Tozzi didn’t answer right away. “What do you want with me?”
Sal scratched under his chin. “Who was the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
Sal laughed out loud. “You’re real funny, you know that? They said there was another guy with you. He was dressed like one of the bartenders, had one of those Al Capone hats. Pete says his ears are still ringing from what he did to him. He’s your partner, I assume.”
“Just a friend.” Shit.
Sal shook his head. “You guys . . .” He kept shaking his head. “Admit it, why don’t you? You and the guy with the hat are both cops, and you’re working together.”
“If you say so.” Tozzi held his breath; the cramps were getting worse. Valerie was supposed to meet him here any minute. He’d given her a key this morning in case he was going to be late. He didn’t want her walking into this. Especially wearing that hat.
“I suppose he’s a ‘bodyguard’ too, your friend?”
Tozzi studied Sal’s face, trying to figure out how much he really knew. Those two torpedoes he sent probably didn’t get a good look at Valerie. She’d had her hair tied back that day. Between the bartender uniform and the hat, they must have thought she was a guy. Thank God for dumb bastards. “Hey, Sal, what do you want from me? If you got something to say to me, just say it. Okay?”
Pfitt-pfitt! Pfitt!
Holy shit! Tozzi felt his balls go numb. There were three neat bullet holes in the oatmeal upholstery at the base of the chair. Right between his legs.
“You have quite an attitude, Tomasso.” Sal scolded him with the barrel of the gun. “I’ll bet your parents didn’t believe in spanking.”
Something suddenly occurred to Tozzi. Sal was speaking like a human being. He wasn’t doing the rope-a-dope, wasn’t bothering with the dummy routine. A big hand clenched Tozzi’s gut and started to squeeze. Sal never lets his guard down in public. He always plays the mental case. The fact that he was acting natural now meant one thing: Sal was gonna kill him.
Tozzi felt a little woozy. His left leg was like a lead weight, he was so aware of it. The gun, he had to get to his gun somehow. He wished he was wearing a wire or that the room was bugged and that Gibbons was down the hall listening to all this. Sal’s lucid conversation, the implied threats, firing the gun—altogether this could be enough to haul him back into court on all those old charges he’d walked on by pleading mental incompetency. They’d have it all down on tape—better, videotape. Then Gibbons and maybe a few other agents would come crashing through the door. Sal’d get all shook up, look away, give Tozzi time to go for his gun. Drop it, Sal! FBI! Then Gibbons and the other guys would pile in, fan out around the bed, guns drawn on that big fat belly. Yeah, that’s the way it should be going down . . . yeah . . . but Gibbons wasn’t down the hall . . . nobody was hearing any of this. All Tozzi had was the gun in his ankle holster and no way to get to it fast enough. Oh, Jesus . . .
“You know, Tomasso, I really don’t care who the other guy is. At this point it really doesn’t matter.” Sal was aiming at the balloons again. “What I’m really curious about is you and Nashe’s wife.”
Tozzi wasn’t listening. He was thinking about how fast Sal could put three holes in his chest, just the way he did to the chair. Pfitt-pfitt-pfitt!
“You been fucking Nashe’s wife, haven’t you?”
“What?” Tozzi was thinking about three holes in his chest, bowling-ball holes.
“You don’t have to play stupid with me, Tomasso. I got eyes, I can see. You been screwing Sydney behind Nashe’s back.” Sal was smiling, like he was happy about it. “Yeah, she’s something, isn’t she?”
Tozzi just looked at him. No . . .
“I wish the fuck I had a camera. The look on your face is one in a million, Tomasso. What is it? You jealous? You in love with her?”
“Sydney? No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing.”
Sal pinched his nose, laughing like a leaky radiator. “Yeah, sure. You don’t love the bitch.”
Tozzi stared at the big slob lying on his bed, all those inflated rubbers floating around him. He was thinking about bowling-ball holes with blood coming out of them. He felt a little queasy way back behind his molars. No . . . not with Sydney . . . not him. Oh, man.
Sal put his free arm behind his head. “It’s nice doing it with her, isn’t it? It’s like stealing from that asshole husband of hers.”
Tozzi stared at the balloons. Pfitt! Another one over by the window disappeared.
“Pay attention, Tomasso. I’m talking to you. You’re falling apart here. I thought a guy like you’d be—you know—Mr. Cool. I mean, Jesus Christ, it takes some balls for a two-bit bodyguard to put the moves on the boss’s wife. Especially when the boss is Russell Nashe. Didn’t you think Nashe’d do anything if he found out? Or you thought you’d never get caught? Or maybe you just didn’t think that far ahead? Or maybe it’s”—Sal narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember—“unbridled passion? Yeah. Isn’t that what they call it? Is that what your problem is, Tomasso? Unbridled passion?”
Tozzi shifted in his seat, straightened his leg and bent it again to loosen the material a little so he could get to the gun easier. If he got the chance. “Look, Sal, I—”
Pfitt!
Tozzi felt the slug hit wood under his seat. He looked down and saw a fourth hole in the chair.
“Sit back, Tomasso. All the way back.” Sal wasn’t smiling now.
Tozzi settled down, nice and slow, wondering if he should just be cool or if he should force the issue, go for his gun and take his chances. He could feel the cold sweat creeping down his back. Immordino was a killer, no doubt about that. But if Immordino really believed he was a fed, would he risk killing him? That would be stupid. But then again he has to, now. Sal had talked to him, showed that there’s nothing wrong with him. Cold sweat trickled over Tozzi’s skin. He knew he was fucked.
“So you gonna talk to me or what, Tomasso?” Sal was looking mean now. Tozzi remembered a picture he’d seen of Immordino from his boxing days. The Lawson fight. Sweat spraying out from Lawson’s Afro. Immordino’s right mashing Lawson’s face. Sal looking real mean, like he was really enjoying it. That was the fight where he’d killed the guy.
Sal rested the butt of his gun on the bedspread by his side, leveled at Tozzi. All he’d have to do was squeeze the trigger, nice and easy, one two three. Tozzi forced himself to look at Sal, not the gun. His shirt was soaked now. Sal stared him in the eye. He wasn’t smiling. It was quiet except for the blown-up condoms making little squeaky noises as they drifted into each other. Tozzi held his breath.
But just then they heard something, both of them together. Sal sat up, glaring. The key in the front door. Val. Oh, shit.
“Who’s that?” Sal hissed.
Tozzi shrugged. If Sal thought she was the “other guy,” he’d plug her as soon as she came around the corner.
“Hey, Mike!” she called out.
Sal glared at him.
“Mi-ike! Are you here? What is it? My birthday?” She was laughing. Probably thought he had blown up all the rubbers. He looked at Sal’s gun, thought about going for his, but then he heard her coming. Shit, stay out there.
Sal threw his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his gunhand down to his side where she couldn’t see it.
Tozzi sat forward, elbows on his knees again, and she appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Val.” She wasn’t wearing her hat. Thank God. Probably took it off and threw it on the couch when she came in. He looked at Sal, who was hauling himself up to his feet, mumbling to himself, doing his numskull bit. Tozzi was impressed. Wiseguy code of honor. Sal wasn’t going to kill her just because he wanted Tomasso. Colombians pull shit like that, but Mafia guys don’t like to waste people who don’t deserve it. Bad for the image. Tozzi was impressed. And grateful.
Valerie looked confused, disappointed, a little miffed. “You guys havi
ng a party in here?” A little testy. Not much, but he could hear it in her voice.
“No,” Sal mumbled, “no party over here.” He sniffed and shuffled his feet a little, all hunched over now.
Tozzi stood up. He could see where Sal was holding the gun, down behind his thigh. “Val, I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Just ran into him on the way up.” He caught Sal’s eye. “Val, this is, ah, Clyde. Clyde Immordino.” Tozzi looked at her and shrugged as if to say, Look at the poor bastard. What could I do?
“Hi,” she said. Miffed, but she wasn’t gonna say anything in front of company.
Sal muttered something, looking down at the floor. “Gotta go,” he said then and sort of shuffled off toward the door.
Tozzi followed him out, with Valerie bringing up the rear. He saw Sal sneak the gun back into his pants under his jacket. Tozzi let out a long breath.
“You be a good boy, Tomasso,” Sal grumbled under his breath, scowling up from under his brows.
Tozzi opened the front door. “I’m always good.”
“Yeah.” Sal nodded, too many times. “See ya ’round, Tomasso.” He shuffled out then.
After Tozzi closed the door he looked over at Val who was in the kitchenette, running a glass of water for herself. “Who’s he?” Still a little frosty.
“Some guy I know.” What’d she think? They were gay? Jesus.
Tozzi went over to the cupboard and pulled down a bottle of Saint James. He held up the bottle to show her. “Rum. You want one?”
“Why not? On the rocks.”
He took down two glasses, grabbed some ice from the freezer, and poured, hoping he didn’t look as rattled as he felt. He handed her a glass, clinked, and drank down about half of what he’d poured for himself. The fireball of paranoia he’d felt a few minutes ago was passing. Now all he had to worry about was the fallout. Sal Immordino, the head of the Mistretta crime family, was on to him. Sal knew he wasn’t Tomasso, and he’d figured out that he was some kind of cop. Sal knew he was screwing Sydney, who he was screwing too. Worst of all, Sal had let Tozzi know that he wasn’t a mental defective, that he was certainly competent to stand trial in a court of law. How many more reasons did Sal need to kill him?
Tozzi took another long swig. He was a dead man.
He looked over at Valerie sipping her drink and he noticed her hat on the counter. She reached over and stroked his cheek with the back of her finger, smiling apologetically, giving him the big cow-eyes. He worked up a smile for her and finished his drink.
God help me.
hat’s that?” Gibbons stared at the thing in the middle of the table. It looked like white Jell-O in the shape of a dead fish. Gibbons didn’t even want to think about what it could be.
Lorraine yelled from the kitchen, “It’s a fish mousse. I got it from the caterer. She suggested it for the reception. Try it. It’s pretty good.”
Gibbons sat there holding the edge of the table, frowning at the fish. Not on your life.
Lorraine whisked in from the kitchen then, carrying a platter in each hand. She set them down on the table on either side of the fish, and Gibbons nearly threw up. He looked up at her, and she actually looked pleased with herself. It was that same home-sweet-home, Betty Crocker look she had whenever she showed him a page in a catalog that had curtains she liked.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“These are chicken breasts in Mornay sauce.”
“I don’t see any chicken.”
She laughed that stupid little titter-laugh. “It’s under the sauce.”
“That’s loaded with cream. What about my cholesterol?”
“I told you. This caterer does a modified nouvelle cuisine. She makes the sauce with skim milk.”
He kept looking at it, thinking maybe it really wasn’t that bad, but it didn’t get any better. It was all gloppy sauce and no chicken. Sorta like hot tapioca pudding spread out on a plate. He leaned over and took a whiff. Oooofff—it even smelled like puke. He checked out the other platter. It was all brown and mushy. He didn’t even want to get close to that one.
He looked up at Lorraine, pleased as punch with this atrocity. “That,” she said, pointing to the brown stuff, “is a carrot-prune compote.”
Gibbons’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to put in flowerbeds?”
“That’s compost, not compote.”
He nodded at it, frowning. Same thing. “Carrot-prune compost.” He kept nodding. “You sure you don’t put this around the tomato plants?”
She just tittered again. Goddammit. He was getting sick and tired of this relentless good nature of hers. Why didn’t she just tell him to shut up and eat it or go hungry?
He breathed through his mouth so he wouldn’t have to smell it. “You know, I keep telling you. Your relatives won’t eat this kind of stuff. Baked ziti and sausage, veal parmigian’, spaghetti and meatballs—that’s what they want.” That’s what I want.
“It’s not their wedding. If they don’t like the food, that’s their problem.”
She was spreading fish mousse on a cracker, very slow and careful about it. He watched her hands, the way they moved. He’d always liked watching her hands. They were beautiful. He looked at her face as she concentrated on that cracker, her eyes lowered, her hair loose, her mouth serious. A Neapolitan contessa. She really was beautiful, really beautiful.
“Why don’t we just elope?”
Her eyes sprang open. “You’re not serious?” A flash of pain and anguish in her face, as if he’d just said he wanted to shoot her dog or something.
“It was just a thought. We wouldn’t have to worry about what to feed these people. We wouldn’t have to bother with any of this wedding shit.” Which is just making you stupid, Lorraine.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’ll be fine. The relatives will fend for themselves. And the people from Princeton will definitely appreciate this kind of food.” She waved her hand over the chicken puke.
His stomach grumbled. Oh, yes, the professors. A real fun bunch. Shit, they’ll eat anything if it’s free. Even the compost. He looked down at the brown mess, then he thought of something. “You know, your cousin won’t eat this. Tozzi’s a fussy bastard when it comes to food.” For Tozzi, she’ll change the menu. She loves him like a little brother. She’ll change it now. Watch.
She wrinkled her brow. “Why do you think he won’t like—”
The phone rang then. She started to go for it, but Gibbons leapt up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get it,” he said. Anything to get away from the table.
He snatched it off the wall in the middle of the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Gib.” It was Tozzi.
“Speak of the devil. How’s it going?” Gibbons knew better than to mention his name on the phone.
“I’m calling from a pay phone. I got trouble down here.”
“What wrong?”
“I had a visitor about an hour ago. Sal Immordino. He knows I’m not kosher. If Valerie hadn’t walked in on us when she did, I don’t think I’d be talking to you now. You know what I mean?”
Tozzi sounded tense. Gibbons didn’t like this. Tozzi had a way of getting crazy when he felt threatened. “I’ll call the office. Tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll have some guys go down and meet you—”
“No, no, wait. I don’t think it’s that bad yet.”
“Sal Immordino shows up to kill you, and you don’t think it’s that bad yet?”
“I’ve put a lot of time into this assignment—too much time, considering that I’ve come up with absolutely nothing to show for it. If I hightail it out of here in a panic, it’ll be a good long time before Ivers lets me back out again.”
Gibbons rubbed his face. Here we go with the Tozzi logic. “Whattaya got, shit for brains? I told you, Ivers is gonna pull the plug on you if you still don’t have anything on Nashe by the end of the week. That’s this Friday. This is Monday. What are you gonna know on Friday tha
t you don’t know today, genius? Shut it down now and save me a funeral.”
“Listen to me, listen to me. I can take care of myself. I know I can.”
“Give me a fucking break—”
“No, listen. Something’s not right with all this. Why did Sal come to kill me himself? He’s the acting head of the family, for chrissake. Why didn’t he send one of his flunkies to get me?”
Gibbons exhaled into the phone. Here comes the theory. “I don’t know why he came by himself, but I got a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”
“Because he’s doing something behind Mistretta’s back, and he thinks I know about it. He feels he has to get me out of the picture, but he can’t just order a hit. It would get around in the family, and they’d start wondering why Sal’s having this guy whacked. Sal doesn’t want people asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer. It’s the only explanation. You told me yourself Mistretta looked all shook up at the museum when you hinted around that Sal was putting deals together on his own. I’m telling you. Whatever Sal’s doing, he’s doing it without Mistretta’s okay, and he thinks I know what it is.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Him personally coming to kill me doesn’t make any sense. I gotta stay and find out what he’s doing. He’s not sending his people out after me, so all I have to worry about is him and maybe his brother, that’s all. I can stay out of their way for four days. Shit, what’s that?”
Tozzi talked a good game, but Gibbons knew him better than that. Tozzi was trying to convince himself. “No. I don’t like it. You’ve been threatened, you come in. Now.”
“No, not yet. I’m gonna see this through. Now, whether you want to help me or not is your business.”
Gibbons squeezed his eyes shut. “I knew this was coming. You never can fuck up alone. You always need me.”
“Yes, I need you, you big fucking asshole. You’re my partner, aren’t you?”
“Lucky me.”
“Go ahead, be sarcastic. That’s always very helpful.”
Gibbons spotted the dirty Tupperware containers the shit from the caterer came in. They were sitting in the sink. “So what is it you want me to do? I can’t wait to hear.”
Bad Luck Page 14
