Bad Luck Page 8

  “What the hell you doin’ here?”

  Gibbons smiled with his teeth. “Shouldn’t use that tone of voice with the customers,” he said. In fact, Gibbons didn’t like his tone of voice at all. He’d overheard Tozzi doing the wiseass routine with the blond bartender before. He realized Tozzi was trying to stay in character, but the Nicky Newark act was a little too good. Gibbons looked down at the rock glass in Tozzi’s hand. Bourbon, no doubt. Wild Turkey. Either that or that peculiar rum he likes. But at one-thirty in the afternoon? Was that part of being in character too? Gibbons had a bad feeling.

  “What the fuck you doing here?” Tozzi repeated. Again, a little too belligerent for Gibbons’s liking.

  Gibbons nodded at the blonde in the hat pouring tomato juice into a Bloody Mary. “You boppin’ her too? What’sa matter? Can’t get enough from the boss’s wife?”

  Gibbons was guessing, but from the hateful glint in Tozzi’s eyes it looked like he’d guessed right. He’d seen Tozzi with Sydney Nashe in the parking garage last night, and even though they were in public there was something about the way she smiled at him and kept touching his sleeve that indicated a little more intimacy than there should’ve been. He’d followed them into the lobby, and when they got on the VIP elevator alone together, Gibbons caught a glimpse of her reaching up for Tozzi’s face as the doors closed. Gibbons had assumed they were going up to the seventeenth floor where Sydney kept her own private suite. He knew about Sydney’s playroom from a New Jersey State Police surveillance report that was on file with the Bureau. Tozzi had never mentioned it in any of his reports.

  The lines around Tozzi’s mouth were getting deep and mean now. Gibbons shook his head. It never fails. When it comes to women, he always leads with his dick. Of course, with this dish Sydney, Gibbons could hardly blame him. “So tell me it isn’t true.”

  Tozzi glanced down the bar to make sure the blonde was out of earshot. “What do you think? Sydney’s my best source. Also, my only source.”

  “So enlighten me. What has she told you that you haven’t been telling us?”

  Tozzi’s nostrils flared when Gibbons said “us,” and Gibbons wondered why. Was Tozzi storing up some kind of resentment against the Bureau? Or was he reacting to the fact that his old partner seemed to be putting himself on Ivers’s side instead of where they usually were, out on the edge together? Tozzi looked back down the bar before he spoke. “She hasn’t told me much. She doesn’t give it away.”

  “So what has she told you?”

  Tozzi leaned closer. “Nashe is in deep with the Mistrettas. Five years ago they sold him the land we’re standing on to build this place. Now his note is overdue and they want their scratch, badly. Sal Immordino has been down to make the collection himself. But as far as I can tell, the balance is still outstanding because Immordino has been back a few times.”

  Gibbons unconsciously took a sip of the German piss and made a face. “So what’s the big secret? You couldn’t call this in?”

  “I haven’t been able to corroborate the stuff about the land yet.”

  “So what?”

  Now Tozzi made a face. “What’re you, crazy? I got this from the subject’s wife. Wives don’t have to testify against their husbands in court. That happens to be the law, if you remember. We could never use this to bring charges against Nashe. That’s why I didn’t call it in.” Tozzi took a swig of his drink. “Besides, Ivers would go nuts if he found out I was—you know, with Nashe’s wife.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Gibbons swirled the beer in his glass and stared at Tozzi. This undercover had really brought out the guinea in him. The European-cut suit, the little Italian loafers, the styled hair. He had the look down perfect, low-echelon wiseguy with big ideas, the kind of punk who starts out as a driver or a bodyguard and works his way up in the family, hoping to be made a member some day. Getting made in the mob was like making the varsity team for these kind of guys. It’s what they live and breathe for.

  Gibbons nodded to himself, thinking, still staring at his old partner. Tozzi’s act was on the mark, but he hadn’t flipped. No, Ivers was wrong about that. Gibbons knew in his gut that Tozzi was playing it straight, doing his job. He was just doing it his way, the asshole. It would never occur to Tozzi that he could report what he’d learned so that Ivers could dispatch another agent to do the legwork that could back up his information. No, that wasn’t Tozzi’s way. He had to fly solo, make it a big adventure, then bring it in on a silver platter all by himself. He was like a dumb cat who brings dead birds to your doorstep and sits there, pleased as shit with himself, waiting for praise. Fucking Tozzi. Never was much of a team player. Gibbons sighed and took a sip of the piss. Neither was he.

  “So what’s the story with the blonde?” Gibbons nodded toward the bartender.

  Tozzi smiled. “Valerie. Valerie Raynor. She’s nice. I really like her.”

  “Yeah, and she’s got a good beat, easy to dance to.”

  “Fuck you! It’s not like that.” Tozzi was suddenly vicious.

  Gibbons raised his eyebrows. Could this be love? “It must be something. You been buzzing around her like a fly around shit.”

  Tozzi stared down at the bar. “I told you. I like her. I mean, I really like her. You know what I’m talking about?”

  Gibbons looked over at Valerie in her gangster hat, pouring shots, and thought about Lorraine, Lorraine the way she used to be. He knew what Tozzi was talking about. “She mixed in with all this? Nashe and his creditors, I mean.”

  “No, no, no . . . she just works here.” He sounded frustrated, like things weren’t working out the way he wanted with this Valerie.

  “Then what’s the problem? She’s not interested in you?”

  Tozzi shook his head slowly. “No, I’m getting all the right signals. All systems are go, as far as I can tell.”

  “But—”

  “But how the hell can I put the moves on Valerie when Sydney’s always popping out of the woodwork? I gotta be careful just coming here to the bar.”

  Gibbons frowned. I got news for you, pal. You’re not that careful.

  Tozzi took another sip. “Sydney’s a weird little bitch. If she thought I was getting serious with someone else, she’d cut me right off. Probably have me fired. I’ve got to be at her beck and call all the time, or else I don’t get any more info. When she’s in the mood, I’ve got to drop everything for her. It’s getting to be a real pain.”

  “You’re breaking my fucking heart. Such a hardship, porking a babe like Sydney.” Asshole.

  “Suck my dick.” Tozzi knocked back the rest of his drink.

  Gibbons sipped his beer. Tozzi was moodier than usual. Either it was the strain of being undercover, or he really had it bad for this Valerie. Whatever it was, Gibbons didn’t like his attitude. It wasn’t what he said so much as how he said it. His voice had that cocky, wiseguy edge to it. He also seemed a little too quick-tempered. Was Tozzi that stressed out trying to keep his personalities straight? Gibbons reconsidered his original assessment. Maybe Tozzi was wavering on the edge, trying to figure out which Mike was the better one to be, Tozzi or Tomasso.

  “Hey, listen, I’m glad you’re here,” Tozzi said then, a bit conciliatory but not a whole lot.

  “Oh, yeah? Why?”

  “This bodyguard gig is crazy. I’m supposed to be on a regular schedule, but Nashe is always changing his plans at the last minute and I end up having to put in a lot of overtime. So between guarding Nashe and playing spin the bottle with Sydney, I don’t have time for anything. I’ve got a few leads I’ve been wanting to run down, but I just can’t get away. Let me fill you in and you can do the legwork. First, go over to city hall and find out whose name is on the deed to this land, then—”

  “Hold it, hold it, hold it. You know, you do this to me all the time. You make up your mind that you’re gonna do things your way, then you drag me into it to hold your hand. Well, you can go fuck yourself this time—”

  “Hey, don’t yell. You�
��re making a scene here.” Tozzi scanned the lounge nervously. “I’m not asking you for a big favor. All I want you to do is go to city hall.”

  Gibbons rubbed his mouth and looked at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “The last time I did a favor for you, I wound up in the hospital. You remember that?”

  Tozzi bit his bottom lip. “I have never in my life met a guy who can hold a grudge like you. We’re supposed to be partners. At least we used to be. I’m just trying to make a case here. Why don’t you want to help me?”

  Gibbons growled under his breath. “Because for one thing your idea of making a case usually involves swinging from the chandeliers, jumping through windows, acting like a cowboy—”

  Tozzi made a face. “Come on, will ya?”

  “And for another thing, you don’t have enough time to make a case like this. There’s too much ground to cover, and so far you’ve got zilch.”

  “What do you mean, I don’t have enough time?”

  “Just what I said—you don’t have enough time. Ivers is getting itchy. He’s giving you till the end of next week to come up with something concrete on Nashe, or he’s shutting you down. That gives you—what?—ten, eleven days? You and I both know that you can’t make this kind of case in that much time.”

  “Bullshit. We can.”

  “No, don’t give me this we shit. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Tozzi clapped Gibbons’s shoulder. “Come on. We should at least try.”

  Gibbons removed his hand. “Forget it.”

  Tozzi leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Gib, this is your last chance to score a big one before you get married. You know Lorraine’s not gonna let you go out on the street once she becomes Mrs. Cuthbert Gibbons.”

  The muscles in Gibbons’s jaw were working. Bastard. He hated it when people used his real name, and he hated it when Tozzi was right. Lorraine was already busting his balls about retiring or at least staying with a desk job at the field office. Fuck that.

  Tozzi flashed his big baby browns. “Gib? Am I asking for a lot?”

  Fucking snake-oil salesman. “Look, Tozzi, I told you—”

  “Is this man harassing you, sir?” Valerie was suddenly standing behind the bar right in front of them. “I’ll have him thrown out if he’s causing trouble.” She pointed her finger in Tozzi’s face, looked him in the eye with a wry grin. “We have some very nasty security people here who are trained to take care of people like you.”

  “Hey, Val, I want you to meet my Uncle Bert. Uncle Bert, this is Valerie Raynor.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.

  Gibbons shook her hand and nodded, stomach acid creeping up his throat. Uncle Bert, huh? He hated it when Tozzi made cracks about his age. Fucking wiseass shit.

  “What do you need?” she asked, pointing to Gibbons’s glass. “Another one?”

  “No thanks.” Not the German piss.

  “You?” she asked Tozzi. “As if you need it.”

  “No, I’m driving.” Tozzi grinned up at her, staring into her eyes. He did have it bad for Valerie. Gooney bastard.

  She laughed at him. “You know, you’re not kidding anyone, pal. I know a lush when I see one.”

  “Val, you hurt my feelings.”

  The two of them went on like this for a while. Gibbons studied Valerie. She had a teardrop nose, sad eyes, and a husky voice. Her mouth favored one side more than the other, and she definitely wasn’t a natural blonde. But it was all put together right, so that the whole was a lot better than the parts. She seemed to have a lot on the ball—even if she did like Tozzi—and she was good at putting him in his place. Gibbons just couldn’t figure out why she reminded him so much of Lorraine. They looked nothing like each other. Maybe it had to do with having a lot on the ball. Lorraine did. Or at least she used to, before she started worrying about curtains and caterers and all that shit.

  Gibbons let out a long sigh. Getting married didn’t seem so inevitable sitting down here at the bar in Atlantic City. He couldn’t back out now, though. It would destroy Lorraine. He just wished he could work up a little enthusiasm for this thing. But what with the way she’d been acting lately, his heart just wasn’t in it. Maybe they’d end up making each other miserable. He looked over at Valerie in her gray fedora, sticking her tongue out at Tozzi. Maybe he should think about this.

  Gibbons pulled a ten out of his wallet and laid it on the bar. “Say, Valerie, I changed my mind. How about a shot of VO and a glass of whatever you have on tap that tastes the least like piss?”

  She smiled at him. “A man after my own heart. Beer and a bump, coming up.” She grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass and poured him a drink, then moved down the bar to draw a draft from the tap.

  Tozzi leaned toward him. “A little early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “Look who’s talking.” Gibbons turned the shot glass around on the bar, waiting for his beer.

  “So what do you say? You gonna stay and help me out here?”

  Gibbons glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Sure. Why not?” It’ll be a nice break from your cousin the Curtain Queen, give me some time to think.

  Valerie delivered the beer, picked up the ten, and went over to the cash register to ring it up. Gibbons hoisted the VO and threw it back in one gulp.

  “I knew you’d change your mind, Gib. I know you like a book. You can’t resist.”

  Gibbons took a slow, cool sip of beer, letting it trickle down his throat. He looked at Tozzi over the rim of his glass.

  Tozzi was flashing his wiseguy grin. “You’re a good guy, Gib. You really are. I owe you.”

  Gibbons put down his beer, laid his hand on his old partner’s shoulder, leaned in close, and smiled warmly with eyes crinkling, just like ole Uncle Bert. “Lemme tell you something, Toz.”

  “What?”

  “Eat shit.”

  al had his arm crooked behind his head against the headboard. He was scratching his balls under the sweaty sheet as he watched Sydney sitting up next to him, rubbing cuticle cream on her nails.

  The woman ought to keep a dipstick up her twat, he thought, what with all the oils and creams and shit she uses. She gets all greased up before she goes to bed, and now she gets up and does it all over again. Jesus.

  He reached over and started to rub her nipple between his thumb and index finger, mimicking the way she rubbed the cream into her nails. She gave him a sly little grin through the strands of hair falling over her face, but she didn’t stop working on her nails. She needed a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses right now, he thought. Like Lolita. That’s what she looked like now, sitting up in bed here. She was about as big as a kid in eighth grade, he figured, but she definitely had all the grown-up equipment. Half the time she had this real sweet, drop-dead gorgeous face, but if she caught you looking, it would change. She’d turn into a lusty bitch, like a horny milkmaid looking for a roll in the hay, something like that. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stay away from her. Because she just looked like fun, like something you weren’t supposed to have.

  He grinned and circled the dark, pebbly skin around her nipple with his thumb, feeling the texture. She did have great tits. He wondered if they were real, though. Lots of rich broads get those implant things, Baggies full of silicone sewn up in there. He plucked the nipple like a guitar string.

  “Easy.” She shrugged away from him, the little sly grin behind the white-blond strands. She didn’t want him to stop.

  He reached over and gently played with her tit, feeling around for surgical scars. As he felt around, his mind wandered and he started thinking about that bug Cil found in the crucifix. Fucking cops. They must’ve paid off the jeweler. Juicy was gonna send one of his guys over to have a little talk with him today. Cops could’ve broken into the guy’s shop, though, did the work on the cross without his knowing about it. Bastards. At least Cil hadn’t been wearing the damn thing very long. He’d only given it to her that morning. If the bastards heard anything, it
was when they were all eating. But what had they said, really? Not that much. Sal kept worrying Sydney’s nipple, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned the fight directly. He couldn’t remember. Shit. Maybe they ought to forget about this deal with Nashe.

  Sydney stopped rubbing her nails. “You’re gonna wear it out, Sal.”

  “Huh?” Then he realized she was talking about her tit, and he dropped his hand and scratched his balls through the sheet instead.

  He sighed and looked around the purple room. No, excuse me—lavender. The whole room was lavender, just like the rest of this fucking boat. Inside and out, all the same color. The famous lavender yacht. Custom-built, twelve bedrooms, big ballroom glassed in on the deck—who knows how many fucking feet long?—big crew, wine cellar, the whole number. And everything lavender. Her favorite color. Sal looked at Sydney, lashes lowered on her cheeks, still concentrating on her nails. A little gift from Russ. Madonn’! What money these people must have.

  Not just millionaires, billionaires. A billion dollars . . . one thousand million clams. And how many times over? Goddamn depressing. Nashe’s got all that money to work with, and fucking cheap-shit Mistretta leaves me a lousy thirty mil to run the whole family. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Son of a bitch, I should be dealing in billions now. The old guy’s got a cheap-shit mentality. And when he gets out of jail it’s gonna be the same old shit all over again. Playing it safe. Small risks and small rewards. Shoulda taken advantage when I had the chance. Shoulda done what I wanted to do. Pulled off some big scores when he first went in. Bought those cement factories. I could’ve done a lot. Too late now. Coulda, woulda, shoulda . . . At least I got this thing with Nashe. If I can trust the bastard. If he’s really got the cash he says he does.