Gibbons pressed the phones to his ears and listened carefully. As with most of these tapes, there was a lot of background noise, loud music on this one. Sounded like that freak Michael Jackson. And a constant droning noise. Maybe hair dryers. They were in a beauty parlor.
“. . . No, no, don’t worry.”
“Good.”
“What about the big drug? Is coming now?”
“Not this time. Maybe soon, I hope.”
“Yes, I hope so, too. I like big drugs, looks nice for me.”
Gibbons stopped the tape, rewound it, and hit the play button.
“. . . I like big drugs, looks nice—”
He rewound it and played it back again.
“. . . I like big drugs—”
He did it again.
“. . . big drugs—”
He did it again, then again and again, focusing on that one word: Drugs.
Salamandra had that thick Sicilian accent, and he trilled all his r’s. Gibbons opened the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a worn paperback Italian-English dictionary. He looked up the word “drug.” Translation: dròga. That’s what he thought. He rewound the tape and played it again. “I like big dròg’ . . .” He stopped the tape. Maybe he was saying dròga, trilling the r and dropping the last syllable. Sicilians do that. They drop the last syllable on a lot of words.
But so what? In one language or the other, Salamandra is still saying drugs? Mafiosi don’t do that. They never do that. Salamandra’s not that stupid, not by a long shot.
Gibbons rewound the tape and played it again. He stopped the tape and the word echoed in his head. “Dròg’ . . . dròg’ . . . dròg’ . . .” Trilling the r’s.
Gibbons picked up the photo of Salamandra and the short guy out in the snow. He sifted through the other photos, hearing Salamandra saying dròg’in his head, and his eye was caught by another picture, another black-and-white glossy, this one of Vincent Giordano with the short man. Giordano was behind the wheel of a car, the short guy was in the passenger seat, turned toward Giordano. Again, only a sliver of the short guy’s face was showing. Gibbons stared at Giordano’s face. He looked worried in the picture, fretting, on the point of getting frantic. Gibbons wondered if he looked like that up in the bedroom at Uncle Pete’s when he first saw the shooters pull their guns. He remembered the cop sitting up on the landing, guarding the crime scene yesterday. He and Lorraine had been over at the buffet table. Where he was standing, he could see right up the staircase. Tozzi had been in the other room with that pain-in-the-ass cousin of his who was busting his balls about who was gonna get that big Oriental rug. . . .
Dròg’ . . .
Drug . . .
Rug . . .
Trilling the r’s.
Rrrrrug . . .
No . . .
Big drug, big rug? Could Salamandra be saying “rug” on that tape? Gibbons thought about it. He tried to imagine how Salamandra would say “rug.” Yeah, that’s probably just how he’d say it.
Then he suddenly remembered something. He remembered what Lorraine had said to him as they were watching cousin Marie bend Tozzi’s ear. She said she’d never noticed that rug before. It was the first time she’d ever seen it.
He tried to visualize the rug. Tozzi and Marie were standing on it. Maroon with a blue and tan design, sort of a tribal kind of design. And it was big, covered the whole room. Bigger than a nine-by-twelve.
He stared down at the transcript, replacing the word in his mind. “I like big rug. Is nice for me.”
Perfect place to stash dope, an FBI safe house loaded with junk.
Nah . . .
Yeah, but . . .
How could they get it in there?
Couldn’t be. This is nuts.
Then he remembered that big shipment they’d heard was supposed to be coming into the country. Forty kilos of heroin. About eighty-eight pounds. Could you get eighty-eight pounds of dope into a rug that size? It’s a big rug. Why not?
But how did it get to Uncle Pete’s?
Nah.
It’s not impossible, though. When it comes to dope, nothing’s impossible.
Gibbons took off the headphones and picked up the telephone. He’d better talk to Tozzi.
— 13 —
Nemo stood on his tiptoes on the garbage can and looked through the window. The glass was frosted, which meant it was a bathroom. It was open a couple of inches. Somebody must’ve left it open yesterday when all the people were here after the funeral. See? This was gonna be even easier than he thought. He’d told that fuck French Fry it would be a snap, but no, he didn’t want to do it. The spade found out about what had happened upstairs, read it in the paper, and he freaked, said he didn’t want to go in there. What the hell was he afraid of, ghosts?
He pushed the window open all the way, then hauled himself up onto his palms on the sill, got one leg inside, then the other, and lowered himself in nice and quiet, bracing his foot on the sink. He didn’t like doing this himself—he was a “made” man, after all—but he didn’t have much choice. Anyway, what the fuck, there was no one here. It was gonna be easy. Just grab the rug and get the fuck out. The cop was gone. He just saw the guy leave out the front. At least French Fry was good enough to give him that idea. Call the cops and report a residential break-in in the neighborhood, wait five minutes, then call in another one around the corner. Nemo had listened in on the police scanner in his car, just the way French Fry told him to, and it worked just the way the spade said it would. He heard the whole thing. The dispatcher sent the nearest car over to the first break-in, then because there were no other cars in the area, they pulled the guy watching this place and sent him to check out the other break-in around the corner. It was great. Now he had plenty of time to grab the rug and get out with it. No sweat.
Nemo ripped some toilet paper from the roll, wiped his nose, and threw it in the john. He rubbed his arms and shivered. It was fucking cold, and he couldn’t get warm no matter what he did. He hated feeling this way. It was the worst thing in the whole goddamn world because you knew cold turkey was coming and you thought about it all the time, started going nuts because you had no idea where the hell you were gonna get your next fix and got the shakes just thinking about how much it was gonna hurt. Fucking psychological torture. He was flat broke, didn’t even have the cash to cop on the street. Any other time he’d be going ape shit by now, but this time he was gonna be cool. Soon as he got the rug, he’d make a little slit and take some shit for himself. Not much. Just enough and then some. If Salamandra asks who the hell was dipping into the dope, he’d say he didn’t know nothing. Blame somebody else. Blame French Fry. Blame anybody. Salamandra didn’t know he had a little taste for horse now and then, and he wasn’t gonna know. After all, he was a made man now. Made men aren’t supposed to take shit. It wasn’t like he was addicted or anything. He just liked it, made him feel warm inside. He could stop if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to. That’s all.
Nemo grabbed some more toilet paper, swiped his runny nose, and threw it in the toilet. He went to the bathroom door, looked up and down the hallway, and listened. Nothing. No one here. Just as he thought. He slipped out of the bathroom and headed for the front of the house. No fooling around now. Just get it and get out before the cop gets back.
As he came into the front hall, he saw it right away in that front room to the left, that big red motherfucker with the crazy design. Oh, yes. He felt better already.
But before he went for it, he glanced into the room on the other side of the hall and he nearly shit his pants at what he saw. Some broad leaning over a table with her back to him, shoving paper plates and Styrofoam cups into a big green garbage bag. Some broad in jeans and a green sweater, long dark hair with a little gray showing, a dish towel over her shoulder. Jesus!
Nemo just stood there, looking at the broad, looking at the rug, back and forth, back and forth. He started getting real cold again, getting the shivers. Jesus Christ! He was here already for cr
yin’ out loud, and the shit was right there. And that cop was gonna be back soon. She hadn’t noticed him yet. She had her back to him, hadn’t seen his face yet. And the rug was right there. And he was already here. . . .
Hey, what the fuck.
He watched her for a moment, then looked around for something he could use. Down the other end of the hall, toward the rear of the house, there was a wall phone. He could see the long coiled cord dangling there in the shadows. Nemo retreated down the hall and quietly undipped both ends of the white cord from the phone. It was one of those extra-long jobs. Good, very good.
He crept back down the hall, glanced at the rug, then went into the other room, walking softly. As he got up behind her, he realized how tall she was. Well, so what? The cord was wrapped around both his hands. No problem, just let out a little more slack. When he was ready, he hopped up, looped the cord around her neck, and yanked back hard.
She made a little yelp, like she was gonna throw up or something, but she quieted right down as soon as he got the cord up under her chin, nice and snug, same way you do with a dog on a choke chain. She grabbed her throat, trying to get a finger under the cord, but it was no use. He had it nice and tight. A good sharp yank and a knee to the small of her back and she was down on her side. Yeah! Git along, little dogie. He grinned at the ease of his takedown. He’d done this before, plenty of times, and to guys a lot bigger than she.
Holding the cord secure in one hand, he snatched up her dish towel and wrapped it around her face, sawing it into her mouth. He flipped her onto her belly and sat on her back, then tied the towel behind her head in that tangle of dark hair. It was nice that the cord was so long and stretchy. He was able to get her wrists behind her back and tie them together without letting go of her throat. This babe wasn’t going anywhere.
But as soon as he let up on the cord, he realized he’d made a big mistake. She’d wiggled around and was looking at him, her eyes wide and crazy, like a pony in a photo finish. She’d seen his face. Shit. Now he had to fucking get rid of her. He looked up at the closed front door and thought about the cop. Shit. Gotta be quick about it.
He stood up and grabbed a fistful of her sweater, then dragged her down the hallway to the kitchen. She slid real nice on the wood floor, but on that old gummy linoleum in the kitchen she was work, and that aggravated him. Fucking bitch. What the hell’s she doing here anyway? Stupid bitch. This was supposed to be easy. Now’s he gotta fucking do a job on her. Shit.
Nemo wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, wiped his sweaty face on the other sleeve. It was fucking cold in there. His teeth were chattering. He thought about the rug in the front room, thought about all the warmth inside that big red baby. He was gonna be nice and warm, his whole body. A little pot-belly stove burning nice and toasty right inside of him. Just do her, get the rug, and get the fuck outta there.
He scanned the kitchen counters for a knife rack. He needed a knife to slit her fucking throat. But then he noticed something on the counter by the sink. It was hiding back there behind a big silver coffee urn, an open bag of Pathmark sugar, and one of those round blue containers of Morton salt, the little girl with the umbrella on the front. What he was looking at was a big fucking white plastic gallon of Clorox bleach. He thought of his mother. She loved bleach, used to use it on everything. He stared at that Clorox bottle, then looked at the bitch’s face, her wild horse eyes. Don’t have to kill her. Yeah. Why not? For Ma.
He reached for the gallon and grabbed the box of salt.
The broad was screaming behind her gag, digging her heels in, trying to scoot away on her back. She saw it coming.
Nemo bent over and grabbed a handful of hair, spun her around. He stood over her upside-down screaming face. He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Now, open your eyes nice and wide, Suzie-Q. Let’s get this over with quick.”
He started to pour, a thin little trickle.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she winced and turned her head to the side when the liquid hit her face.
He positioned his feet on either side of her head and made a vise out of his ankles so that she was facing straight up.
He poured a little salt in her face, waited a second, then trickled a little more bleach. It should start burning like hell in a second. Burn right through her eyelids. Turn her eyeballs all white and cloudy. Blind as a bat. Can you identify your assailant, Miss Fucking Suzie-Q Bitch? I’m sorry, Your Honor, I can’t see a fucking thing. I’m blind as a fucking bat.
Nemo sprinkled a little more salt, shivering and grinning. C’mon, relax, baby. Open your eyes and get it over with. He poured another trickle.
She struggled and kicked, screaming for nothing because nobody could hear her.
C’mon, baby. What the fuck? It’s no use. Just give it up.
“Lorraine?”
Nemo stopped pouring and stared down the hallway. His heart was doing a Gene Krupa.
Fuck!
“Lorraine, you down there?” Tozzi was in the middle of the staircase, bending his head down to see into the front parlor. “Hey, Lorraine? Gibbons just called from the field office. Didn’t you hear the phone? He wants me to check out . . .”
He came down the steps, glanced at the rug, then went over by the buffet table. She was just here, cleaning up. Where the hell was she? Maybe in the kitchen. He turned around to—
“Hey!”
He saw a blur—maybe it was an arm—then something pelted his face and suddenly his eyes stung like hell. Someone had thrown something in his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them, but he couldn’t even keep them open they stung so bad. Some of the grit landed near his mouth, and now he could taste it. Salt?
Instinctively he reached for the gun in his belt holster, but he didn’t have his gun. He was suspended. Ivers had it.
He reached out for a wall, trying to reconstruct the first-floor layout in his mind. If the bastard came near him, he’d smash him, get him in a headlock, break his neck, do something. He felt along the wall, aikido techniques running through his mind. The bathroom should be right here somewhere. If he could get to the tub, he could douse his face. But as soon as he took a step forward, he felt something going around his neck and knew what was happening before he really felt it. He quickly got the tips of two fingers under the rope or whatever the hell it was before it tightened. It was thin and scratchy—twine, the big ball sitting out on the kitchen counter. Then, with a sudden jerk he was hauled back on his heels, his back arched. The bastard was trying to choke him.
The guy grunted as he yanked. “You shouldn’t be here, you stupid fuck you.”
Clawing at the twine to get it off his windpipe, Tozzi heard the guy grunting and straining, working hard to strangle him. Without thinking, Tozzi dropped to his knees and sat on his heels in seiza, made himself heavy, then bowed forward. He felt the bastard’s weight flying over his head, heard the big crash as he landed. On the buffet table maybe? Tozzi ripped the twine off his neck, sucked in a lungful of air, and coughed.
Tozzi got to his feet, blinking, trying to see something. It still burned, but he could make out blurs now when he could keep his eyes open. Blurs, but not much else. He couldn’t see anything that looked like an attacker. Either the guy was right in front of him, standing absolutely still, or he was lurking around behind him. Tozzi threw his hands out in front of him and waited for the guy to attack.
“Where are you? What do you want?” Tozzi kept blinking, praying for sight. Then he remembered Lorraine. Oh, shit. “Lorraine!”
He whipped around in a panic, and that’s when it came. The bastard charged him from behind and threw his arms around his chest. He was reaching up under the armpits to get his hands behind Tozzi’s neck, going for the full nelson.
No way, motherfucker.
Tozzi clamped his elbows down on the guy’s forearms, twisted, and threw him off his hip. But the bastard managed to grab the back of Tozzi’s jacket and dragged Tozzi down with him. Tozzi landed on his side, on that goddamn rug.
He could feel the pile on his cheek. The guy jumped him, but Tozzi scrambled and got to his knees. The guy grappled with him from the front and they started to wrestle, arms tangled, Tozzi fighting to pin the guy down on his back so he could get his hands around his neck, or knee him in the groin or the gut, anything to slow him down. The bastard seemed to be a short little shit, but he was incredibly strong. Tozzi could feel the guy’s forearms—they were huge. Tozzi strained and twisted the guy’s arms, finally got him down, but he worked his way right out of it and bounced back with a countergrip on Tozzi’s forearms.
“You’re under arrest, you bastard. FBI.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Tozzi frowned. He didn’t think that was gonna work.
He got a palm on the side of the guy’s face and managed to push him over again and bounce his head on the floor. It made a dull thud on the rug as he yelled, “Hey!” He let go then and pushed off Tozzi’s chest with his foot. Tozzi stood up on his knees and reached out at the blurs all around him.
Where the fuck was he now?
Wham!
Tozzi clutched his head and doubled over. He held his breath, waiting for the pain to kick in. It didn’t take long. He visualized the back of his head as a windshield shattering in slow motion. As he rocked back and forth, he felt what he thought was a lampshade brush the back of his hand. The broken ceramic pieces clinked a little when he reached out and felt the shade. It was the white lamp with the gold trim, the one that was on the sideboard, with the crinkle-cut lampshade, the one Marie said she wanted. Fuck. Who the hell wants to hear her now? She’s not gonna believe this.
“Son of a bitch,” he groaned through clenched teeth.
His eyes started to water with the pain of the blow, and that cleared them a little. He heard the front door opening, saw the light from outside coming in, saw the blurry figure rushing out.
Bad Business Page 14
