Bad Guys

by Anthony Bruno

  The little Cape Cod didn’t have central air-conditioning, just individual units in most of the rooms. People always want to save electricity, though, so they open windows to get whatever breeze they can, and a lot of times they forget to lock their windows before they go to bed. That’s why the dog days of summer were burglar harvest time. Varga had been under witness protection long enough to be careless, Tozzi figured, but he figured wrong. The only window he could find not secured by a vent lock was the small, high window in the downstairs bathroom. He had to stand on a wire-mesh patio chair so he could poke two holes in the bottom corners of the screen and get his fingers in to release the spring latches and lift the screen. The spindly legs of the chair kept sinking into the soft soil of the flower bed, which made hauling himself up and in quietly more of a challenge.

  Once he was inside, he leaned out and whispered to Gibbons. “Come around the side. I’ll let you in through the kitchen.”

  “No. Just give me a hand.”

  Tozzi wanted to object, but anything he’d say at this point would be taken as an insult. The guy wasn’t that old, after all. He should still be able to climb a window. But how quietly was another question.

  Gibbons had powerful arms and once he had all his weight on his hands on the sill, he was able to maneuver himself in without a sound. Quieter than Tozzi had been, they both noted to themselves.

  Tozzi had his gun drawn, ready to proceed, when Gibbons put a hand on his arm. “Wait up a minute,” he whispered.

  The next sound Tozzi heard was a stream of piss hitting the water of the toilet.

  “Don’t forget to flush,” Tozzi said sarcastically.

  “Fuck you. I had to go.”

  Tozzi briefly wondered if Gibbons’s bladder was the real reason he finally agreed to break in.

  “Okay,” Gibbons said as he zipped up. “In a house like this there are probably only two bedrooms on the second floor. When we get upstairs, you check the one on the near end. I’ll take the other.”

  Tozzi nodded and watched Gibbons pull out Excalibur. The gun’s familiar blue finish in the dim light reminded him of the good old days before he went renegade. No time for regrets now, he thought.

  Together they stepped out of the bathroom and rounded the corner into the living room. The walls were covered with pictures of horses, most of them framed prints of line drawings with soft pastel colorings. They were fox-and-hound-type pictures. It was the kind of decor a purchasing agent for the Justice Department might pick for a man living alone, Tozzi thought.

  As he walked into the room, Tozzi’s eye went directly to the lighted numbers beaming from the wall unit opposite the couch. He froze, thinking this might be some kind of electronic alarm system, but then he realized that the blue numbers were on the face of the VCR, and the red “27” was the channel selector on the cable box.

  On the shelf above the television there was a collection of toys, small plastic windup toys. A robot dinosaur, a dachshund, a bear on roller skates, a matching King Kong and Godzilla, a clown, a penguin wearing a top hat, and a crawling eye. Tozzi examined the metal glint behind the creatures and discovered a Slinky. It was hard to imagine Joanne married to a guy who played with a Slinky.

  He took a second look at the crawling eye and gritted his teeth. Lando, Blaney, and Novick.

  Tozzi also noticed a Willy Nelson album on top of the turntable, and a copy of Forum on the coffee table. Country music and dirty books. It certainly did seem like a lonesome buckaroo’s bunkhouse.

  He felt Gibbons’s hand on his shoulder. Gibbons signaled with his head toward the stairs, which fortunately were carpeted. Gibbons started to climb and Tozzi followed, pointing the .44 up the stairwell to cover his partner.

  The stairs squeaked under their weight, but the carpeting muffled the sound. As Gibbons reached the top, Tozzi suddenly wondered whether Varga had any pets. A dog sleeping by his side could be trouble. Also, with friends like his, Varga would certainly be armed.

  As Tozzi rounded the stairs, he saw Gibbons pointing with Excalibur at the room that he was supposed to cover. The door was open. By the light of the night-light in the hall, he could see a single bed littered with disheveled clothing. The room was cluttered with cardboard boxes, and there was a tabletop hockey game on the floor.

  Across the hall, the bathroom door was open. There was a cat’s scratching post between the sink and the toilet. Tozzi checked the floor. He didn’t want to step on a goddamn cat.

  As they approached the second bedroom, Tozzi could hear the air conditioner buzzing in a loose window frame. It made enough noise to cover any sounds they might have made, but Tozzi was still suspicious. Varga could be waiting in there for them. Tozzi thought maybe he should be leading the way instead of Gibbons.

  They took their positions on either side of the door. Tozzi was glad to see that the doorknob was on Gibbons’s side, which meant he’d have to reach across and open the door himself. He opened it a crack. A weird light glowed from the side of the room behind the door. All he could see was this watery light on the noisy air conditioner.

  He opened it a little more and saw a sleeping figure under a sheet. The entire bed was cast in this wavery light.

  Gibbons touched his arm and gestured with a jerk of his thumb. Tozzi nodded. He took a breath, felt to make sure the safety on his gun was off, then threw the door open so hard it smashed against the wall behind and wobbled on its hinges.

  The sheets flew up and the startled sleeper sat up, ready to bolt.

  “Freeze,” Tozzi shouted, holding the .44 in both hands, which were leveled right in front of the man’s face so he could see it.

  The man was speechless, his mouth hanging open. He put his hands up, dropped them, then put them up again. He didn’t know what to do. Then he suddenly noticed Gibbons and Excalibur at the side of the bed, and instinctively he backed toward the headboard in fear.

  Tozzi glanced quickly at the source of the weird light. It was coming from a fish tank on the bureau.

  “Get up,” Gibbons said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Hey, guys, what do you want? Just tell me, okay?”

  Tozzi looked him over closely. Big hairy belly, double chin, heavy blunt-end mustache, dark wavy hair. “We want to know a few things, Richie.”

  “Who?” He smiled nervously. “Hey, you got the wrong guy. My name is Davis.”

  “Yeah, Mark Davis,” Gibbons said. “Also known as Richie Varga.”

  “No, you must have the wrong guy. Really. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Tozzi thrust the muzzle of his gun in the man’s cheek. “You want to see how fast I can undo your plastic surgery, Richie? Let’s play it straight, okay?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he cried, gasping for breath. “Jesus, Jesus.” He kept repeating “Jesus” as if it was the only word he could remember.

  Tozzi shoved him back onto the bed. He fell on his back like a board, and Tozzi jammed the .44 into his neck. “I’m gonna ask you this once, Richie. That’s all.” Tozzi could feel the pulse of his jugular through his gun. “We want to hear the story you didn’t tell in court. Are you with me? We want to hear the one about the three guys who—”

  “Wait a minute,” Gibbons interrupted. “This isn’t Varga.”

  Tozzi glared at his partner. “What do you mean this isn’t Varga?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of pictures of Varga. I don’t think this is him. Not even with plastic surgery.”

  Gibbons was stalling, being goddamn cautious again. Damn it all. But then Tozzi thought of something. “Get up, fatso,” he ordered the man on the bed.

  The man didn’t move. He was too scared.

  “I said get up!” Tozzi shouted.

  When he still didn’t move, Tozzi grabbed the waistband of his boxer shorts and pulled. He yanked and cursed until they started to rip. He tore the fabric off him and exposed the man’s genitals.

  Tozzi stared at him in the watery light, then turne
d on the bedside lamp to get a better look. “Fuck! Varga only has one ball. This bastard is hung like a goddamn horse.”

  Gibbons looked at Tozzi with surprise and indignation. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Somebody told me.”

  “Yeah, and I bet I know who.”

  “Fuck,” Tozzi repeated. “This guy’s a fucking ringer. Varga hired a fucking ringer to take his place in the Witness Security Program. Unbelievable!”

  Tozzi suddenly smelled piss. He looked down and saw that “Mr. Davis” had peed all over himself.

  “Did Richie Varga hire you to be his fucking ringer?” he shouted at the man.

  “Mr. Davis” couldn’t form the words, but he nodded wildly in a nervous stutter motion.

  “Goddamn him!” Tozzi’s body was shaking with rage. He wanted to shoot, but instead he picked up the phone on the night table, ripped it out of the wall, and threw it at the fish tank. It hit the wall just above the tank, knocked the lid off, and splashed down into the water. It sank to the bottom as small iridescent-blue fish darted frantically around the turbulent water.

  “Don’t you dare move out of that bed until the sun comes up,” Tozzi yelled at the prone man. “You understand me?”

  The man kept nodding and mouthing unformed words. Tozzi was pretty sure the scared little shit would stay put for a while. But just in case, he was going to yank the cord on the downstairs phone on his way out. “Come on, let’s go,” he said to Gibbons, backing toward the door.

  “Somebody told you, huh?” Gibbons muttered to Tozzi on the stairs. “That’s some pillow talk you have.”

  Tozzi ignored the crack and rushed down the stairs with Gibbons snickering right behind him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Kinney dining room sounded like a mess hall and looked like a scene from a sitcom. The kids—the oldest a fourteen-year-old girl, the youngest a two-and-a-half-year-old boy—sat along the flanks of a long oak table, three on one side, three on the other.

  Mrs. Kinney, a small woman with melancholy eyes and tipped blond hair, sat at one end, telling the two older boys that she wasn’t even going to discuss the issue of getting another television for their room. Four televisions in one house is enough, she said.

  The teenager was sulking about something, waiting for someone to ask her what was wrong so she could refuse to answer.

  The younger girls, ages seven and almost nine, were trading slaps under the table and giggling with malicious glee.

  At the other end of the table, Bill Kinney was cutting up a slice of roast beef into small pieces for the little one. His sleeves were rolled back and his tie was loosened. The commotion around the table pleased him, soothed him almost. It made him feel like the benevolent despot of a busy realm. Fatherhood made him glow.

  “There you go, Sean,” he said, setting the plate under the little boy’s chin. “Eat it all up.”

  The heavy silver fork swayed in Sean’s little fist for a moment, then he put it down and picked up a square of meat with his fingers.

  Kinney smiled.

  “Father?” Mrs. Kinney called across the table with exasperated irony. “Will you please tell these two why we cannot have another TV in this house?”

  Kinney raised his eyebrows and tugged on his earlobe. He looked at the boys. “Another television, huh?” He nodded solemnly. “We’ll take it under consideration,” he said, smiling.

  The boys grinned in triumph.

  Mrs. Kinney shot her husband a withering look and sighed. He always let the kids win.

  He gave her a reassuring look as he reached for the string beans. Just then the phone rang.

  The sullen teenager promptly stood up and went into the kitchen to answer it. She walked with her eyes downcast and her back straight, like a nun. Kinney knew this was her way of punishing someone, most likely her mother.

  A moment later she reentered the dining room and went back to her seat. “It’s for you, Dad,” she said after she sat down.

  “Who is it, honey?”

  “Mrs. Davis,” she mumbled.

  “Did you say Mrs. Davis or Mr. Davis?”

  “Mrs.”

  Kinney looked at his wife with an annoyed expression. “Now what?” he grumbled.

  Mrs. Kinney watched him walk around the table. The Davises called every now and then, and she knew they had something to do with Bill’s work. She’d taught herself long ago not to ask for details about his work. After sixteen years of marriage, she wasn’t even curious anymore.

  In the kitchen, the receiver of the red wall phone was resting on the counter. Kinney picked it up and stretched the cord all the way to the breakfast nook. He looked out the window at the backyard, which was littered with balls, bikes, and toys. The grass needed cutting again.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hi. How are you?” It was Joanne Varga.

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “Your friend Gibbons and his pal Tozzi paid a visit on a friend of ours in Pennsylvania. East Stroudsburg.”

  Kinney felt a tightening in his chest. “When?”

  “Very late last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “They didn’t find who they were looking for, that’s what happened. Looks did not deceive in this case. We’re not happy about this.”

  Kinney started to pace. “How the hell did they find their way to East Stroudsburg?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. What I do care about is that they blew Richie’s cover. You were supposed to take care of Gibbons. What happened?”

  “I’m putting together a plan right now, but I had no idea he’d figured out that much. Jesus, this is bad.”

  “Not as bad as it could get. I assume these two are playing for bigger stakes than catching a federal witness who plays hooky. They must have something else in mind. After all, Tozzi needs a very good deed to his credit if he’s ever going to come in out of the cold.”

  “Tozzi’s facing time for murder. Good deeds won’t help his case.”

  “Still, the two of them seem very anxious to find Richie.” Joanne had a way of speaking with a certain kind of double-edged irony that made everything sound like a vague threat.

  Kinney fingered his pocket watch in his pants pocket, nervously opening the lid and clicking it shut over and over again. “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

  There was a slight pause. Kinney could hear faint ghost voices filtering through the line.

  “What do you think I think?”

  Kinney knew. Gibbons and Tozzi had to die. As soon as possible.

  “Feeney’s crew will help you on this,” Joanne said.

  Kinney pictured that wiseass Feeney and his two punk sidekicks. “Listen, why don’t you let me see what I can do—”

  “Just get in touch with Feeney. He’ll know how Richie wants this handled.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to try to handle this alone first?”

  “Things have gotten out of hand. Richie wants this done his way,” she stated flatly. “I don’t think I have to remind you. If they get close enough to start putting real pressure on Richie, you’ll be our first bargaining chip.”

  Kinney stared out at the kids’ swing set. He saw the three eyeless heads on the empty swings. His heart was pounding.

  “Okay. I’ll get in touch with Feeney.”

  “Good. The sooner these two are out of the picture the better.”

  “You’re right.”

  A sudden uproar sounded from the dining room, and Kinney’s heart leapt. Then he heard the boys laughing.

  “We really have no other option now,” she said.

  “You’re absolutely right. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I know you will,” she said. “Also, don’t forget about Atlantic City. We want that rolling soon.”

  “Right. I’m on top of it. Don’t worry.”

  “Just make sure we don’t have to.”

  Kinney blew air out of his cheeks as he hung up the phone.
“Bitch,” he whispered.

  Before he went back to the table, he took a deep breath and put on a stern fatherly grin. “What’s all the noise about?” he said as he entered the room.

  “The boys are being mean to Chrissie,” his wife reported.

  “About what?”

  The sullen teenager suddenly burst into plaintive anguish. “They always get away with murder, but I can never do anything.”

  “Specifically what are you referring to, Chrissie?” he asked.

  Mrs. Kinney answered. “She wants her curfew extended to midnight. She says all her friends stay out that late.” The disapproval was evident in her voice.

  The two boys puckered their lips and made soft kissing sounds. Chrissie shot up from her chair and stood over the table with her fists clenched at her side. “See what I mean?” she screamed. “You let them get away with murder.” She ran out of the room and up the stairs in tears.

  Kinney glowered at the two boys. “After dinner I want to talk to you two in your room.”

  “Does this mean we don’t get the TV?” the younger one whined.

  “We’ll discuss that later,” he said.

  A door slammed on the second floor and shook the house. The dining room was suddenly quiet.

  “Finish your dinners,” Kinney pronounced. It was so unusually quiet he could actually hear his knife scraping the plate as he cut through the thin slices of rare roast beef.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Foley Square was hazy blue with all the rush-hour exhaust fumes held at ground level by the merciless humidity. Gibbons walked out of the parking garage scowling at the day. He’d heard on the radio while driving in that morning that the overnight low temperature hadn’t gotten below eighty and that at seven-thirty it was already eighty-seven degrees. He’d spotted a digital time/temperature sign in the window of a Chase Manhattan branch as he turned off Broadway. It said ninety, and it was only twenty after nine. Now as he crossed Centre Street, he could taste the pollution.

  He was in a shitty mood. It seemed like he’d been having a continuous headache for the past two days. It started on the drive back from Pennsylvania with Tozzi after they rousted Varga’s ringer. Even though he kept asking Tozzi to shut up, Tozzi kept yammering on about Varga and Kinney and Lando, Blaney, and Novick, harping on what they had to do now, how they had to find Varga, how they would have to use Kinney as bait, how he had to nail Kinney and Varga, how he had to do it for Lando. It was almost four in the morning when he got back to his apartment, and although he did get some sleep that night, it was more like passing out than sleeping. When he got to the office the next morning, Kinney was there, but if he was wise to anything, he didn’t let on. And seeing Kinney in all his golden-boy glory just made the headache worse.