Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  “Eggplant and veal,” the woman answered.

  The sound quality was very good, as clear as anything Gibbons had ever heard on a surveillance tape. “You got rifle mikes up in the trees?”

  Dougherty’s Irish eyes twinkled devilishly. He just shook his head.

  “You got into the house?”

  Dougherty kept smiling and shook his head again.

  Gibbons listened to Joseph interrogating the woman on how much the veal had cost them, asking her why the hell she spent so much money on “those guys.” Joseph was a jerk and always had been, as far as Gibbons could tell. An aging greaseball in a shiny suit and diamond cuff links, forty years behind the times. He kind of reminded Gibbons of that other greaseball, the one from the movies, Cesar Romero, but minus the Latino charm.

  The woman finished with the salad and moved around the table. They could see her face now. She was as tall as Joseph with short, dark, nothing hair. A pair of impenetrable oversized eyeglasses dominated a typically severe, middle-aged Italian female face. Gibbons knew it well. A lot of his future in-laws had that same look.

  “Who’s the woman?” Gibbons asked.

  “That’s Cecilia Immordino, their sister, the nun.”

  “That’s Sister Cil? Dressed like that?”

  Dougherty nodded. “She doesn’t wear her habit when she goes home.”

  “Why not?”

  Dougherty glanced back at Gibbons and shrugged. “It’s not that unusual. Nuns don’t have to wear their habits all the time anymore. They can go human once in a while. It’s not like it used to be when I went to Catholic school.”

  Gibbons took his word for it. John Joseph Dougherty ought to know.

  Gibbons stared up at the monitor and saw Sal Immordino coming into the dining room with a pack of his heavy hitters. He counted nine wiseguys in all and recognized most of them as captains in the Mistretta family. Two guys skulked into the room behind the pack, hugging the walls and keeping to themselves. They were too young to be capos. Probably Sal’s gofers, his protection. Lean and hungry men.

  Gibbons followed a skinny, pinkie-ringed greaseball as he moved around the table, walked right up to the nun as if they were old friends, kissed her on the cheek, and started up a conversation. She smiled and nodded as they talked—real pleasant—then she showed the guy the gold cross hanging around her neck, a big showy thing, at least four inches long. She was telling the guy that it was a gift from Sal. The guy held the cross delicately in his fingers and inspected it with great appreciation, complimenting Sal on his generosity and good taste. Gibbons couldn’t believe it. This was “Juicy” Vacarini, the biggest whoremeister in north Jersey.

  Gibbons noticed that most of the wiseguys tripped over themselves to get in a good word with Cecilia Immordino, while a few of them just said hello and moved on, not too friendly. “So what’s the story with Sister Cil? Is she a real nun or what?”

  “Oh, yeah, she’s real,” Dougherty said. “She checks out with the archdiocese and everything. She’s hard to peg, though, as far as her relationship with her brother Sal goes.”

  “Whattaya mean?”

  “Some of these guys don’t like her at all. We’ve got a couple of them on tape complaining that she has too much influence over Sal. But we’ve also got other guys on tape saying just the opposite. What we do know is that Sal likes to have her around, especially in public every once in a while. She always wears her habit when they go out together, by the way. He probably thinks it enhances the image. You know, helpless mental retard being led around by a nun. Makes him look like a victim.”

  “So what do you think she’s all about?”

  Dougherty stared at the monitor and shook his head slowly. “I’ve been watching the Immordinos since last Thanksgiving, and I still can’t quite figure her out. She’s not stupid, she knows what’s going on but only up to a point, it seems. She knows that he’s into gambling and loan-sharking and racketeering and all that, but she also firmly believes that he never has and never would hurt or—God forbid—kill anyone.”

  Gibbons studied her face on the monitor. “Bullshit.”

  “I’ve got it on tape. From her and from other people. Funny thing is, she seems to approve of the criminal activities he admits to. The exorbitant profits the family makes on loan-sharking and prostitution are, in reality, the righteous punishment that sinful men must suffer for seeking out these vices. That’s almost her exact words. I got it on tape. Can you believe it?”

  Gibbons sipped his coffee. “Nope.”

  Dougherty paused and fiddled with his dials for a moment. “My feeling is that she’s deliberately put the blinders on. Sal makes big donations to the church, and she doesn’t want that to dry up. She’s got a real bug about putting up a new building for the place she runs, a home or something for pregnant teenagers. She talks about it all the time. Christ, I’ve got hours of tape with her going on and on and on about it. My opinion is that she’s willing to look the other way if it’ll lead to a good donation. You know what I’m saying? Like, what’s a little venial sin among friends?”

  Gibbons took another sip of his coffee. Going to Confession must come in handy for this bunch.

  On the monitor the men were all seated at the table now, Sister Cil standing at one end, dishing out her veal and eggplant, telling them to pass the plates. They rubbed their hands and sniffed the food, told the nun it sure smelled good, waiting for everyone to be served. It was a real homey scene, with big Sal at the head of the table at the top of the screen. A Mafia “Last Supper.”

  Sal tore off a hunk of bread from a long loaf and passed it on. “So you understand how we have to do this now, right? We use only people we know we can trust out there. None of this friends-of-friends-of-friends shit. Only people we can vouch for.”

  Juicy Vacarini sloshed red wine into his glass. “Don’t worry about it, Sal. I got some good people out in Vegas. They know how to keep quiet.”

  “Yeah, but I want a lot of good people,” Sal said, heaping salad into a bowl. “I don’t want any one person making bets over fifty grand. That’s the limit. That’s why we need a lot of guys. Capisce?”

  Juicy nodded, his mouth full of eggplant. “I gotcha.”

  A fat guy at the bottom of the screen, with his back to the camera, piped up. “But what about the money Golden Boy owes us? That’s a big piece of change. We s’posed to forget about that?” Gibbons recognized the whiny, disgusted delivery. Frank Bartolo, Mistretta’s hand-picked choice to run Sal’s crew while Sal was acting boss. Very heavy into the construction unions, dipping into pension funds, paying off the right people to get bids, extorting payments to make sure people show up at work, that kind of stuff.

  Sal pointed with a wine bottle. “Hey, Frank, don’t you listen? I already said I’m taking care of that. We’re gonna get paid. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, but, Sal, that’s not the way Sabatini set it up.” Bartolo was gesturing with both hands. “This whole thing . . . I don’t know. It’s not the kind of thing Sabatini goes for. He likes to get his bread when it’s due, cut-and-dried, none of this fancy razzle-dazzle shit.”

  Sal was chewing, his mouth full, pointing two fingers at Bartolo like a cannon, about to make a point as soon as he swallowed. But then his sister suddenly chimed in. “Ispoke to Mr. Mistretta the other day and I told him all about it, Frank. He’s behind it one hundred percent. He loves the idea.”

  Gibbons squinted at her face. What the hell does she have to do with it?

  Bartolo held up his hands in surrender. “That’s all I want to know, Cil. If it’s all right with Sabatini, fine. Because if it wasn’t okay with him, I wouldn’t want to know nothing about it. You know how he is—when Sabatini gets mad, he gets mad. You remember what happened to Tommy Ricks and his crew?”

  No one said a thing. They all looked down at their plates and ate. No one had to be told what had happened to Tommy Ricks and his crew. Not even Gibbons. Gaetano “Tommy Ricks” Ricciardi and six of hi
s men had been ground up like hamburger and mixed in with a load of cement, then poured into the foundation of a high-rise on the corner of Sixty-eighth and Second Avenue. The word on the street was that Mistretta went nuts when he found out Tommy Ricks was doing cocaine deals behind his back with a couple of Colombians from Queens after he had warned Tommy twice not to do business with South Americans. The police had to get an injunction to stop work on the building so they could smash up the foundation and look for the bodies. The biggest chunk they’d found was about the size of a fifty-cent piece, but they couldn’t find any teeth to make a positive ID on any of them. Everybody knew it was Mistretta who had ordered the hit, but they had nothing to take to court. The guys putting up the building threatened to sue the city so they could get back to work, so the cops had to give up. They ended up dumping fresh cement on the crime scene, put up thirty-two floors of overpriced condos, and Mistretta got away with it. Ruthless bastard.

  Gibbons watched them all eating in silence. He noticed Sister Cil looking back and forth between Sal and Bartolo, nervouslike. She was the one who finally broke the silence. “Mr. Mistretta was particularly happy that we’d finally have enough money to build the new facility for the Mary Magdalen Center. Out of Sal’s cut, of course. Isn’t that right, Sal?”

  Sal looked up and nodded, chewing. “Yeah, Cil, don’t worry about it. You’ll get your new building. Just don’t say anything to the archbishop yet.”

  “Oh, I know, I know.” She nodded up and down, the chandelier lights glinting in her glasses.

  Something wasn’t right about her, but Gibbons couldn’t put his finger on it. She was more than just peculiar.

  Gibbons didn’t recognize the short little guy who spoke next. “Hey, Sal.”

  “Hey, what?”

  “How’re you gonna get Mr. Mad to go along with this? He don’t look too cooperative from what I seen on TV.”

  A couple of guys laughed. The nun was staring hard at the little guy who asked the question.

  Sal sipped his wine. “Don’t worry about him. He’s not dumb, he knows how to add. He’ll go for the money.”

  “But what if he doesn’t want to do it?”

  A big grin opened up across Sal’s face like a crack in a dinosaur egg. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a very persuasive guy.”

  Everyone laughed, even the nun. Except she seemed to be forcing it. Maybe she thought it was expected of her.

  Around the dinner table, the wiseguys kept making jokes about Sal’s powers of persuasion, Juicy Vacarini say ing that Sal might have to show Mr. Mad a few new moves. The men howled. Gibbons frowned. He didn’t get it. The Golden Boy? Mr. Mad? People placing big bets in Las Vegas? None of this jibed with anything he’d read in the latest file on Sal Immordino. He looked at Dougherty who looked just as confused as he was.

  Dougherty shook his head and shrugged. “This is all news to me.”

  “Who’s Mr. Mad?”

  Dougherty shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

  Gibbons went back to the monitor. Watching them eat was making him hungry. He sipped his coffee and strained to make out what had degenerated into barely discernible hubbub. He wondered where the hell Dougherty had the mikes stashed.

  Frank Bartolo asked someone to pass the grated cheese then, and he was told the bowl was empty. Sal picked up a cut-glass bowl and held it out toward one corner of the table. “Joseph,” he said, “get some more cheese, will ya?”

  It was the first thing Sal had said to his brother since they’d sat down to eat, and Joseph was looking daggers at him now. “What do I look like? A waiter? Go get your own fucking cheese.”

  The room was instantly silent. Sal held out the empty bowl, staring at his brother. “I said we need more cheese, Joseph. I asked you nice. Now go get it.” Sal’s tone wasn’t menacing. It didn’t have to be.

  Joseph’s eyes darted around the table. They all stared back at him in silence, like buzzards. Even his sister. Finally he leaned across the table, snatched the bowl out of Sal’s hand, and left the room in a huff. Cil looked at Sal and shook her head in disapproval, but Sal didn’t acknowledge her. She folded her napkin and put it to next her plate, then got up and went after Joseph.

  Dougherty quickly threw a couple of switches and turned a few dials. Another monitor came to life with Joseph leaning against a kitchen counter, a row of cabinets behind him, a big refrigerator by his side. Sister Cil was Standing in front of the sink, clutching her elbows. “Don’t be mad at him, Joseph,” she said. “He’s your brother.”

  Gibbons caught Dougherty’s Irish eyes. Who’s he kidding? Gibbons thought. This sound is too good. He had to have gotten into the house and bugged the place silly. “Come on, Dougherty. Where are they?”

  Dougherty waved him off, grinning. “Just listen.”

  “Sal is forbidden from being himself and that’s a terrible thing, Joseph. He may not show it all the time, but I know that he really does appreciate all that you do for him.”

  Joseph threw his hands up. “Then why does he treat me like a flunky, huh? He isn’t fair to me, Cil. I never get to do anything on my own. I just take orders. I’m a nobody, as far as those guys out there are concerned.”

  Sister Cil smiled tolerantly and held up the gold crucifix hanging from her neck. “You remember what Grandma always used to say? ‘Gesù Cristo vede e provvede.’ Jesus sees and provides. He’ll take care of you when the time is right, Joseph.”

  Joseph held the gold cross, leaned closer, and stared at it. “Hey, what’s wrong with Jesus’ head?”

  “What?”

  He was pointing at something on the cross with his pinkie. “See? All these tiny holes in His head? That’s your big-deal brother Sal for you. He buys you crap, that’s what he does.”

  Sister Cil tucked in her chin and inspected the cross herself.

  “Look close at the back of His neck. You can see where it was welded. Gold, my foot. This is a cheap piece of—”

  “Be quiet, Joseph. Don’t say another word.” She reached behind her neck to unfastened the chain. “I can’t believe this,” she said as she fumbled with the clasp. “It’s a sin, a sacrilege. How could anyone do such a thing? To Jesus, for God’s sake. Sal’s gonna have a fit.” When she finally got the chain undone, she took down a glass from the cup board and filled it with water. Her hand was shaking. It looked like she was the one having the fit.

  “Whattaya talking about, Cil? You’re not making any sense.”

  “Be quiet, Joseph!”

  She dropped the cross into the glass of water, and Gibbons’s headphones let out a high-pitched squeal.

  Dougherty ripped off his headphones. “Shit,” he muttered. “She found it. The only goddamn bug I had in there, and she found it. Shit, fuck, piss.”

  Gibbons glanced over at Dougherty. His Irish eyes weren’t smiling anymore. “I had a feeling that’s where it was.” He shook his head and smiled with his teeth. “Sticking a bug in the Lord’s head. You’re gonna burn in hell a long time for this one, Dougherty. A long time.”

  Dougherty scowled at him. “Yeah? Well, I won’t be alone, Gib.”

  Gibbons poured himself some more coffee from the Thermos bottle. As he took a sip he looked up at the silent nun in sheep’s clothing staring at the cross in the glass on the counter, chewing on her finger, ignoring whatever it was her stupid brother Joseph was saying to her. Gibbons lowered the cup to his lap and wondered what the hell her problem really was.

  ibbons sat by himself at a small round table in the cocktail lounge that was tucked around the side of the soaring escalators that led up to the lobby at Nashe Palace. He sipped the beer from his glass and made a face. He glared at the half-empty brown glass bottle with the frolicking country maiden on the label. Imported German piss was what it was, expensive imported German piss. Four fucking bucks a bottle. Waitress recommended it, said it was Russell Nashe’s personal favorite. Just goes to show that money can’t buy taste. Christ. Coulda bought a six-pack of Rolling Ro
ck for what he was paying for this.

  He looked down at his shoes and frowned at them too. They were white, to match his belt. All part of the costume: burgundy pants, yellow short-sleeved shirt, royal-blue polyester blazer. He’d been here two days and he’d worn this outfit the entire time, hoping to blend in with the thousands of senior citizens who were shuttled into Atlantic City every day by bus. He’d picked up Tozzi’s trail last night, and he’d been trailing him ever since. The outfit must’ve worked, because Tozzi hadn’t spotted him yet. Gibbons sort of wished Tozzi would’ve made him by now, though. He didn’t think he looked that much like a senior citizen. He glared over at Tozzi sitting at the bar with his back to him. Asshole.

  He watched Tozzi trying to make time with the blond bartender again. This was the third time he’d come back here in the past eighteen hours, and the German piss was the fifth different beer Gibbons had tried. He wished Tozzi would go somewhere else, somewhere where they served something other than Bud and imported shit. But the asshole apparently had the hots for this blonde, so he kept coming back here. A real piece of work, this guy.

  The blonde was wearing a gray fedora, a man’s hat. She’d worn it yesterday too. She wasn’t a knockout in the looks department, but there was something very appealing about her. She was different, Gibbons could tell, and in that hat she was very sexy, not centerfold sexy, really sexy. He’d heard her giving Tozzi shit earlier today, making fun of his oily guinea charm. She was sharp, with a good sense of humor and, more importantly, a functioning brain. Gibbons liked her. In a way, she sort of reminded him of Lorraine—the way she used to be.

  Gibbons watched the blonde in the hat move down to the end of the bar to take care of a customer. He picked up his glass, went over the bar, and took the stool next to Tozzi. “Qué pasa, goombah?”

  Tozzi did a double take. He didn’t seem happy to see his old partner. Suddenly his eyes were all over the place, looking for who knows what. Tozzi had always been a paranoid bastard, but never quite this obvious about it. Gibbons wondered whether Tozzi was afraid he was compromising his cover. Or was Ivers on the money with his suspicions about Tozzi going cuckoo? Tozzi did sort of have that unpleasantly surprised expression, like reality had just dropped by for a visit without calling first.