5 Bad Moon

by Anthony Bruno

  Bartolo was just going into a stall, the second one from the end. Sal grabbed a Kleenex from the attendant’s box and blew his nose. He kept it there until Bartolo closed the stall door.

  “One minute to post time, ladies and gentlemen” The mellow voice oozed out of the ceiling in here, too. “Place your bets. Windows will be closing in one minute. One minute to post time.”

  Sal shuffled past the guys waiting for urinals and stood by the stall next to Bartolo’s. A skinny geek with long, greasy hair and a black T-shirt came right out, and Sal moved in. He closed the door and locked it, then sat down on the toilet. Under the partition, he could see Bartolo’s doubleknits down around his ankles. Bartolo was grunting and straining, but he didn’t have to work at it very long. All of a sudden it sounded like someone was dumping a bucket of slop into the water. Sal made a face. It didn’t take long for the fumes to drift over to Sal’s stall, and he had to hold his breath. Jesus Christ. The guy was rotten inside.

  He pulled the gun out of his belt, breathing through his mouth.

  Mr. Mellow came back. “The windows are now closed. No further bets will be taken on this race. The betting windows are now closed.”

  Sal stopped and listened. Bartolo was moaning “aaahhh” in relief. Feet shuffled on the tiles outside. Loose change clinked into the cigar box. “Thank ya, sir. Thank ya, sir.” That was the old guy.

  Sal rested his hand over the gun, coughed loud and racked the slide at the same time, then froze and listened. His face was drenched with sweat. More slop hit the water. Bartolo moaned. Sal got another whiff of the bastard and nearly threw up. The bastard deserved to die. He was an environmental hazard.

  “The horses are in the gates. And they’rrrrrre off!”

  Sal leaned forward and peered through the crack in the stall door. There was no one left at the urinals that he could see except Charles, who was standing there holding his dick.

  “Time Traveler takes the lead, followed by Snicker, Cornelius B., Nor’easter…”

  “Y’all missing the race, son.”

  “Yeah, I know, Pappy.” Charles was pulling up his fly, looking right at Sal.

  Sal pinched his nose against the stink. Go ’head, Charles. You said you knew what to do.

  Sal slid the bolt on the door, opened it a crack, and watched Charles moving toward the sinks. When he got to the old man’s counter, he faked a slip and caught himself on the edge, knocking over the cigar box in the process. Change hit the tile floor and rolled all over the place. A quarter hit Sal’s shoe.

  “Goddamn!” the old guy cussed.

  “Sorry, Pappy. Floor’s wet.”

  The old guy muttered and struggled to his knees, grumbling and groaning.

  “Don’t worry, Pappy. I’ll help you. Don’t you worry. We’ll get it all.”

  “Coming ’round the bend it’s Time Traveler by a length, Snicker, Nor’easter moving ahead, Cornelius B…”

  Charles was down on his knees next to the old guy, looking up at Sal.

  Sal pantomimed taking off a pair of glasses. It took Charles a second to understand that Sal wanted him to take the old guy’s glasses. If he didn’t, they were gonna have to kill him, too, and that might not fit in with Emerick’s profile. He was supposed to kill for a reason, not just for the hell of it.

  Charles hooked his long tarantula finger behind the hinge of the old guy’s glasses and flipped them off his face.

  “Hey!”

  “You lost your glasses, Pappy. Lemme help you.” Charles tossed the glasses onto the counter with the bottles of cologne and the cans of hair spray. “Now where’d those devils go?”

  “On the backstretch it’s Time Traveler, Nor’easter, Cornelius B., Snicker, Footloose, Hilary’s Blue Flame…”

  “My glasses! I need my glasses.” The old man was frantic, pawing at the floor.

  Sal came out of his stall and pointed the long barrel of his gun at Bartolo’s door. He listened for someone hiding in another stall, but Charles came up behind him and shook his head. He’d already checked the stalls.

  Charles waited for Sal to make his move. He’d said he was gonna watch just to show Sal that he wasn’t chickenshit. The moolinyam could do whatever the hell he wanted, Sal didn’t care. He was thinking about Bartolo now, Bartolo and the goddamn hitter. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Bartolo’s face when the fat fuck saw him standing there. Sal raised his leg slowly, held it there for a second, then kicked the door in. It banged against the inside wall and vibrated in place.

  Bartolo was sitting on the can with his bare legs exposed and his pants down over his shoes. But he didn’t looked surprised or scared or anything like that. Just real pissed off, the way he usually looked. Then Sal realized that what Bartolo was holding in his lap wasn’t his dick. The son of a bitch had a fucking gun, a revolver pointed up at Sal’s face. Jesus!

  “You stupid fuck, Immordino. Go ’head, try it.”

  Sal’s gun hand trembled. He couldn’t stop blinking. He couldn’t fucking believe this. “How the—”

  Bartolo scowled at him. “You think I didn’t see those big mameluke feet of yours under the stall? Only you and Frankenstein got feet like that.”

  “Shit, man.” Charles started backstepping to the door.

  Bartolo extended his arm and pointed the revolver at Charles. “Don’t move, Jackson. Unless you wanna be a chocolate doughnut.”

  Sal could feel his heart thumping. He struggled to keep his eyes focused and his gun trained on Bartolo. “Since when did you start carrying a piece to the track, Frank?”

  “Since your old FBI pal, Tozzi, told me you might be coming around. Now drop it, Sal.”

  Sal saw double. That fucking little shit Tozzi.

  “Coming ’round the bend, it’s Nor’easter and Time Traveler out front, Footloose three lengths behind, and Hilary’s Blue Flame coming up fast…”

  Charles was looking up at the speaker in the ceiling. “Sheeeet.”

  Bartolo was sitting there with his piece and his hairy white legs, stinking up the whole place, like he was King Farouk. “I said drop the fucking gun, Sal.”

  “I need my glasses, boy. What you do with my glasses?” The old man was on the floor, spitting mad. He couldn’t see what was going on.

  Sal glanced at the old man out of the corner of his eye. He was on his knees, feeling around under the sink, feeling around up under the counter.

  “Hey, Sal, you fucking deaf or what? I said drop the gun.”

  Sal grit his teeth. “You drop the gun.”

  “I ain’t dropping nothing.”

  “Then we both die. How’s that sound, Frank? ITI shoot you and you can shoot me. You like that?” Sal was so mad thinking about that fuck Tozzi, he was willing to take his chances. He had the automatic, he could get off more shots.

  “In the stretch it’s Nor’easter, Time Traveler falling back, and Hilary’s Blue Flame charging hard…”

  “This is the last time I’m gonna fucking tell you, Sal.”

  “Hey, I’ll make you a deal, Frank. I’ll drop the gun if you tell me who the shooter is Juicy hired to get me.”

  “Yeah? And then what? I get to blow your head off?”

  “So there is a contract out on me?”

  “I didn’t say that, Sal.”

  “You don’t have to. I know all about it.” Sal squeezed the butt of his gun, dying to pull the trigger.

  “I don’t know nothing about no contracts, Sal.”

  “You lying bastard—”

  Boom!!!

  Sal ducked. The gunshot reverberated off the tile walls and made his ears pop. Bartolo jumped off the toilet and hit the deck with his pants around his ankles.

  “Ain’t no one gonna steal my tips, goddammit.”

  Sal looked back at the old black guy kneeling by the sink. He had a gun, too, some old Wild West six-shooter thing, something Tom Mix woulda used. Pieces of duct tape were stuck to the long barrel. He
must’ve kept it taped up under the sink, just in case.

  Bam!!!

  The old man yelped and collapsed to the tiles, banging his hip. He started wailing like a sick cat.

  Bartolo was on his big fat belly, holding his gun two-handed like some kind of infantry commando. Bam!!! He plugged the old guy again, and the cat wails stopped.

  Sal didn’t hesitate. He leveled his gun and fired. Pfittt, pfittt!!!

  Bartolo’s body jumped like a couple thousand volts of electricity just went through it, and his fat ass jiggled. There were two bullet holes in his back, one high, one low. Charles scrambled to snatch the fat ass’s gun away.

  Charles was spooked. “He dead?”

  Sal’s heart was going nuts, but he tried to sound cool. “Turn him over and find out.”

  Charles grabbed a fistful of Bartolo’s shirt and hauled him over on his back. Sal watched the glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. He still might not be dead yet. He could be faking.

  Sal clenched his teeth. No problem.

  He put the silencer to Bartolo’s forehead. Pfittt!

  Belly button. Pfittt!

  Shoulder. Pfittt!

  Other shoulder. Pfittt!

  Amen.

  Blood oozed across the tiles. The smell of gun powder burns covered up Bartolo’s stink. Sal’s ears were throbbing. His shirt was drenched.

  “And coming into the finish, it’s Nor’easter out front by a head, Time Traveler and Hilary’s Blue Flame neck and neck. Nor’easter, Time Traveler, Hilary’s Blue Flame. Nor’easter out front by a head, Hilary’s Blue Flame by a nose, and Time Traveler. Nor’easter, Hilary’s Blue Flame, and Time Traveler. Nor’easter, Hilary’s Blue Flame, and Time Traveler falling back now. At the finish, it’s Nor’easter, Hilary’s Blue Flame, and Time Traveler. Nor’easter, Hilary’s Blue Flame, and Time Traveler … That’s a final, ladies and gentlemen. Nor’easter, Hilary’s Blue Flame, and Time Traveler.”

  “Shit, Sal! I told you I shoulda played that horse.”

  “Shut up!” Sal’s head was pounding like a jackhammer in the morning. He was trying to figure out whether he should give the old man the sign of the cross, too. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Tozzi, that fucking bastard, warning Bartolo and Juicy that he might be coming. How the hell did he know? What, could he read minds now? One way or another, the goddamn guy was always ending up in his face. How the hell could Tozzi know what he had planned? Charles? Couldn’t be. If Charles was working with the FBI, he wouldn’t have helped him whack Bartolo. They don’t let their people do that kind of stuff. At least, they never used to.

  “Sal, Sal, we gotta get outta here, man. Guys be coming in to go to the bathroom.”

  Sal rubbed his forehead for a moment, thinking hard, then he jammed his gun back into his pants. The barrel was hot against his skin. “You got Bartolo’s gun?”

  “It’s in my pocket.”

  “Take the old man’s piece, too.”

  “Why?”

  “To fuck ’em up. The cops always wanna get the murder weapons.” Sal went to the door.

  Charles took the six-shooter out of the old man’s dead hand and stuck it in his pants, covering the butt with his sweatshirt.

  Sal glanced back at Bartolo’s body and the cartridges on the floor all around him, then pulled the door handle with his knuckles so as not to leave fingerprints and walked out with Charles right behind him.

  The main floor was starting to get crowded again, the winners collecting their money, other people getting stuff to eat, some heading for the bathrooms. Sal and Charles headed straight for the escalators. Sal worried that someone would notice that his shirt was soaked and it was coming through his jacket. They were halfway down on the escalator when they heard the commotion starting. A lot of yelling, then the hubbub of the curious. Sal imagined that it would be pretty crowded in there now, all the nosybodies pushing and shoving to get a peek at the bodies, the old black guy and the fat ugly bald man all shot to hell, caught with his pants down. It would take a few minutes for the cops to come, and it would take even longer to clear the room and figure out what had happened. By that time they’d be on the turnpike, heading south.

  Sal stepped off the escalator and didn’t look back. He wasn’t thinking about Bartolo anymore. That was done. He was thinking about Tozzi and how he was itching to give that son of a bitch his “blessing.” He was thinking about the shooter, too, wondering whether he could’ve gotten Bartolo to tell him who it was. Bartolo had to know who it was, but he never would’ve told. Not in a million years.

  Outside, as they walked through the parking lot, Sal told himself it didn’t make any difference. Soon as they took care of Juicy, it would be a moot point. The contract is void as soon as the guy who takes it out dies, and Juicy was gonna go soon.

  But Sal was still dying to know who the son of a bitch was. Who knows? Maybe it was Tozzi? Coming up to Charles’s car, Sal got light-headed considering that possibility.

  Charles unlocked the driver’s door and got in. Sal waited for him to unlock his side, his hand on the handle.

  Tozzi? Nah. Couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  “C’mon, Sal! Get in! Hurry up!”

  Sirens screamed across the parking lot in the distance. Revolving red-and-blue dome lights raced through the night, heading for the entrance to the track.

  Sal got in and slammed the door shut. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 10

  Stacy sat on the edge of her chair, hugging herself. The room was cramped with too many folding chairs and a long conference table. It was also dim and chilly, too air-conditioned. She sat in the corner against the back wall, trying to stay out of the draft coming from the air duct on the ceiling. This whole place gave her the creeps. She wished Tozzi hadn’t brought her down here. Yes, she wanted to be with him, but not at a state mental hospital.

  Looking through the one-way glass mirror that covered one wall, she scanned the ward on the other side. This was the room where the doctors observed the patients. It was like watching fish at the aquarium. Men in bathrobes and pajamas shuffled across the floor, wandering aimlessly. Other men in baggy blue jeans and white T-shirts smoked and stared out into space. One guy rubbed his crotch and rocked back and forth while he smoked, puffing, rubbing, rocking, puffing, rubbing, rocking. A fat guard in a gray uniform sat tipped back in a folding chair by the door, reading the paper. Tozzi leaned on the edge of a table, bouncing his cane on the floor impatiently. He was waiting for that guy Sal Immordino he kept talking about.

  Except for the drone of the TV mounted high on the wall, it was fairly quiet in there. She strained to see what was on TV, but it was too far away. Some old black-and-white movie maybe. She could hear what was going on in there through the speaker that hung over the one-way glass in here, and she’d just overheard the guard telling Tozzi that Sal Immordino had been taken to the infirmary, but that he was due back soon. Tozzi was itching to talk to him. Even though she didn’t like being here, she had to admit she was more than a little curious to see this Mafia guy he kept talking about.

  A video camera sitting on a tripod was pointed at the glass. Tozzi had set it up, hoping he could get Immordino to say something or do something to prove that he wasn’t insane. A red light on the camera kept flashing to show that it was recording. He’d told her not to touch it, just let it go by itself. But the silent, pulsing light was making her nervous. It was creepy.

  She studied Tozzi’s face as he waited out there. His brow was furrowed, his mouth serious. He was like an eagle perched on a cliff, waiting to pounce. He’d asked her to drive him down here because his leg got stiff and weak when he tried to drive. Gibbons couldn’t drive him because this place was now officially off limits to them. Tozzi had said something about Dr. Cummings complaining to their boss, Mr. Ivers, about how they had treated Immordino last time they were here and Ivers had read them the riot act. But Tozzi never listened. He said he wasn’t on du
ty now, he was on sick leave, so this wouldn’t be an official FBI interview. It was just a visit.

  Stacy couldn’t help but smile. That’s what she liked about him. He didn’t put up with any bullshit. He knew what had to be done and he just went ahead and did it. At least, with most things.

  She rubbed her bare arms and sighed. She wished he was a little more take-charge when it came to her. It was so weird. He knew exactly what he wanted with everything else, but with her … Well, she just couldn’t figure him out. On the one hand, he always wanted to be with her. He’d been calling her and they’d been going out, but whenever they were together, it always started out just fine, then it would get … well, weird. He always said all the right things and he seemed to like her, but they were stuck in the heavy-petting stage, which seemed pretty odd for a guy his age. They’d make out like teenagers, but it never got any further than that, and he was the one who was always cutting it short. She couldn’t figure it out. What was holding him back? He said he wasn’t religious or anything like that. Maybe he had AIDS and he was afraid he’d pass it on to her. But he wouldn’t hide something like that. At least, she didn’t think he would. She didn’t know what to think.

  Except that she really liked him and that she wished he’d stop acting so weird.

  He was the first guy she’d known since seventh grade who didn’t try to put the moves on her the first time he met her. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be interested in her at all that night at Gilhooley’s. Too bad. Maybe if he had stuck around and drooled all over her the way most guys did, he wouldn’t have been shot.