marks. Sal stared at the pinwheels in Emerick’s eyes, and his heart started to pound again.

  Sal knew he shouldn’t be surprised, though. Technically Emerick was a serial killer.

  Chapter 6

  Tozzi was sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, his bum leg up on two pillows. Magazines and newspapers were spread out all around him, but he’d read them all and now he was bored. That’s why he was winding up these Zoid things, the little Japanese wind-up robot animals that Stacy had bought for him, letting them go on the coffee table. They came unassembled and putting them together helped pass the time, but now they really weren’t so interesting. Tozzi kept winding them up and letting them go, though, because it was like eating peanuts from a candy dish. You only did it because they were there.

  He finished winding up the bull Zoid and set it down so that it would charge the lumbering g
orilla Zoid. The turtle Zoid was on the other side of the table, scaling a staggered stack of Time magazines. When it reached the Bart Simpson coffee mug that Stacy had bought, the turtle butted its head against the ceramic wall and walked in place, grinding its little motor until it wound down.

  Tozzi looked at his watch. His buddy, John Palasky, from his aikido class said he’d be stopping by after work. He reached for the turtle and started to wind the stem. He wished John would get here soon. Recuperation was driving him batty.

  He let the turtle Zoid go and watched it walk the length of the coffee table. It climbed over that morning’s New York Times and crossed the ad for Knickerbocker Spas, the one with Stacy in it. He wished he could stop thinking about Stacy. She was only twenty-two, for chrissake.

  But she was unbelievable.

  The doorbell rang then.

  “Finally,” Tozzi mumbled as he reached for his five-foot jo stick on the floor next to him. It was one of the practice weapons they used in aikido. He extended the wooden stick to the intercom buzzer on the wall and pressed the button to let John in.

  Dr. Cummings’s friend’s apartment was on the first floor, so Tozzi knew John would be right outside the door by now. “Come on in, John. It’s open.”

  Tozzi heard the door open in the short hallway.

  “Who’s John?” Stacy walked into the living room. She was wearing her black leather motorcycle jacket over a black leotard top and tight blue jeans with those pseudo cowboy boots that had gotten popular, the ones that are really low-tops under the pants cuff. She was smiling, pushing the hair out of her face, those bronze ringlets spilling down over one breast.

  Tozzi sucked in his breath. “You’re not John.”

  She shrugged. “I guess not. You’ll have to make do with me until he gets here. So who’s John? Another FBI guy?”

  “No. John’s one of my aikido buddies. He said he’d stop by this afternoon.”

  She took off her jacket and threw it on a chair. “You must be depressed about missing your black-belt test.”

  Tozzi shrugged. “Not much I can do about it. I’ll just test next time. That’s all. There’s beer and soda in the refrigerator. Help yourself, if you want.”

  “Thanks.” As she went into the tiny galley kitchen, Tozzi watched her backside. God, did he want her. She was incredible. Not only great-looking, but she was smart and hip and funny. But every time he thought about doing something with her, he thought about her age. She was just barely in her twenties, and he was gonna be forty. He was old enough to be her father. That was depressing. It wasn’t like it was unheard-of for guys to date girls much younger than themselves—you saw it all the time. It was just that he kept hearing that voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded sort of like Lorraine: Grow up. Act your age.

  She came back out with a bottle of Dock Street in her hand. Gibbons had bought him a case. She kicked off her boots and sat down on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. Her tawny eyes gave him the once-over as she tipped the bottle to her lips. “You look antsy. You must be getting bored.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Why don’t you go out? This is the Village, after all. Plenty to do around here.”

  “I’m supposed to stay off the leg for another day. Doctor’s orders.” He frowned down at the leg as if it were a lazy dog. “Had to be the right leg, too. Can’t drive either.”

  “Did you ask your boss about taking home some paperwork?”

  Tozzi shook his head. “I called Ivers this morning. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. He told me sick leave means no work. At all.”

  “You planning on listening to him?” She took another sip.

  “No.”

  She grinned. “That’s what I like about you. You seem like a straight arrow, but you aren’t. You’re really a pretty cool guy.”

  “Get outta here. Forty-year-old guys are not cool. They only think they are.”

  “Not true. Not true at all. You’re gonna be a black belt and you chase all these Mafia guys for a living and you carry a gun and all. I mean, you do all this macho stuff, but you’re not macho. You’re really a nice guy. That’s cool.”

  “Well, I’m flattered that you think so.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  Tozzi shook his head. “Nope.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. You’re cool because you don’t think you’re cool.”

  Tozzi nodded, trying to understand, but he could see the generation gap opening up in front of him like a sinkhole.

  Stacy took another sip and flipped the hair over her shoulder. “So have the police made any headway in finding out who shot you?”

  “Nope. I still think it was just a mugger. Had to be.”

  He reached over for the gorilla Zoid and started to wind it up. In all probability it was just a mugger. But maybe it wasn’t. He’d been mulling this over ever since Ivers had asked him at the hospital if he had any enemies. Three possibilities kept nagging at him.

  Richie Varga had been running a very lucrative insurance scam while he was supposed to be in the Witness Protection Program. Tozzi and Gibbons had uncovered him, but Varga’s conviction had recently been overturned. He was out now, and he was a crafty son of a bitch. He might be looking for some payback. He could’ve sent a shooter after Tozzi.

  Emilio Zucchetti was the king of the Sicilian heroin importers. He’d lost a lot of money thanks to Tozzi, and he was an old Mustache Pete. The old-timers lived by the Mafia code of honor, so he would demand revenge the old-fashioned way. By rights, Tozzi should definitely be on his hit list.

  Then there was Sal Immordino, who had more reason than anyone to want Tozzi dead. It was Tozzi’s testimony that would put him away forever because Tozzi was the only law-enforcement agent ever to witness Immordino acting sane. Of course, Sal was stuck in the bin down in Trenton, forced to play numskull or face charges. But if Sal could somehow get rid of Tozzi, his path to freedom would be clear.

  Tozzi exhaled slowly. Any one of these guys could’ve sent a killer after him. And they wouldn’t stop with one try.

  He’d talked to Gibbons that morning after he hung up with Ivers. Gibbons promised to look into these three and get updates on their recent activities, then get back to him.

  Tozzi positioned the gorilla on top of the magazines so that it would attack the bull. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Stacy was staring at him. He kept his eyes on the toys.

  “Do I make you nervous, Tozzi?”

  “No. Of course not. What makes you say that?”

  “I dunno. It’s just the impression I get.”

  “No. You don’t make me nervous.” He flashed a quick smile at her, then glanced down at the Zoids.

  She put the beer bottle to her lips and grinned. “Ah-huh.”

  Tozzi didn’t say anything. He adjusted the bull’s direction so that he’d charge the gorilla head-on.

  “Do you think I’m attractive?”

  Tozzi coughed up a nervous laugh. “What, you don’t have a mirror at your house? Of course you’re attractive. Don’t you think you’re attractive?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno.” Her eyes were sly slits.

  “C’mon. You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

  She was grinning like a cat. “I want to know what you think. What’s your criteria for a beautiful woman?”

  He caught himself staring at her lips. They were juicy and plum-red. He coughed into his fist, then returned the sly grin. “Well … if you really want to know my personal test for judging a beautiful woman, it’s this. A truly beautiful woman is beautiful when she’s sopping wet. The hair’s not done. She’s not wearing makeup. No flattering clothes to accentuate this or that. No heels. Nothing. If she can turn me on coming out of the shower, that’s a beautiful woman.”

  Stacy raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I’d pass the test?”

  Tozzi smiled and shrugged. “I dunn
o.”

  She nodded and slowly twirled the beer bottle on the table-top. The bull Zoid and the gorilla Zoid were toe-to-toe, grinding away, neither one giving any ground. Stacy looked up at him. Her eyes were full of mischief. “So which way’s the shower?”

  Tozzi’s heart fluttered. Then he heard that voice in his head. Act your age. He looked down at the Zoids.

  He felt her hand on his shin under the coffee table then. It was walking up his good leg. She started circling his kneecap with her finger as she gazed into his eyes, raised her eyebrows, and bit her bottom lip.

  Tozzi felt light-headed. Jesus, help me.

  Her fingers did the walking up the inside of his thigh. She paused and ran her fingernails along the inseam of his jeans, going up and down, reaching a little higher with each run.

  He swallowed hard.

  She lowered her shoulder so she could reach those last few inches. But as he watched her curls tumbling to one side as she went for it, Tozzi suddenly realized something. He wasn’t hard. He wasn’t even starting to get hard, nothing.

  Then he heard the voice scolding him. Grow up. Act your age.

  He blinked, spooked by the voice. He should’ve been hard by now, but he wasn’t. Not even close. It was the first time this had ever happened to him in his life. Christ, he was always hard. He wanted to give it a little help with his hand, but he was afraid he’d run into hers down there. His heart started to beat faster and his breath got short. He couldn’t get it up. Maybe it was because of his injury. The blood was all going to the bad leg. Or maybe this is what happens when you turn forty. Oh, shit. What if he started something with her, and when the time came, he couldn’t get it up? Oh, no … No…

  Stacy took her hand off his thigh then and reached across the table, dragging her palm over his cheek. “You never answered the question,” she moaned. “Do you find me attractive or not?” Her face was serious. She meant business.

  But what if he couldn’t get it up? Oh, Jesus…