Bad Luck (4 page)

“He's still an accessory.”

“Of course. And the prosecutors up in Albany were prepared to try him, but then Scopetta's attorney offered them a deal. He said his client had more good information to offer in exchange for reduced charges. Scopetta, it turns out, had some very interesting things to say about a lot of people, one of them being Russell Nashe. Scopetta claims that Nashe had a long-standing relationship with the Mistretta family. He claims to have overheard conversations in which people high up in the family discussed dealings with Nashe. What he said about Nashe amounts to hearsay, really—essentially useless to the prosecutors. But they passed on a copy of the transcripts to our office, and I thought it was worthy of a follow-up. That's why I sent Tozzi down to Atlantic City.”

Gibbons was getting impatient. “Yeah? So what's the problem?”

Ivers picked up a pencil and started tapping the tape recorder. “I'm not even sure there is a problem. It's just a suspicion right now. But a very strong suspicion.”

Gibbons shifted in his seat. “So are you gonna tell me, or is this gonna be a Hitchcock movie?”

Ivers frowned. “I want you to hear something,” he said. The SAC stood the small tape recorder up on one end and pressed the Play button.

Gibbons heard the hiss of interference, then a phone ringing twice. Someone picked up.
“Yeah?”

“Hello, Mamma? This is your favorite son, Mike.”
Gibbons recognized Tozzi's voice.
“The ravioli wasn't very good this week. No taste at all.”

“That's too bad. Keep in touch, Mike
,” Tozzi's contact responded. Someone hung up, then a dial tone.

Gibbons grinned to himself, recalling Tozzi's favorite undercover call-in method. He reported on his progress as if he were critiquing Italian food. When the food wasn't good, that meant he had nothing to report. When the food was good, that meant he was on to something. When it was out of this world, he'd hit the jackpot.

Ivers unbuttoned his suit jacket and Gibbons spotted his pale yellow suspenders. Very fashionable, Brant. Gibbons brushed a speck of lint off his charcoal-gray suit pants as the dial tone ended and the tape rolled silently. He'd bought this suit in 1974, on sale. It was August. He remembered because it was one week before Nixon had resigned. It came with two pairs of pants and cost sixty-nine ninety-five. Whenever he wore it, he couldn't help thinking of Nixon waving to his staff as he got into the helicopter on the White House lawn like some banana-republic dictator making a run for it. It was a good suit.

The phone on the tape started ringing again. The gruff man's voice answered again, Tozzi's contact.
“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Mamma, this is your hoy, Mikey
,” Tozzi said. Even with the pay-phone static, Gibbons could detect a wiseguy edge in Tozzi's voice. Maybe someone was listening and he had to stay in character.

“Where've you been, sonny boy? You forget about your mamma? It s been almost two weeks. Pappa's been worried about you.”
The contact made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Gibbons looked up at Ivers. Pappa.

“The ravioli, Mamma. It still stinks.”

“That's all?”

“What do you want from me? I'll let you know if it gets better.”

“Be sure you do.”

“Don't worry about it.”

They hung up.

Ivers picked up the recorder and fast-forwarded the tape. “The next call-in is essentially the same.” Ivers hit the Play button and set the recorder back down on the desk.

Two rings.
“Yeah?”

“Mamma, Mamma, this is your Mikey-boy.”

“Where the hell have you—?”

“Listen. The ravioli is getting better. Very tasty, but so far I've only gotten a taste, if you know what I mean.”

“Explain.”

Tozzi lowered his voice,
“Our friend had a meeting this morning with a couple of meatballs . . . two brothers.”

“Who?”

“Sal and Joseph Immordino.”

“What was discussed?”

“I dunno. Nashe made me wait outside.”

“Any guesses?”

“Not yet, Mamma.”

Gibbons didn't like the tone of Tozzi's voice, and from the sound of it, neither did his contact. It was
too
smartass.

“I want to hear from you by the weekend, sonny-boy. Pappa is very concerned about you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“That's a direct order from Pap—”

Tozzi hung up on him.

Ivers shut off the recorder and leaned back in his chair. “That was two weeks ago. He called in twice more since then with nothing new to report.” Ivers rebuttoned his jacket. “Same attitude.”

“So what's your suspicion?”

Ivers raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “It's not unheard of for a man undercover to forget who he is and choose to become his alias.”

Gibbons shook his head. “Not Tozzi.”

“Russell Nashe's world is very seductive. Money, fancy cars, available women, high-stakes gambling. Everything is always the best with Nashe. It's a tempting life-style. Hard to resist when you're right in the middle of it, I imagine.” Ivers was doing more than just speculating.

“Tozzi gets into that glitzy, wiseguy crap. It's in his guinea blood. But he'd never turn. I know him. He was my partner.”

“People change.”

“Some do.” Gibbons considered the possibility. Tozzi did have an overactive imagination, and the last time Gibbons talked to him he hadn't been very happy with life. The usual I-ain't-got-no-woman blues. It's possible that the excitement of living as someone else had gotten to Tozzi, but with Tozzi
anything
was possible. Tozzi's crazy. Still, Gibbons wasn't going to say anything to Ivers. “What about the Immordino brothers?” he asked, to change the subject. “What do we have on them?”

Ivers swiveled around in his chair and picked up a file lying next to his computer. He opened the folder on his desk and referred to it as he spoke. “Salvatore ‘Clyde' Immordino, age forty-two, a
capo
in the Mistretta crime family, alleged acting boss of the family in Sabatini Mistretta's absence. Mistretta is currently serving time at Lewisburg for tax evasion.”

Gibbons covered his mouth with his finger and nodded, imagining that big lummox Immordino. He remembered Sal from his boxing days in the early seventies. It was around the time he'd bought the suit, come to think of it. Hard puncher but no style at all, no moves. People went to his fights just to see him, though. He was a big guy—not just tall, BIG. A freaking monster. He'd gotten the nickname Clyde from a sportswriter with the
Daily News
who compared him to a Clydesdale. The writer was being kind.

Ivers put on his half glasses and scanned the file. “In 1985 Immordino was tried with three other Mistretta family members on a variety of racketeering and murder charges, but his lawyer pleaded mental incompetence and got him separated from the trial. Their claim was that Immordino had suffered permanent brain damage in his boxing career and that he was incapable of knowingly committing any crime. The defense produced a very convincing witness”—Ivers had his finger on the page—“a Dr. Stephen Goode who was treating Immordino at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital in Reading, Pennsylvania. The doctor made it all very clinical and referred to Immordino's condition as ‘Pugilistic Brain syndrome.' He compared Immordino's
symptoms to Muhammad Ali's, which apparently gained a lot of sympathy for the defense. The doctor had a very smooth bedside manner on the witness stand, and the jury bought his testimony. To this day Immordino reinforces that diagnosis by appearing to be a harmless, punch-drunk ex-palooka, though we have no doubts that this is an act. From time to time he reinforces this charade by doing things like walking around town without his shoes, talking to his hands, singing at the top of his lungs, crying . . . that sort of thing.

“His older brother Joseph, age forty-seven, is his constant companion. Joseph Immordino apparently acts as his brother's mouthpiece in most instances. Before 1985 Joseph Immordino had no known history with the Mistretta family and to this date has no criminal record. Prior to 1985 he was the sole proprietor of Immordino's Quality Meats, a butcher shop in Sea Girt, New Jersey.”

Gibbons nodded. He knew about Joseph Immordino too. A momo, a hanger-on. A prop in Sal's act.

“Under Sal's leadership the Mistretta family has been unusually quiet. Some sources say that his palooka act is a hindrance. People supposedly don't like dealing with him through Joseph. According to other sources, though, that isn't the problem at all, since those people he does deal with know that there's nothing wrong with him mentally, and that Joseph is only there for show. Most sources do agree that although Sabatini Mistretta gave Immordino the position of acting boss, he put him on a very short leash.” Ivers looked over his glasses. “We know from past investigations that Mistretta does not like to delegate power.”

Gibbons snorted a laugh. “That's putting it nicely. Didn't he break his wife's arm once because she signed his name to a check to pay an overdue water bill when he was out of town?”

Ivers peered over his glasses again. “I never heard about that. You mean he wouldn't let his wife have her own checking account?”

“Are you kidding? This guy's from the old country. She's lucky he let her in the house.”

Ivers shook his head and closed the folder. “Well, be that as it may, whatever Sal Immordino and Russell Nashe discussed in their meeting, we can probably assume it was old business. Immordino doesn't seem to be empowered to make any initiatives for the family.”

Gibbons shrugged. “Who knows? Immordino's no slouch. When he was running his own crew, before Mistretta was put away, it seemed like he was running everything over in Jersey City. I wouldn't rule out anything with him. You want me to do some checking on his recent interests?” Please. Anything to get out of this office and back on the street. A few all-night plants would be so nice, give me a break from Lorraine and her curtain catalogs and her goddamn back issues of
Bride
magazine. Come on. Be a guy.

“No.”

Shit. Asshole.

“Bert, I want you to go down to Atlantic City and check up on Tozzi. Get as close as you can without compromising his cover and find out if he's okay.”

“Right.” I take it back. You're not an asshole. Not this time. “Anything else?”

“Just get yourself there and in place by noon on Monday. If Tozzi has flipped, I want to know as soon as possible.”

Gibbons was already up, backing toward the door. “Anything else?” Come on, come on, let's go.

“Yes.” Ivers took off his glasses and set them down. “One more thing.”

Now what?

“I want you to give my best to Lorraine.”

“Yeah, sure. I will.” Gibbons reached for the doorknob, waiting for him to say something else, but instead Ivers swiveled to his computer and punched something up.

Gibbons paused and stared at him. What does he mean,
give his best to Lorraine? That's my job. Who the hell wants
your
goddamn best? Asshole.

Gibbons kept staring at Ivers as he opened the door and left.

nd this will be, without a doubt, the biggest fight in the history of professional boxing. The biggest purse, the biggest crowd, the biggest worldwide television audience . . .”