The egg swiped his mean little mouth with a napkin and nodded toward the dancers. “You know, for someone who don’t know nothing but pussy, Juicy’s getting to know yours pretty good, Tozzi.”
Tozzi looked up and saw Juicy’s hand down on Stacy’s ass, pulling her pelvis into his. She was pushing off his lapels, beginning to resist. He bit his bottom lip. That fucking pig.
Tozzi grabbed his cane by the bottom end and reached over, hooking Juicy’s wrist and yanking his hand off Stacy’s ass.
“Hey!” Juicy grabbed the hook and pulled, but Tozzi pushed at the same time, and the sleazebag went crashing into the piano where he just barely caught himself on his elbow before he fell on his ass.
The buffalo came charging around the piano. Tozzi stood up, flipped the cane, and stuck the rubber tip into the buffalo’s windpipe, letting the side of beef’s own momentum pull the rug out from under him. He hit the floor so hard, glasses and plates in the whole room rattled. The buffalo lay there, flat on his back, eyes squeezed tight in pain. Happy the maître d’ rushed over to help him up while some lone patron at the bar applauded from the front room.
Juicy was on his feet, straightening his tie and smoothing the hair over his ears, venom in his eyes for Tozzi. Stacy stood between them, looking from one to the other. Her eyes were huge. She must’ve thought they were gonna start shooting. The whole restaurant was still.
Tozzi took her arm. “Let’s go, Stacy. I don’t feel like Italian tonight.”
Juicy stayed where he was by the piano. He lit a cigarette, still glaring at Tozzi. “Play something,” he snapped at the piano player.
The piano started to tinkle. It took Tozzi a moment to recognize the tune. “Makin’ Whoopie.” Hushed conversations started up around the room. The four chubby couples had stopped eating their desserts. They all had big eyes and small mouths as Stacy and Tozzi passed by.
“Hey, Tozzi.” Bartolo was wiping his mouth with a napkin as he walked over to them. “I thought you were supposed to be a bright guy, Tozzi. You don’t act too bright. This ain’t no joint.” He nodded toward Juicy. “You embarrassed the owner.”
“Tell the owner he had it coming. Tell him if he wants to cop a cheap feel on the dance floor, he should take one of his pros to Roseland.”
Bartolo stuck his pinkie in his mouth and picked his teeth. “Not smart, Tozzi. You come into a man’s place of business and rough him up—not smart.”
“Is this a threat, Frank?”
Bartolo shrugged. “You can take it any way you want it.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” Tozzi turned to leave. His leg was throbbing. He’d twisted it the wrong way when he stood up fast to deck the buffalo.
Stacy could see that he was in pain. “You all right?”
“Are you all right?”
She looked confused. “Of course I’m all right. I’m not the one who was fighting.”
“What was that pig trying to do? I saw him with his hands all over you.”
She flipped the hair over her shoulder and gave him a weary look. “He had the same line of bullshit I’ve been hearing about twice a day ever since they started running the commercial. ‘You have so much talent, you should be in the movies. Why don’t you let me help you? I know people on the Coast.’ It’s all crap. I hear it from horny old guys all the time.”
“You didn’t give him your phone number or anything?”
“Are you crazy?” She was about to get angry, but then a sly grin spread across her face. “Are you jealous of that slimebucket? I never thought I’d see you get jealous. I thought you were cooler than that.” She was wearing a sly grin, trying to give him grief.
“I am cooler than that.”
“Yeah, sure.” She was still grinning, the tip of her tongue peeking out of her lips.
When they got to the hatcheck girl and Tozzi gave her their ticket, Stacy suddenly ran the palm of her hand over his cheek, turned his face around, and planted her lips over his, grinding in a kiss to end all kisses. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Juicy and Bartolo huddled at their table, grumbling and bitching about something. Him and Sal Immordino, no doubt.
The hatcheck girl returned. “Your coats, sir.”
But Stacy wasn’t coming up for air. Tozzi put his hands on her hips and tried to get into it, but it wasn’t working for him. He couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He couldn’t concentrate anymore. The throbbing was all in his thigh, not his pants.
He gently pulled away from her lips. “Not here,” he murmured as he took their coats.
She looked down, grinning, full of mischief.
He helped her on with her motorcycle jacket, staring at all that incredible hair, those incredible legs.
But there was nothing going on downstairs. Nothing at all.
Chapter 9
“Keep eating, Frank. Keep eating.” Sal mumbled to himself as he peered through the binoculars. He was facing the starting gate down on the track where the trotters were taking their positions, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking down the stands, two sections over, about fifteen, twenty rows down from where he was sitting, focusing on Frank Bartolo’s shiny head. Frank was eating a sausage-and-pepper sandwich, eating it like there was no tomorrow. He’d already had a cup of clam chowder, a shrimp cocktail, a hot dog, and a pastrami sandwich. He was also working on his third cup of beer, the milk-shake size. The man was a human garbage disposal. He didn’t even know what the hell he was eating, he ate so fast. Sal narrowed his eyes as he watched the last three inches of the sausage sandwich disappear down Bartolo’s gullet. He wanted him to eat more. “Keep eating, Frank.”
“Whad’ja say?”
The moolinyam was looking at the racing page in the sports section of the Star-Ledger. He wasn’t checking the stats on the ponies, though. He was checking out the ad on the bottom of the page, the ad for Knickerbocker Health Spas, the ad with that broad with the tits in it.
“So who do you like, Charles?” Sal kept his eye on Bartolo.
“Huh?”
“In the next race. Who do you like?”
“Oh … lemme see…” Charles ruffled the paper and went to the top of the page. “In the sixth, right? The sixth … How about…? Here. Quick Sand. Number three.”
Sal put down the binoculars and looked at the paper where Charles’s finger was. “Quick Sand’s not running here. Quick Sand’s running at Aqueduct. You’re looking at the wrong listing, genius. This is the Meadowlands.”
Charles glared at the listing as if it were the paper’s fault. He didn’t like being wrong.
“Forget about that girl, will ya, Charles? She’s pumping up your brain, that’s what she’s pumping up. She’s making you stupid.”
“You still don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m making it up. Well, she was there that night. I’m telling you, it was her. If she didn’t show up and distract me, Tozzi would be dead—”
“Shut up, for chrissake. We’re in a crowd.” Sal glared at him, then looked to one side, then the other. You could never tell who might be around, and he was nervous enough being out here. He was still worried about that shooter Juicy hired.
He took the paper out of Charles’s hand and looked down at the picture of the Pump-It-Up Girl. Charles was dreaming. He didn’t see her that night. Maybe he thought he saw her, but he didn’t see her. He must’ve seen some blonde and thought it was her. That’s the way these moolinyams are. As long as it’s blond, they love it, even if the broad’s a dog. But Charles didn’t see anybody that night. This whole story about the girl was bullshit. He was just trying to cover his ass for blowing it with Tozzi.
Sal smacked the page with the back of his hand. “Tell me the truth, Charles. You really think a girl like this would ever go for a guy like you?”
“Shit, yeah.” Charles looked insulted.
“Why? Whatta you got that’s so special?”
Charles grabbed his crotch
. “The only advantage God ever gave the black man. The object of white man’s envy.” He was smiling like a chimp again.
“You mean slam-dunking a basketball?”
“You know what I mean, Sal. The black man got the heavy artillery. We got them love cannons.”
“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”
“Every bitch I ever been with.”
“Well, then those women never did it with an Italian guy.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
“I’m serious. Next time you get a woman in the sack, you ask her first if she ever had any Italian sauseege. See what she says.”
“Why? What she gonna say?”
“She’ll tell you God loves the Italians better. She’ll tell you God is Italian.”
“Get the fuck … Why would she say that?”
“Because He may have given you guys the love cannons, but he gave us the cannons and the cannon balls.” Sal grabbed his crotch and shook it.
“Get the fuck outta here.” The chimp wasn’t smiling.
Neither was Sal really. He was trying to stop worrying about that shooter so he could just do what he came here to do.
Sal turned around in his seat and looked at the time clock on the big board where the odds were posted. It was six minutes to post time. The last trickle of bettors were wandering up the aisles, heading for the windows. These were the serious bettors, the ones who waited to see the final odds before they placed their bets.
Sal blinked. All this smoke in here was making his eyes sting. The indoor stands at the track were like the dayroom at the fucking hospital, except there were about a million times the number of smokers here, and a lot of them were smoking cigars. Bartolo smoked cigars.
Sal picked up the binoculars. Bartolo’s big joochy kid was Standing up in his seat, holding his hand out. Frank was peeling off bills for him. The kid looked just like his old man, round and grouchy, except the kid was taller and he still had some hair. Sal was still trying to figure out if Junior was the one they gave the contract to. Frank might’ve pushed for his kid, but Sal couldn’t see Juicy going along with it. Sal knew who the kid was, and he was convinced that Juicy would want a stranger, someone Sal would never see coming. Anyway, Junior was too stupid. Even his father treated him like a retard.
Through the binoculars, Sal watched Bartolo jerk his thumb up the stairs toward the betting windows. He was sending Junior upstairs to place their bets and bring back more food. They’d done it this way with every race so far. It was their routine. Sal fine-tuned the focus, trying to see how much money Bartolo was giving the kid. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a lot. Frank liked to play the ponies almost as much as he liked to eat. The poor kid wasn’t getting to see any of the races, though, because he was always up getting food for his old man. But Bartolo didn’t give a shit about the kid. He didn’t give a shit about anybody but himself.
Why don’cha bring your father back a coupla prune Danishes while you’re up there, kid? And another sausage and peppers. He needs it.
Charles leaned over and spoke low into Sal’s ear. “How’s he doing, Sal?”
Sal kept looking through the binoculars. “I dunno. I forgot how much this son of a bitch could eat.”
“Gotta go sooner or later. Or did God give you guineas big-ass stomachs, too?”
Sal didn’t answer. Bartolo was aggravating him now, sitting there yawning, working his jaw like it was feeding time at the zoo again. The smoke was burning the hell out of Sal’s eyes, and the gun was digging into his side. There was no comfortable place to put it with that damn silencer screwed on. He could’ve taken the silencer off, but he didn’t like the idea of having to take time out to put the damn thing on again when he needed it. But the way it was, it wouldn’t stay put in his waistband, and it was irritating his skin.
“Five minutes to post time” The familiar announcement echoed through the track. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. Windows will be closing in five minutes. Five minutes to post time.”
“Whattaya think of Hilary’s Blue Flame?” Charles was reading the paper again.
Sal shrugged, binoculars on his face. “I don’t know nothing about the ponies.”
“I like the name. Hilary’s Blue Flame. Sound like a hot bitch.”
“Sounds like the pilot light in some old Irish lady’s kitchen.”
Charles stood up. “I think I’ll put down two bucks to show. And if I win, I ain’t giving you nothing.”
“Sit down.” Sal grabbed Charles’s sleeve and yanked him back down into his seat. Through the binoculars he could see Bartolo getting up, frowning and rubbing his belly, ballooning his cheeks and blowing air out of his lips as he shuffled out of his row.
Finally. The son of a bitch finally had to go to the john. Unbelievable.
Sal handed the binoculars to Charles and tugged the brim of his golf cap down over his brow. “There he goes.”
Bartolo hauled himself up the steps, working his way against the crowd rushing back to catch the race. He looked like he was in pain, wincing with his hand over his gut.
Sal waited for Bartolo to get to the main floor at the top of the stairs before he got up. “C’mon, Charles. Let’s go.” He glanced at the big board: four minutes and thirteen seconds left till post time.
Sal shuffled through the row and tried to squeeze past the two old bags who were bored stiff and annoyed as hell that their husbands had taken them here. They’d been squawking all night, and everyone in that section could hear them. They were up here from Florida visiting their families, but they did not want to be here at the track. You boys got Hialeah at home, they kept telling the old guys. You got the track at Hallendale and the one at Hollywood, too. Whattaya need to come here for? They were so pissed, they didn’t even want to move and let Sal and Charles by. The blazing redhead glared up at Sal like a crab in a boiling pot as he asked nicely if she’d let him by. As he stepped over her, he thought about stepping on her old goddamn foot, but she looked like the type who’d make a scene.
Sal and Charles moved quickly up the concrete steps. The track hounds heading back to their seats made way for them. Together they were pretty imposing, like a couple of pro football players, which worried Sal. He tugged the brim of his hat down lower and hoped they didn’t stick out too much. All he needed now was for someone to mistake them for two guys from the Giants and start asking for autographs. Christ, a crowd like that would be a perfect setup for pulling off a hit. He could feel the gun sinking into his gut—five, six shots at point-blank range. Lot of screaming, he don’t see nothing but his life passing before his eyes, and the shooter disappears. Sal put his head down and walked a little faster.
Up on the main floor, the lines in front of the betting windows were still long. Except at the fifty- and hundred-dollar windows. They were never that busy.
Sal scanned the crowd. “You see him?”
Charles shook his head. “I don’t see him.”
Sal looked up at the board. Lines of yellow-white lights formed the numbers, and they were changing fast now as last-minute bets shuffled the odds. At the top of the board, the time left till post time ticked down. 3:41, 3:40, 3:39…
Heading through the crowd, Sal felt the gun in his belt, the long silencer rubbing against his thigh. He had a full load in the clip, thirteen shots. That should be more than enough to do Frank. Unless someone gets in the way and he has to “bless” him, too. That could be a problem. He wanted to be in and out fast. He didn’t want to have to reload.
They made their way around to the back of the betting windows, where the lounges and the food concessions were. And the bathrooms.
“There he is.” Charles pulled on his arm.
Sal shrugged him off. “Quiet down. I see him.”
Bartolo was shuffling toward the bathroom, skating across the floor with his hands on his belly. The sourpuss was more sour than usual. He looked like he had to go bad.
Sal loo
ked up at the board. Two fifty-eight till post time.
“You remember what you’re supposed to do?”
Charles smirked at him. “This s’posed to be hard or something? ‘Course I know what I’m s’posed to do.”
“You better.”
Charles was acting cool, but Sal had a feeling he wasn’t so cool inside. He blew it with Tozzi, he could do the same here. Sal was beginning to think that maybe it wasn’t even him who shot Tozzi in the leg. Maybe Charles hired someone else to do it, paid some stupid crackhead fifty bucks to do it. Sal definitely didn’t buy this shit with the Pump-It-Up Girl. Well, we’ll see what kind of killer the moolinyam is now. Ten to one, Charles pisses his pants. And if he does, he can fucking walk home ‘cause Sal wasn’t gonna ride all the way back to Trenton shut up in a car that smelled of piss. No way.
They headed toward the bathroom, walking slow, but not too slow, trying to blend in. Bartolo had just gone into the men’s room, pushing his way past the guys rushing out so they wouldn’t miss the race.
That low, soothing voice emanated from the ceiling speakers again. “Two minutes to post time, ladies and gentlemen. Two minutes.”
Sal and Charles entered the crowded men’s room. The room was tiled in a gray-and-white checkerboard pattern. A long line of urinals was against one wall, stalls on the opposite wall. The sinks were on the wall next to the door, and that’s where the attendant was set up with his bottles of colognes and cans of hair spray, all this shit arranged just so on the counter. Sal had never seen anybody use any of that stuff in a public bathroom, but these old guys were always here peddling it. This attendant was about ninety years old, a black guy with Coke-bottle glasses, brown-and-white patent leather shoes, and no teeth. On the edge of the counter there was an open Te Amo cigar box filled with change and a few singles, his tip box.
Charles moved into the room and got in line for a urinal, which is exactly what Sal had told him to do. There were at least twenty guys waiting for their turn to pee. Sal coughed into his fist to cover his face and scanned the faces around the room, looking for possible hit men. It didn’t seem likely, but someone could’ve followed him here from the hospital—it wasn’t impossible—and a crowded bathroom was a good place for a hit. The guy could be waiting for him right now, making like he was fiddling with his zipper when he was really getting his gun out. Sal’s head started to throb. He knew he wouldn’t recognize the guy if he was here. He couldn’t even get his own piece out fast enough to defend himself, not with that goddamn silencer attached. Only thing he could do now was go on with his own business and hope no one in here was out to get him.
5 Bad Moon Page 11
