Bad Luck (20 page)

“Juicy Vacarini. You know Juicy? He's one of your boys. I hear Juicy's got a lot of close friends out in Vegas. Friends he can trust to make bets for him. Big bets, fifty grand apiece. So what's the game? Maybe I wanna get a piece of that action.”

The eyes bulged, and the mouth took a nosedive on the droopy side. For just a moment Mistretta seemed genuinely rattled. Was this news to him? Hell of a way to find out what your people are doing, from an FBI agent. The bulldog snapped then, “I dunno what you're talking about.”

Gibbons pursed his lips and nodded. “You don't know what I'm talking about?”

“No.”

Mistretta seemed impatient now. It wasn't real obvious, but it was there, Gibbons could sense it. Maybe he was reading in because Mistretta reminded him so much of the Director. Hoover always had that barely perceptible edge of impatience, like he had to get away, be someplace else, see to something more important than what was in front of him. But why so jumpy all of a sudden? Special agents don't make big mob bosses jumpy. In three days of touring the city Mistretta hadn't seemed jumpy. Maybe he'd hit a nerve. Maybe Mistretta didn't know what was going on in his own family. Maybe he knew less than he and Tozzi knew. Great. Three days of tailing this guy and all for nothing.

Mistretta checked his watch, a big gold Rolex. He wore it loose on the underside of his wrist. “Hey, look, I'm going
for a coffee. You don't mind if I leave you now?” Very sarcastic.

Gibbons shook his head. They both knew he'd be following along. Mistretta started to head for the elevators. Gibbons was feeling antsy, though. He wanted to accomplish something for his efforts. Well, if he couldn't find out what was brewing, at least he could stir up the pot.

“Hey, Mistretta?”

Mistretta stopped and glared at him. “Whattaya want from me?”

“Is it true that you're retiring, that you're gonna make Sal the permanent boss?”

Mistretta glared at him. “I dunno what you're talking about,” he snapped. Very angry.

“You don't have to answer that, Mistretta. It's pretty obvious from the way Sal's been wheeling and dealing lately. It's very admirable of you, stepping down and letting a younger man take over. Very admirable.”

Mistretta turned his back on Gibbons and walked away. Gibbons followed, smiling with his teeth.

“Hey, Mistretta. One more thing.”

“What?” He kept walking, sounded annoyed.

“You gonna have pie with your coffee today?”

The old boss stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Why? Is that a crime too?”

“Only if it's coconut custard.”

Mistretta's scowl went south again. “How about pecan? Is pecan pie okay with you?”

Gibbons nodded. “Sure. Whatever makes you happy.”

Mistretta's steps echoed through the dinosaur hall. Gibbons watched him for a moment, then glanced over at another skeleton, a meateater who stood on his hind legs, a million sharp teeth in his deadly grin. Pecan pie, he thought. He loved pecan pie. But that was another one on Lorraine's hit list. Too much sugar, plus cholesterol in the nuts. Gibbons headed for the elevators to catch up with Mistretta so he could watch him have his coffee and pie, see if he made any phone calls, see how agitated the boss
got. If Mistretta didn't know what Sal was up to, maybe he'd really stirred up the pot. If . . .

Gibbons glanced up one last time at the skull looming over him and thought about pecan pie again. He suddenly realized that if Lorraine had her way, he could die without ever having coconut custard or pecan pie again. He took off his hat and put it on again. Fuck that. If that little shit Mistretta was gonna have pie, so was he. Lorraine doesn't have to know everything.

ozzi unlocked the door and went into his tiny two-room apartment at the Plaza. He stopped short, with his hand over the light switch. He thought he'd kicked something, something that wasn't supposed to be there. He reached out with his foot, but there was nothing there now. His eyes adjusted to the dark room and then he saw them, all over the floor. Balloons. He grinned. This had to be Valerie's work. But when he turned on the lights, he saw that they were all the same color. Sort of a thin milky white. He shook his head. Naughty girl.

“Val?”

He walked through the living room with the kitchenette along the right-hand wall, kicking these white “balloons,” then turned the corner into the bedroom.

“Val?” He was grinning, thinking she was here already. He hit the wall switch in the dark bedroom.

The first thing Tozzi saw was the gun. Then he saw who was holding it—Sal Immordino stretched out on his bed,
Sal Immordino holding a 9mm automatic fitted with a silencer, that long, evil-looking barrel pointed right at him. Tozzi suddenly felt very cold, cramps snaking through his stomach. He didn't move.

His box of condoms was open on the bed next to Sal, torn tinfoil wrappers all over the place, more milky-white “balloons” in this room than the other. Tozzi couldn't believe it. There must've been two dozen in this room alone. For chrissake, how the hell long had Immordino been here blowing up his rubbers? This guy
is
bats.

Sal propped himself up on his elbow, the gun still leveled. “You must be a very hopeful guy, Tomasso. You keep more rubbers here than a fucking drugstore.”

You need 'em with Sydney. “What do you care?”

“Oh, Mr. Attitude here.” Sal shook his head disapprovingly. “Sit down, Tomasso. Take a load olf.” He pointed with his gun to the armchair opposite the bed.

Tozzi took a seat as Sal unrolled another condom and started blowing it up, the gun in his hand pointed at the ceiling. When he finished, he realized he couldn't tie off the end while holding the gun, so he just let it go. It sputtered and farted, looped over the bed, crashed, and died on the rug.

Sal smiled at Tozzi. “So how you doin', Tomasso? You feeling all right?”

“Oh, I'm just great.” Shit.

“Good.” Sal squinted and aimed at a balloon. The 9mm went
pfitt
, real soft, and a balloon popped and disappeared. The others around it skittered away in fear. Tozzi noticed a small entry hole in the bottom drawer of the bureau. The sweater drawer. Son of a bitch.

“So tell me the truth, Tomasso. What are you? A cop? A fed? What?” Sal squinted down the barrel at another balloon.

Tozzi waited for him to fire, but he didn't shoot.

“I'm talking to you, Tomasso. I asked you a question.”

“Whattaya want from me? I'm a bodyguard.”

Pfitt!
Another balloon disappeared. “Uh-huh.”
Pfitt!
He missed this time, but he plugged the sweater drawer again.

Sal set the pistol down on his big belly. He was daring Tozzi to try something. Tozzi was sitting on the edge of the armchair with his elbows on his knees, trying to breathe evenly, wishing he didn't feel so jittery. He was thinking about the little .22 in the holster strapped to his left ankle. Sal had fired three shots; a 9mm like that could hold seventeen bullets in the clip. Tozzi thought about going for his gun, but even if Sal was slow as shit, he'd still get to his gun before Tozzi could get his pant leg up. Fuck.

“You didn't answer my question, Tomasso.
What the hell are you?”

“You know what the hell I am. I'm one of Nashe's bodyguards.”

“Uh-huh.” Tozzi expected Sal to grab the gun and put a few more holes in his sweaters, but he didn't. Instead he took in a deep breath and let it out slow. The automatic slowly rose on his big belly, then sank with the exhale. “What'd you do to my boys at the Epps camp? I want to hear your side of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's not be modest, huh? You must've messed them up pretty good 'cause they came back like two mamelukes with their tails between their legs. I take it they gave you my message, but apparently it didn't make much of an impression.”

Sal yawned and stretched his arms, rapping his knuckles on the headboard. Tozzi was tempted to go for his gun, but he hesitated and lost the moment. Sal laid his paw back on the 9mm before he shut his mouth.

Tozzi tried not to stare at the gun. “I heard what your guy had to say.”

“But it didn't make an impression on you.” Sal scratched his cheek with his free hand.

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 . . .