Come on, Nemo. Come on! Don’t be an asshole.
Nemo wasn’t talking.
“Hey, listen, man. You want them to find you with the shit? You with the track marks up and down your arms? Huh?”
Nemo still wasn’t talking. He didn’t think anyone knew about his habit.
“Listen to me, man. Write this down. Get your man French Fry to deliver the stuff to Mr. Pete Tozzi—T-O-Z-Z-I. Eight-nine-four York Street. That’s downtown Jersey City. You got that?”
“Yeah . . . I got it. But I don’t know—”
“Just trust me. You bring it there. It’ll be safe for at least a couple of weeks, then you can break in and steal it back. Just get it there, then get in touch with Salamandra and tell him I’ve got everything under control. Unless you want them to find out that you take the shit yourself. I can tell the prosecutors. It’ll get around.”
Don’t think too hard, Nemo. Just say you’ll do it.
“All right, all right. But what do I tell Ugo? He’s gonna wanna know what he’s gettin’ out of all this.”
“You tell him that I’m gonna force the mistrial. Everybody’s gonna get off. That’s what he’s gonna get. And you also tell him that I’m gonna save him fourteen mil.”
“Whattaya talkin’ about?”
“I’m doing that asshole Augustine’s job for him. That means he shouldn’t get paid. That’s fourteen million bucks that stays in the pot.”
“Hey, Giordano, you okay in there?”
Shit. It was Tozzi.
Giordano reached over and flushed the toilet. “Yeah, I’ll be right out.”
“Hey, Vin,” Nemo said, “what’s goin’ on over there?”
“I gotta go,” he whispered into the phone. “Just tell me for sure—you gonna do it or what?”
“You gonna keep your mouth shut? About me, I mean.”
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
Nemo sighed into the phone. “If it’s gonna get everybody off the hook and save us fourteen million balloons in the process . . . okay, sure. I’ll send French Fry over tomorrow morning with the UPS truck.”
“Great. The sooner the better, okay? I’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, take it eas—”
Giordano hung up and shoved the phone into the telephone book, then reburied it in the tub. The toilet bowl tank was still filling. His heart was slamming as he put the lampshades back on top of the pile of junk. He got up and ran some water in the sink, washed his hands, threw some cold water in his face, used the raggedy towel hanging on the rack. Had to make it look right. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. His heart calmed down a little. He took another deep breath and opened the door.
Tozzi was leaning against a dresser with his arms over his chest. “You okay, Giordano? I thought you’d died in there.”
“No, I’m okay, I’m fine.” He worked up a smile. “I feel a lot better now. Really.”
— 6 —
Giordano stood on the steps near the top of the staircase, stooping down to see who was at the door. Santiago, the Puerto Rican fed, had yelled at him again not to do that, to stay out of sight whenever they answered the door, just in case, but Giordano was too jumpy. He was worried about the rug. Nemo had promised that he would get it here, and he’d been waiting for that big jooch French Fry to show up with his bogus UPS truck all morning, but where the hell was he? Every chance he got he’d peeked out the window, looking for that goddamn truck, but there were UPS trucks all over the place, making last-minute deliveries. Here it was, Christmas Eve day, for chrissake, and French Fry still hadn’t shown up. What was he gonna do, drive up on Christmas Day? No brains, these guys had, no brains.
Cooney, the Puerto Rican’s partner, was down there at the front door, checking out whoever had rung the doorbell. Giordano heard the door close then, but all he could see was Cooney’s back. He bent down lower to get a better look, but he still couldn’t see anything. Nemo better not have changed his mind. He needed that goddamn rug here, he needed it to bargain with. Eighty million in heroin sewn up in little packets inside that rug. He’ll make Salamandra a deal—his life for the rug. Simple as that. It’s a hell of a lot of money. He may go for it.
Staring at the dark cloth on the back of Cooney’s suit jacket, Giordano suddenly remembered that guy in the barn, the one with the black hood, the one he and Augustine had to strangle. The Italian Rope Trick. He remembered how fucking ruthless Augustine had been, like he’d been killing people all his life. He also remembered Zucchetti asking if that guy had a wife and kids before they killed him. The guy didn’t have a family. Giordano’s throat went dry. Neither did he.
The stomach cramps came back so bad, Giordano had to hold his breath. Even if the Zips get their rug back, Zucchetti may want him dead anyway, because they don’t understand why he did this, because they think he’s ratting on them. But if he can buy a little time with the rug, just enough time to get a head start, he’s outta here, gone. First chance he gets, he’ll disappear. They’ll never find him. Not Salamandra, not Zucchetti, not the feds, not nobody.
Giordano’s lawyer, Marty Bloom, stepped into the hallway and raised his hands over his head. Santiago moved the hand-held metal detector down the sides of his body as Cooney did a quick check of his briefcase. “I hope I see you go through this rigamarole for Tom Augustine when he comes.”
“Why? Do you think this is a violation of your rights, Mr. Bloom?” Cooney asked.
“Not at all. I just don’t want him to miss out on a cheap feel.”
The two agents laughed to be polite. Bloom’s borscht-belt humor was wearing thin. Jackie Mason, he wasn’t.
Bloom peered up the stairway as he took off his hat and muffler. “Good morning, Vincent. How are you today?”
I’m still alive.
“Okay, Marty. How ya doin’?” Giordano came down the steps and shook his lawyer’s hand.
“I’m all right, Vincent. I can’t complain.”
“I didn’t think we’d be meeting today. It being Christmas Eve and all.”
“Why do you think everyone always tells you to get a Jew for a lawyer, Vincent? Not only are we smart, but we work Christmas and Easter.” Bloom laughed at his own lines, even when no one else did.
“What about Tom Augustine? Is he coming today?”
Bloom shrugged. “He said he’d be here.”
“Doesn’t he take off for Christmas?”
“A prosecutor? Heaven forbid! Convictions are the only religion they know.” Bloom looked over his glasses at Santiago. “You won’t tell Tom I said that, will you?”
Santiago shook his head. “Don’t worry.”
Bloom looked at his client and raised an eyebrow. “I am worried. These government people are thick as thieves.”
Cooney returned Bloom’s briefcase. “You’re clean. No bombs.”
“Of course not. I send all my bombs to Israel.”
Cooney rolled his eyes.
“You two should have children, you know that? Children are a blessing. You wouldn’t be here on this shitty assignment if you had children.”
Santiago grinned. “Pretty soon. My wife’s due in March.”
“Mazel tov, Santiago.”
“Thank you.”
Giordano’s stomach cramps felt like a boa constrictor in his gut. He wished to hell Bloom would cut it out with the chitchat. He wished to hell Bloom had stayed home today. And that fuck Augustine, who the hell needed him today? If he had done his goddamn job the way he was supposed to, none of this would’ve ever happened. Fucking lawyers.
The doorbell rang. Cooney and Santiago perked up like startled cats. Santiago had his hand on his hip where his holster was.
Bloom gestured at the door. “Dr. Augustine, I presume.”
Cooney nodded toward the dining room.
“In there,” Santiago said, hustling them into the dining room where they had to wedge in between the chairs and the boxes and all the other shit in there. Santiago blocked them in. His hand was still on
his gun.
Cooney opened the door as far as the chain would go and peered out. He had his gun out, hidden behind the door.
“UPS. I gotta delivery fo’ Mr. Pete Tozzi.”
The boa constrictor wound itself around Giordano’s heart and started to squeeze. He got up on his toes and strained to look out the window over the stack of boxes on the bureau next to him. There was a brown UPS truck at the curb, its flashers blinking. The dashboard was littered with McDonald’s bags, wrappers, and cups. It was French Fry.
“We’re not expecting a delivery,” Cooney said, real deadpan, like “Get the fuck outta here, man.”
The boa coiled around Giordano’s middle. Oh, shit.
He stretched to see past Bloom and Santiago. In the hallway mirror he could see French Fry’s shirt, the rolls of fat straining the buttons. He couldn’t see his face, but he could see the clipboard French Fry was holding in his hand and that gigantic gold ring of his with “FF” on it.
Oh, man, Cooney’s gonna know. Cooney’s gonna know you’re bullshit. UPS guys don’t look like that. They don’t wear rings like that. They don’t put shit all over the dashboards of their trucks. Shit, Cooney’s gonna know.
“Are you refusing delivery, sir?”
“Well, what is it?”
“Don’t know. You want it or not?”
“Hold on.” Cooney closed the door and glanced at Santiago. “Tozzi tell you anything about this?”
“Nope.”
“So what could it be?” Bloom piped up. “Why don’t you use that metal detector thing you used on me? Maybe somebody sent another lawyer.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Asshole.
“Go ahead. Use the metal detector,” Santiago said.
Cooney nodded, then opened the door. “Please step away from the door,” he told French Fry.
“Why?”
“Because I won’t accept delivery if you don’t.”
“Whatever.”
In the mirror, Giordano could see French Fry moving back down the steps. Cooney took the chain off and hunkered down then, his arms moving. Giordano imagined him passing the metal detector over a big lumpy package, the rug folded and wrapped in brown paper. Panic zinged through his chest as he suddenly tried to remember if there was anything metal in that plastic inner layer where the dope was hidden. Supposed to be just dope and plastic, right? It had to get through customs, right? Nemo would’ve thought of that. Wouldn’t he?
His heart was struggling like a rabbit caught in a trap with the boa closing in. Oh, Jesus.
Cooney stood up and spoke to Santiago without looking at him. “It seems to be all right.”
“Sign for it, then wait for the guy to leave before you bring it in.”
“Right.”
Cooney put the chain back on the door. “Come on up,” he called to French Fry. “I’ll sign for it.”
The clipboard passed through the slit in the door. “Sign on number six.” Cooney signed and passed it back.
“You have a Merry Christmas now,” French Fry said.
“Yeah, you too.”
Giordano got up on his toes just in time to see French Fry hauling his big fat ass into the truck. He got behind the wheel, reached over, grabbed a few french fries from a bag on the dash, and crammed them into his mouth. The engine roared, and the truck pulled away.
Giordano’s heart was ready to blow a gasket.
Cooney started dragging it in. “Jesus, this is heavy.” It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
Santiago holstered his gun and walked out into the hallway, closing the door and locking it. “Open it.”
Giordano stopped breathing when he saw Cooney unfolding his pocketknife to cut the twine. What if he slips and sticks it through the rug, pierces one of the packets, and smack starts spilling out? Oh, shit.
But Cooney didn’t slip. He cut the twine and ripped off the paper. The rug was loosely rolled and folded over twice. It looked like a big submarine sandwich sitting there on top of the paper. Cooney unfolded it, then unrolled it halfway. Santiago unrolled the rest of it with his foot.
“No note?” Bloom asked.
Cooney shook his head. He looked suspicious. The boa tightened around Giordano’s stomach.
Bloom stooped down and felt the pile. “It’s a very nice rug. I bet it’s real. What do you think? Persian? Turkish?”
Giordano suddenly realized Bloom was talking to him. He shrugged quickly. “I dunno. I dunno anything about rugs.” He wondered how that sounded. Did he say it too fast? Was he too quick to deny that he knew anything about it?
The agents weren’t saying anything, just standing there, frowning down at the rug. Santiago looked at Cooney. “Should we call this in?”
Cooney puckered his lips and shook his head. “Just write it up in the log. The old man probably sent it out to be cleaned or something.”
Santiago looked skeptical. “He never bothered to clean anything else. Why would he have a rug cleaned?”
Jesus. He hadn’t thought of that. Nemo should’ve put a note in with the rug. A receipt or something.
Marty Bloom stood up, shaking his shaggy head, a world-weary smile on his face. “You boys are always looking for the criminal angle. Maybe Tozzi’s uncle bought the rug before he died. Maybe he sent it out to be repaired. Maybe it’s a Christmas gift. Maybe he lent it to someone who heard about the man’s death and now he’s returning it. Maybe—”
“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point, counselor,” Cooney said with a laugh. “Sometimes a rug is just a rug, right?”
Santiago narrowed his eyes. “Unless it’s something else, and you’re putting up the smoke screen here.”
“That’s entirely possible, Santiago, but what would my reasons be for bringing this rug here? Is it a murder weapon? Am I part of a plot to kill my own client and smuggle his body out in this rug? Does this make sense to you, Santiago?”
Santiago just stood there with his arms crossed. Cooney was snickering. Bloom was waiting for an answer.
Santiago finally smiled. “All right, all right.” He started to roll it up again. “Let’s get it out of the way. Remember to tell Tozzi it came,” he said to Cooney.
The two agents rolled up the rug and folded it the way it came, then dragged it into the room where all the bicycles were. Giordano took a breath.
Bloom picked up his briefcase. “So, Vincent, shall we go upstairs and get comfortable?”
“Anybody want a coffee?” Cooney asked. “We just put a pot on.”
“Please,” Bloom said. “With a little milk. I have my own Sweet’n Low. Thank you.”
“How about you, Giordano?”
“No. No, thanks,” he said as he followed Bloom up the stairs. He wanted to get away from the rug. He couldn’t stop looking at it, and he was afraid Cooney and Santiago would notice him making bug eyes at it.
As they reached the top of the stairs, the doorbell rang again and Giordano jumped.
Bloom turned around and looked at the door, wheezing and out of breath. “That must be Augustine.”
Santiago answered the door. Augustine found a pleasant smile for him. “Good morning, Santiago.” It was difficult for him to be pleasant with Santiago. Santiago reminded him of Congressman Rodriguez.
“Morning, Mr. Augustine.”
Cooney came out into the hallway as Santiago unfastened the chain. Tom Augustine stepped in from the cold, his briefcase in one hand, a shopping bag with wrapped Christmas presents in the other. Augustine spotted the metal detector in Cooney’s hand, and he clenched his jaw and held his breath as the agent ran it up and down the length of his body, then passed it over the briefcase and the bag. It was a perfunctory check, nothing unusual. They checked everyone who came in, government lawyers included. The detector was calibrated to ignore small amounts of metal. There should be no problem. But as he unbuttoned his coat, he wondered if anyone would notice that he was wearing a rather pedestrian navy-blue wool overcoat today instead of the taupe c
ashmere. If anyone asked, he’d say he spilled coffee on it and had to send it out for dry cleaning.
He peered up the stairway. Bloom and Giordano were staring at him like monkeys. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Bloom nodded, holding his chest. “Hello, Tom.”
“Good morning.” Giordano had a strange look in his eye. Hostile but scared, one emotion feeding off the other.
Augustine offered the pathetic bastard his smile. It was the least he could do.
He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, though his heart was thumping. Might as well get on with it. It was just mind over matter at this point. Just get on with it. Do what has to be done.
“Before we get started today,” he said, “I have a little surprise for everyone.” He held up the shopping bag. “In light of the season. Cooney, Santiago, would you come upstairs for a moment?”
Augustine headed up the stairs. The two agents followed him up. Giordano and Bloom went into the bedroom where they were going to be working. He followed them in. He put his briefcase on the floor and set the shopping bag down on the bed. Bloom had collapsed in the easy chair to catch his breath. Cooney and Santiago stood at the foot of the bed, waiting. Giordano leaned against the bureau next to Bloom.
Without taking off his coat or gloves, Augustine reached into the bag and pulled out two boxes wrapped in shiny green foil paper and red ribbons. He checked the tags and gave one to Santiago, the other to Cooney.
“Thank you, Mr. Augustine,” Cooney gushed. “You shouldn’t have. Really.” Totally insincere.
“Thank you, Mr. Augustine.” Santiago sounded more genuine, but it was probably a good act.
“You deserve much more, gentlemen,” Augustine said. “I want you to know that I realize what you’re doing here is above and beyond the call.” Augustine smiled warmly. “Go ahead and open them. Please.”
The agents looked at each other, little boys about to do something they knew they shouldn’t. They shrugged in unison, then went to work on the ribbons.
Reaching into the bag again, he glanced at Giordano and quickly looked away from the hostile stare. His heart was pounding. Go on. Just get it over with, he told himself. You’ve done it before. He reached in with both hands and found the guns layered in the pages of today’s newspaper. He forced himself not to rush. He made sure he had a good grip on each weapon, gloved fingers inside the trigger guards, before he pulled them out. “And now, gentlemen . . .”
Bad Business Page 7
