5 Bad Moon

by Anthony Bruno

The restaurant was a classy Italian place on East Seventy-first Street called Pompeii. Tozzi scanned the dining room and checked the back tables, where the preferred customers were usually seated. He spotted Frank Bartolo’s shiny bald head right away. Juicy Vacarini was sitting next to him, just the two of them at a table for four in the corner near the piano. Hey, why not? Juicy owned the place.

  Watching Juicy light a cigarette, Tozzi began to have second thoughts about bringing Stacy here. Juicy was definitely gonna have a hard-on for her. He had a special appreciation for beautiful women. He ought to. Juicy was the biggest whoremeister in the Northeast. He supposedly had a gift for recruitment.

  Stacy smiled sweetly at Tozzi and spoke through her teeth. “This looks like one of those places where they do mob rubouts, Tozzi. I don’t want to end up on the front page of tomorrow’s Post facedown in a plate of linguine.”

  Tozzi smiled back pleasantly. “Then order something else.”

  “Very funny.” Her smile turned sarcastic. “I don’t like the energy in this place. Why don’t we go home? I’ll make something for us.”

  He could tell she was nervous. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen. We’re just here to check out the scene, that’s all. Besides, the food is actually very good here.” It always was in mob joints. He took her hand and patted it.

  The maître d’ weaved his way through the dining room, coming toward them. He had a face like a corpse.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

  “Yes. For Thompson.”

  The maitre d’ checked the register and nodded. “Right this way.”

  As they followed the maître d’, Stacy furrowed her brows. “Thompson?” she whispered.

  “You never use your real name for a reservation,” he murmured. “It’s an invitation for a setup. But don’t worry,” he added quickly. “Nothing’s gonna happen here tonight.” He sneaked a look at her face to see if she believed him.

  Tozzi kept his eye on the maître d’. He knew who the guy was, but he couldn’t remember his name. The guy did some time for hijacking a truckload of fur coats at Kennedy a while back, took the rap for a made guy in Juicy’s crew. This restaurant job must’ve been his reward for being a stand-up guy. His utter joy and gratitude was written all over his petrified face.

  They followed Happy the maître d’ around a big table of fat couples eating pastries and drinking cappuccinos. Tozzi made sure he didn’t stare at Juicy and Bartolo, but he kept them in his peripheral vision. No one was gonna believe this was a coincidence, but he still had to make it look like it was.

  Happy showed them to a table across the room from the two capos. At a table on the other side of the piano from Juicy and Bartolo, three soldiers from Bartolo’s crew were eating with three women too young and sexy to be their wives. Louis “Loopy Lou” Nardone, Domenico “Gyp” Giambella, and Jimmy Turano had been key men in that crew when it was Sal Immordino’s.

  Little Jimmy T. had made a mint setting up dummy gasoline brokerages that bought and sold hundreds of thousands of gallons of gas, then disappeared before it was time to pay the federal taxes. By beating Uncle Sam out of his cut, Jimmy was able to sell his gas to retailers at a big discount and walk away with a nice profit.

  Cockeyed Loopy Lou had been running a couple of asbestos-removal companies under different names out on Long Island. He hired illegal Polish immigrants hungry for work who were willing to take their chances ripping out asbestos ceilings and pipe insulation without adequate safety equipment, then dumped the toxic material on a farm near Albany in the middle of the night.

  Gyp ran a private school-bus company in Queens that specialized in transporting handicapped kids. Gyp had managed to finagle an exclusive contract for all the public schools in the boroughs of Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan. Without competition, he was able to charge whatever he wanted. And he did.

  But according to the latest intelligence reports on these guys, they weren’t too happy with their new captain. Gyp still had his fleet of school buses, but Frank Bartolo pulled the reins in on Loopy Lou and Jimmy T. On Bartolo’s orders, they were concentrating on loan-sharking now, and they weren’t making nearly as much money as they had been under Sal. Apparently Bartolo didn’t want to owe Sal anything, so all enterprises started under his leadership were now terminated.

  Tozzi watched the faces of the three wiseguys. They didn’t look unhappy now, but he had a feeling the girls had a lot to do with that. What Tozzi found interesting was that Bartolo wasn’t sitting with his soldiers. It looked like he was deliberately ignoring them and they were ignoring him. Supposedly Bartolo didn’t like to rub elbows with his men. Supposedly he felt he was above that. Interesting.

  Tozzi felt his bandaged thigh under his pants and he thought about Sal Immordino playing dumb with him yesterday. Gibbons had checked on the other two mobsters he thought might have tried to have him killed. Old man Zucchetti was on a farm deep in the rain forests of Brazil, hiding out from a Sicilian drug rival who’d made an unsuccessful attempt on his life, and the Los Angeles field office had confirmed that Richie Varga was in California, trying to produce movies. As far as they knew Varga wasn’t doing anything illegitimate, and he hadn’t been out of the state in eight months. That didn’t guarantee anything, of course, but Tozzi and Gibbons agreed that Varga and Zucchetti were too far removed from things in New York to care about an FBI agent who had given them some trouble once upon a time. That left Sal Immordino, and considering that the boss of Immordino’s family had just been whacked, Tozzi couldn’t help feeling that there was a connection between the Mistretta killings and his own “mugging.” If Sal was behind all this, he was setting himself up to go head-to-head against Juicy for control of the family, so Juicy might have something to say about that. The mob vow of silence was all well and good, but if Juicy thought the FBI could take care of his main competition, he might drop a few subtle hints. It was known to happen.

  When Tozzi looked back at Bartolo and Juicy, he saw that Juicy was looking this way, but he wasn’t looking at Tozzi. It was Stacy he was focused on. Tozzi pressed his lips together and let out his breath. He hadn’t planned on using Stacy as bait, but…

  He waved to Juicy and worked up a nice big smile. “There’s somebody I know over there,” he said to Stacy. “Let’s go say hello.”

  Tozzi stood up, pulled out Stacy’s chair, and led her toward Juicy’s table.

  “They don’t look very happy to see you,” Stacy said through her teeth.

  “Don’t worry. That’s just the way these people are. They’re not very demonstrative.”

  “Who are they? Are they killers?”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Just smile. Nothing will happen.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Happy the maître d’ moved into their path just as they got to Juicy’s table. “Your table is over there, sir.”

  Tozzi looked past him to the proprietor.

  Juicy Vacarini was leisurely sucking on a cigarette, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of his face. He squinted through the rising smoke, his gaze fixed on Stacy. He was a thin guy with a long horse face and styled steel-gray hair that swept laterally over his ears, defying gravity. His clothes were impeccable, and his skin had that peculiar waxy sheen Tozzi had seen on Hollywood types, guys who’ve had face-lifts. Juicy had young features, but Tozzi knew he wasn’t that young—early to mid-fifties. Tozzi thought of him as a Lamborghini—fast and sharp to look at, but constant maintenance.

  Frank Bartolo, on the other hand, was a gas-guzzling, bottom-of-the-line, stripped-down domestic sedan. Hunched over a mountain of golden fried calamari with a fork in his chubby fist, Bartolo glared up at Tozzi from under hairy caterpillar eyebrows. With that cue-ball head of his, he looked like a mad egg.

  Juicy squinted up at Stacy and took another slow drag off his cigarette. “I’ve seen you on television, haven’t I?”

  Stacy sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded. She didn’t mind bei
ng the Pump-It-Up Girl. It was the loss of anonymity that bothered her.

  “You know, every time I see your commercial, I say to myself, ‘This is a very talented person.’ And I wonder, Why is this person wasting her time with these low-rent commercials?” He shook the two fingers holding the cigarette at her. “You should be acting. You know that?” Swirls of smoke rose from his hand like a lasso. “Film.”

  Tozzi’s jaw tightened. Juicy had a genuinely engaging smile, and Tozzi could see that it was working its charm on Stacy. He shouldn’t have brought her here.

  “How’s it going, Juicy?”

  The capo ignored Tozzi, giving Stacy his undivided attention. “Please, sit down.” He indicated the chair opposite himself.

  She looked at Tozzi to see if it was all right. It wasn’t, but he nodded anyway as he pulled out the chair for her, then took the one opposite Bartolo.

  The egg snarled. “Who invited you, Tozzi?”

  Tozzi sat down and hooked his cane on the edge of the table. “We’re a package deal.”

  “Oh, yeah? She a fed, too?”

  Tozzi glanced at her. “She look like a fed to you?”

  Stacy glared at them both. “Why don’t you ask me yourself?”

  The egg grumbled as he speared another forkful of calamari rings.

  Juicy looked up at Happy the maître d’. “Bring us a bottle of Cristal.”

  Happy nodded and made tracks for the bar.

  Juicy looked into Stacy’s eyes. “I prefer Cristal. I think it’s a little more sophisticated than Dom P.”

  Tozzi smirked. “Or is that the brand that happened to fall off the truck this week?”

  Juicy acted as if Tozzi wasn’t even there. He only had eyes for Stacy. So did every other guy in the place, except for Bartolo who kept cramming calamari into his mean little mouth as he gave Tozzi the evil eye.

  They stared at each other for a minute, then Bartolo suddenly erupted. “So whattaya want?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Then go sit at your own table.”

  “I like this table better.”

  “You know something? This is government harrassment, pal. You’re giving me acida here. I’m gonna get my lawyer on you guys.”

  Tozzi held up his cane and twirled the hook. “I’m on sick leave, Frank. So I’m not on duty now. Which means I’m just being friendly.”

  The egg scowled. “Bullshit you are.”

  Juicy frowned at them, very displeased. He didn’t like them using bad language in front of the lady. He shrugged and shook his head apologetically to Stacy, still ignoring Tozzi.

  The piano player came back then, and Juicy made eye contact with him. He sat down at the keyboard, poker-faced, and started to play “Fascination.” Juicy leaned over the table and spoke softly, just to Stacy. Tozzi couldn’t hear what he was saying over the piano. This was the way it was gonna be: Stacy would get all of Juicy’s attention while he had to make do with the mad egg. Okay, fine. He could deal with that.

  “So how’s it hanging, Frank?”

  Bartolo stared down at his plate and kept eating.

  “Tell me something, Frank. All this stuff I’ve been reading in the papers—should I believe any of it?”

  The mad egg reached for his wineglass and took a glug, then went back to the calamari.

  Tozzi leaned in closer and whispered, “Some of the papers are saying that Juicy did Mistretta, that he’s the new boss now. That true?”

  “Get the fuck outta my face, will ya?”

  Tozzi leaned back. “Hey, I’m just asking, Frank. See, I haven’t been to the office lately. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Bartolo pointed his fork at Tozzi. “Listen, wiseass, don’t get cute with me. You think I don’t know what’s going on here? You guys are warming up to pin this thing on us ’cause you jerk-offs can’t find the real killer. You’re not fooling anybody, Tozzi. Some fucking crazy person did Jerry and the old man. Anybody can see that. Only a crazy person would pull that kind of sick shit, shooting up their bodies like that.”

  “You mean, you wouldn’t do it like that. You’d do it clean. One to the back of the head, maybe two to be sure, then get out quick.”

  “Hey! Don’t miscombobulate my words, okay? I would never kill nobody. And neither would Juicy.”

  “Okay, fine. I believe you, Frank. I do … But how about Sal Immordino? You think he coulda done it?”

  At the mention of Sal’s name, Juicy quickly glanced at them, then looked away. He was listening. Good.

  Bartolo stopped chewing and stared at Tozzi. “Sal Immordino’s supposed to be in the nuthouse. What, he got out?”

  Tozzi shrugged. “I don’t think so. I mean, I just saw him there the other day.”

  The egg’s mouth dropped. “He talk to you?”

  Tozzi ignored the question. Let them think Sal did talk to him. “So do you think Sal could’ve done something like that? He is supposed to be a ‘crazy person,’ after all.”

  The egg threw down his fork, bunched his fingers, and gestured with his hand. “How? How could he do it?”

  “Whattaya mean, ‘how could he do it’? He hired a shooter, put out a contract. How else do you kill somebody?”

  Bartolo joined his palms and shook his hands as if he were praying to God. “The man’s a fucking fruitcake. How’s he gonna order a hit? He can’t order coffee, for chrissake.”

  Tozzi looked at Juicy, but he was looking at Stacy. “How do you know, Frank? He’s been in the hospital almost two years now. Maybe he got better.”

  Bartolo waved him away. “Get the fuck outta here. Where’s he gonna get better?”

  Tozzi was surprised that Bartolo was insisting that Sal really was mental. He figured Bartolo would’ve jumped at the chance to pin Mistretta’s murder on Sal and bury him. He hated Sal. It would also take the heat off Juicy if it was him who sent the hit man. Maybe Sal, Juicy, and Bartolo were in this together. Tozzi doubted it, though. Somehow that kind of reconciliation didn’t seem likely, not with their histories.

  Happy came back with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and four tall glasses. He started to set down the glasses when Juicy stopped him. “Just two,” he said loud enough for Tozzi to hear as he pointed to the space between Stacy and himself.

  Stacy glanced at Tozzi. She looked a little nervous. Tozzi wondered what kind of bullshit Juicy was feeding her. He wasn’t worried, though. She was smart enough to see through a sleazebag like him. A sleazebag with a big friggin’ hard-on. Shit.

  As Happy went to work uncorking the champagne, Tozzi turned back to Bartolo. “So, Frank, if it wasn’t Sal who had Mistretta whacked, who do you think did?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Tozzi lowered his voice. “C’mon, Frank. Don’t play dumb. You know who did it.”

  “I don’t know nothing.” Bartolo went back to his calamari.

  Tozzi leaned in close. “How about this, Frank? What if I told you we could protect you? We could relocate you and change your identity, give you a new life. Your son, too—your whole family. Your name ever comes up in a felony investigation—with the exception of murder, of course—you’ll be immune. We’ll make the deal, ITI arrange the whole thing. Just tell me who did Mistretta.”

  Bartolo stopped chewing and looked him in the eye. “If we make this ‘deal,’ you gonna get me a house next door to Sal?”

  Tozzi shrugged. Let him think Sal’s flipped, that he’s talking to the feds. It’ll make them crazy. And that’s when they’ll screw up.

  The cork popped, and Tozzi looked over toward Happy. He noticed that the muscle had arrived. A big hunk of meat crammed into a pearl-gray double-breasted suit was loitering by the piano, staring at him. The guy stood there like a buffalo, mean but dumb. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything at all. He laid his big pale hands on the piano. They looked like a pair of uncooked chickens.

  The piano
player finished up “Fascination” and segued right into “Strangers in the Night.” Juicy stood up then and moved around the table. He held Stacy’s chair as she got up, then took her hand and led her to the cramped space between the table and the piano where they started to dance. The restaurant wasn’t the kind of place where people danced, but Juicy was dancing with Stacy anyway and the whole place was watching, except for four fat couples at a big table in the middle of the room who were busy scarfing down cannolis and cheesecake. The muscles in Tozzi’s jaw started to flex by themselves. He kept his eye on Juicy’s hand on the small of Stacy’s back, the son of a bitch.

  Bartolo reached for his wineglass and let out a snide laugh. “What’s-a-matta, Tozzi? You look jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Juicy. You think he’s gonna steal your girl?” Bartolo was sucking his teeth and grinning.

  Tozzi ignored him. He wasn’t jealous. He just didn’t want that pig touching her.

  Bartolo snickered. “Better watch out, Tozzi. Juicy’s got a way with women. He don’t even have to try. They chase him.”

  Tozzi looked Bartolo in the eye. “Yeah, we should be so lucky. Huh, Frank? Ugly guys like us.”

  Bartolo just sucked his teeth and grinned.

  Tozzi glanced back at Stacy and Juicy. They were dancing awfully close, but she didn’t seem to mind. Strangers in the night, huh? Tozzi waited for them to turn around again so he could see where Juicy’s hand was. He was shocked to see that it was still up on her back. Juicy’s restraint was amazing.

  Bartolo picked up his fork and started eating again. “So what’ve you and Sal been talking about lately? The weather?”

  “Total immunity from prosecution on anything that happened before today, Frank. Think about that, Frank. I don’t think you appreciate what a good deal I’m making you here.”

  Bartolo smiled and chewed. “You’re a real piss, you know that, Tozzi?”

  “You’re not thinking ahead, Frank. Juicy’s no Mistretta. Yeah, he’s a flashy guy and all, but he don’t know half of what Mistretta knew and the whole family’s gonna suffer. Including you. Think about it, Frank. What does Juicy know? Pussy. That’s all he knows. You’re backing the wrong horse, Frank. Any family with a pimp for a boss is in big trouble. Nobody’s gonna respect him.”