Either Bells was nervous about lending to a partnership where he really didn’t know one of the partners, or he felt that Freshy, the other partner, was such a fuck-up, he couldn’t be trusted with that much money. But that was why Tozzi was sitting here, drinking a drink he didn’t need, waiting for the dawn’s early light. He was waiting to hear what Buddha Stanzione’s decision would be. If they said yes, Operation Shark Bite would be one notch closer to hauling in a big one, a capo in the Luccarelli family. If they said no, Tozzi will have wasted a lot of time for nothing.
Staring into the gloom, cradling his face in his palm, Tozzi let out a tired sigh. This was really fucking nuts when you thought about it. Going undercover was nuts. Who in his right mind would ever depend on a screwball like Freshy DeFresco for anything? Who in his right mind would play around with someone as violent and short-tempered as Buddha Stanzione? Who in his right mind would come within fifty feet of that nut Bells? Who in his right mind would go undercover inside the Mafia, intending to borrow money from them and not pay it back, hoping that they would threaten to shoot out his kneecaps? He had to be nuts. That’s all there was to it. He was nuts.
His eyes drooped, and he almost started to doze. This was crazy. He needed to get some sleep. Maybe “Mike Santoro” the pornmeister could stay up all night waiting for a couple of wiseguys to make up their goddamn minds, but Mike Tozzi had another life, a real life, and he needed to get some sleep. That night, just about sixteen hours from now, he was finally going to be testing for his black belt in aikido, and he’d be damned if he was going to miss it this time. The last time Sensei came over from Japan to preside over testing, Tozzi had been limping around on a cane after having been shot in the leg in the line of duty. That was eight months ago. After five and a half years of martial arts training, working his way up through the ranks, kyu by kyu, Tozzi had had to wait eight more months before Sensei came back and he could test for his black belt. Eight more months. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and when he was philosophical about it, he felt that maybe it was a good thing that he’d had to wait. That it built character, gave him a little humility, gave him a chance to sand off some of the rough edges in his techniques. But deep down, he knew that was bullshit. He wanted to test, badly. And to be absolutely honest about it, for the last eight months, he’d felt like a kid who’d been kept back and had to repeat a grade. It wasn’t fair. In fact, it sucked.
As he started to doze off, he imagined how his test would go that night. The gym would be crowded, at least a hundred and fifty people in white gi uniforms sitting along the edges of the mats. After all the lower belts were finished testing, the black-belt tests would begin. Tozzi’s name would be called, and he’d run out to the middle of the mat. After Sensei tested his posture, Tozzi would then run through all the formal techniques with a partner, dealing with all kinds of attacks, including tanto-tori, knife attacks. After that he would perform bokken kata, a formal movement exercise done with a wooden sword. Then at last the big part of the test would come, the part that everyone both dreaded and looked forward to at the same time: randori, freestyle against multiple attackers.
To earn the rank of shodan, the first level in the black-belt ranks, you had to take on five opponents simultaneously. But unlike other schools of aikido, where the guy being tested had to make eye contact with his attackers before they could attack, thereby assuring that they came at you one at a time, in Tozzi’s school, Aikido Kokikai, they attacked at will, using any of the various attacks that were used in technique practice.
Tozzi pictured his attackers lined up on the mat, most of them seasoned black belts, all sitting seiza on their knees in a row. Tozzi would also be sitting seiza, facing them, about twenty-five feet away. They would all be staring at him, mean-faced, trying to psyche him out, but he wouldn’t let himself be intimidated by such blatant tactics. He was centered. His attitude was positive. His mind was free and open. He had no strategy, no special techniques, no tricks he intended to use. His only goal was to get out of the way and take each one as he came, throwing him efficiently and automatically, keeping a rhythm and not lingering over any particular attacker. He’d keep moving and make them come to him, make them commit their attacks and compromise their own balance. He wouldn’t fall into the typical trap of getting caught flat-footed and allowing them to gang up on him, each attacker grabbing two fistfuls of his gi jacket and dragging him down. No, he’d stay light and mobile. He wouldn’t let them catch him. He would just throw and move on to the next attacker, throw and move on. That was his only strategy.
Sitting seiza before his attackers, he would pause to take a deep breath, filling his diaphragm and letting it out slowly through his mouth until finally he was ready. He’d be psyched, but he’d also be relaxed. He was ready to become a black belt. The five attackers would be ready, too, waiting for his bow, the signal for the randori to begin. Tozzi would take another deep breath and let it out slowly, settling deeper into his center. All he’d have to do now was bow.
He’d scan his attackers one last time, making eye contact with each grim face. He was ready. Calmly he’d bow, and they’d all jump to their feet, rushing at him full-tilt. He’d stand up and wait, wait for them to come to him. He was calm, ready. The first black belt would run up to him, his fist balled. Tozzi would force himself to wait. The punch would come full force, aimed right at his—
“Hey, Mike!”
Tozzi’s eyes shot open. He looked all around him. It wasn’t the bright lights of the gym or the wide blue expanse of the mats. It was the murky gloom of Joey’s Starlight Lounge in Hoboken. Shit.
“Hey, Mike. What the hell you doing, sleepin’?”
Tozzi opened his eyes again and gazed blankly at the goofball moon face on the other side of the booth. He closed his eyes again and sighed. Friggin’ Freshy.
“Wake up, man. Jesus Christ! You can’t fall asleep now. What if Buddha wants to talk to you?”
“Buddha doesn’t talk to anyone who isn’t made.” Tozzi cleared his throat. “You know that.”
“Yeah, that’s true, that’s true. But he might make an exception. You never know, Mike. You never know.”
Freshy DeFresco rattled the ice in his favorite drink, a Rusty Nail, scotch and Galliano. He was a skinny kid with a concave chest that even a sweater and sport coat couldn’t hide. He had a round face with watery basset hound eyes and a perpetual three days’ growth of beard. A small-time hood, Freshy was barely thirty, if that, and he was already half-bald to the crown of his head, but he kept the mousy brown hair long in back and tied it in a shitty little two-inch ponytail. Even with the diamond stud in his ear, he was still the uncoolest asshole Tozzi had ever met. He was jittery and fidgety, always playing with something in his hand or bouncing his knee or doing something to drive you crazy, and he wasted so much time figuring out all the “angles,” he didn’t know if he was coming or going anymore. Freshy made Barney Fife look suave.
Freshy took a quick sip of his Rusty Nail, then went back to rattling the ice. “Something wrong, Mike? What’re you looking at me like that for? Huh?”
Tozzi stared at him through half-closed lids. He didn’t trust Freshy as far as he could spit. Despite all Freshy’s testimonials that he was a changed man and that he was ready to work for the good guys from now on, Tozzi didn’t believe a word of it. He’d heard this rap a hundred times before from other guys who’d been flipped by the law. They get themselves in a jam, go to trial, and end up facing serious time for the first time in their lives, and all of a sudden they get religion. They call every cop and fed they can think of, begging to make a deal, promising to do anything—rat on their old associates, testify in court against a bigger fish, make introductions for an undercover cop—anything to get a reduced sentence. Guys like Freshy think they can go to heaven on brownie points. Of course, when you’re facing three to seven for fencing stolen property, the thought of getting credit for time served plus parole and a promise of witness relocation when it’s
all over probably does sound like heaven.
Still, Tozzi had been burned before by mutts like Freshy. Crooks don’t get religion; they just get scared. And when they get scared, they’ll do anything and say anything to save their sorry little asses. Put a guy like this back on the street so that he can help you, and nine times out of ten the guy will play both ends to the middle, telling the cops what they want to hear, then turning around and telling the bad guys what they want to hear. It was a matter of survival and paranoia. Bad guys who flip never really believe in their heart of hearts that the good guys can protect them, and Freshy was probably no different. Tozzi was willing to bet that in that fucked-up head of his, Freshy thought he was just looking out for his own best interests. Just in case the Bureau decided to cut him loose, he wanted to make sure he had something to fall back on. And that was to be expected, up to a point. Just as long as he didn’t try to make big brownie points with Buddha Stanzione and Tony Bells by telling them who Mike Santoro really was.
“Mikey, whatta’ya keep looking at me like that for? I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Where you been?”
Freshy jerked his thumb at the front door. “I just had to go get something. Something for Bells.”
“What?”
“Whatta’ya mean, what?”
“What did you go get for Bells?”
“A turkey.”
“A what?”
“A turkey, a turkey. It’s gonna be Thanksgiving. People eat turkey. What’sa matta, you don’t eat turkey? I got a good deal on some fresh turkeys. I figured I’d give Bells one. You know, goodwill toward men and all that jazz. Grease the wheels, you know.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I swear on my mother’s eyes, Mike. I just went home to get him a turkey. I’ll show you. I got a whole bunch of ’em in my trunk.”
“You’re full of shit. You don’t have any friggin’ turkeys. They’d go bad in the trunk.”
Freshy rattled his ice. “Nah! Whatta’ya, kidding? It’s friggin’ cold out there. They stay nice and cold in my trunk. C’mon. I’ll go show you.” Freshy didn’t make a move to get out of the booth.
“Frig you, you lying bastard.”
Freshy threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “Why the hell don’t you ever believe me, Mike? Why?”
“Because you’re a goddamn liar.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“When did I ever lie to you? When?”
“If you got a turkey for Bells, why don’t you give one to Buddha? Grease his wheels, too.”
Freshy shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
“ ’Cause you don’t have any turkeys. That’s why.”
“Man, you don’t understand shit.” Freshy looked down and rubbed his brow, suddenly distraught. He took another quick sip. “Listen to me, Mike. Buddha Stanzione, you don’t even talk to. I mean, what if I gave him a turkey and it turned out to be bad? You know, smelly, rotten? I’d be fucking dead. He’d eat me for Thanksgiving.”
“You just told me they stay nice and cold in your trunk.”
“Yeah, but you never know about these things, Mike. You drive around, the car heats up, the trunk gets hot, there go the turkeys. It could happen, man. You never know. I don’t wanna get whacked just ’cause I gave the guy salmon Manila or something like that. Not me, man.”
Tozzi leaned on the tabletop and put his face in Freshy’s. “Keep on lying, Fresh. Go ’head, keep it up.”
“I ain’t lying, man. You wanna fuckin’ turkey, I’ll give you one. C’mon.”
“Cut the shit and listen to me.” Tozzi lowered his voice. “If I find out you’re fucking around with me, Freshy, I’ll cut you loose, and I’ll make sure Buddha and Bells know you were cooperating with us. You hear me?”
Freshy blinked in confusion. “I’m shocked to be hearing this, Mike. This isn’t you talking. Haven’t I played straight with you so far? Did I get you the introduction to Bells or what? Did I convince him that we were doing porno together or what? Is he or is he not at this very moment sitting in that back room back there trying to get some money out of Buddha for us? That’s what you wanted, right? So what the hell else do you want from me? If you want me to do more, then you gotta tell me what. I’m not Mr. Mysterioso, the mind-reader.”
Tozzi rubbed his tired eyes. “You’re right, Fresh. You did do all that. But what I wanna know is, what else you been doing? What’re you telling Bells behind my back?”
“Nothing!”
“Then keep it that way. You hear me?”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.”
“Don’t try to play both sides to the middle, Fresh. It won’t work. I’ll cut you loose and feed you to the sharks. I swear to God, I will.”
Freshy rattled his ice and thought about it for a second. Then a big grin opened up under his long sharp woodpecker nose. There were gaps between all his front teeth. “You won’t cut me loose, Mike. You think you will, but I know you, Mike. You won’t.”
“Oh, no? Why won’t I?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because you got a hard-on for my sister, that’s why.”
Tozzi sat back and scowled. “Get the fuck outta here.”
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Don’t try to bullshit me, Mike. I seen how you look at her, man. It’s obvious.”
“Get outta here.”
“C’mon, Mike. Be honest. You already put the moves on her, didn’t you? I know she took you up to her apartment once. C’mon, deny it. I dare you.”
Tozzi gave him the finger, then picked up his glass and tilted in back into his mouth. Ice slivers slid onto his tongue. He wanted to put out a few of Freshy’s crooked yellow teeth to shut him up, but not with Buddha and Tony Bells sitting back there. He and Freshy were supposed to be partners, buddies. The little fuck.
He chomped on the ice and stared down at the squeezed lime in his glass. Freshy was an asshole, but in this case he was right. He did have a hard-on for Gina DeFresco. He’d been catching himself daydreaming about her a lot lately. Too bad she didn’t give a shit about him, though.
“Hey, Mike?”
Tozzi glared up at Freshy. “Shut up.” Thank God his sister didn’t look like him.
“No, man, I wasn’t gonna say nothing about Gina. Forget about that. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”
“Shut up anyway.”
“Yeah, but I just wanna know one thing.”
Tozzi sighed, straggling to keep his eyes open. “What?”
“Seriously. You wanna turkey or not?”
“No.”
“Free, I mean.”
“No!”
“Okay, okay, I was just asking. You don’t have to get nasty about it.”
Freshy shrugged and fidgeted, rattling his ice chips and looking hurt.
Tozzi ignored him and leaned out the side of the booth to see what was going on in the back room. Buddha Stanzione and Tony Bells were still huddled at that table, still talking. He wondered what the hell was taking them so long to make up their minds. He looked at the Budweiser clock over the bar. It was after four. Christ, if he didn’t get some sleep, he could forget about his black-belt test. He squinted into the gloom to see their faces, but he couldn’t make out their expressions. What the hell were they doing back there?
FOUR
4:04 A.M.
Tozzi picked up his empty glass with the dead-fish lime in it and got out of the booth.
Freshy looked up at him, surprised. “Where you going?”
“I gotta go to the bathroom.” He went over to Stanley the Tazmanian Devil sitting at the bar.
Stanley growled, “Whatta’ya want?” Real friendly.
Tozzi nodded toward the back room where Buddha and Bells were having their meeting. The men’s room was back there. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Stanley’s glance slid down to Tozzi’s crotch. Stanley was the guard dog here, and h
is orders were to keep everyone out of the back room. He nodded toward the front door. “Go outside.”
Tozzi made a face and put some distress in his voice. “I gotta take a shit.”
The Tazmanian Devil rubbed his jaw, thinking it over. He shook his head. “Go outside.”
“C’mon, Stanley. I really gotta go.”
Stanley stared at his crotch again as if he were looking for proof.
“C’mon, Stanley. I’m dying here.”
Stanley frowned and thought about it some more, then got off his stool. “Wait here.” He went toward the back room and stood in the archway, waiting to be noticed.
Buddha noticed him, but said nothing.
Bells followed Buddha’s gaze to the legbreaker standing in the archway. “What?” He was annoyed with the intrusion.
“Sorry to interrupt, Bells, but Santoro says he needs the john.” Stanley shrugged. It was beyond his control.
“Tell him to go outside.”
“He says he’s gotta do . . . you know, the other thing.”
Bells frowned and looked to Buddha. The capo shrugged, unconcerned. “Let him go.”
Stanley moved out of the archway between the rooms and let Tozzi pass. He muttered under his breath, “Be quick.”
Tozzi walked into the room sideways, facing Bells and Buddha as he moved toward the men’s room. “Thank you, Mr. Stanzione. I appreciate it.”
Bells and Buddha just stared at him, waiting for him to go into the bathroom so they could continue their discussion. From the far end of the room, Buddha’s four gorillas stared at him, too.
Tozzi went into the tiny men’s room and closed the door behind him, locking it with a paint-encrusted eyehook. The bathroom was even more decrepit than the rest of Joey’s Starlight Lounge. It was freezing in there, and the floor was sticky. The urinal was covered with spiderweb cracks and full of ice chips, the door on the toilet stall was long gone, and a plastic bucket under the sink was overflowing with used brown-paper towels. Despite the cold, the room smelled to high heaven of piss and disinfectant.
Tozzi dumped the old lime in his glass into the toilet and shook out the last drops of ice water. He stepped up on the toilet and looked out the small grimy window. Outside, in a side lot hidden from the street by overgrown hedges, two identical cars were parked, a black Lincoln Continental Town Car and a gray one. Buddha’s motorcade.
Bad Apple Page 3
