5 Bad Moon (15 page)

“This is bad. Very bad! Very bad!”

The painter wasn’t facing the wall. He was staring at Cil, his face crumpled and fretting, a lot more distressed than that brunette on TV. He reached into his pocket and took out a set of rosary beads, black wooden ones. He was getting paint on them. “This is bad! Very bad!”

Cil shot up off the sofa and went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders to comfort him, shushing him and telling him it was all right, it was all right. He grazed her skirt with the roller and left a pale yellow smudge. She plucked the roller out of his hand and set it down in the tray on the floor. “Come with me, dear. It’s time for a break. Maybe Lucy will make you a cup of tea. How does that sound? A nice cup of tea.” She led him through a doorway to the back of the house, his agitated mumbling trailing behind. “This is bad. Very bad! Very bad!”

The kids on the couch hadn’t moved. They were still glued to the set. The baby under the blonde’s shirt had stopped kicking.

When Gibbons turned back, he caught Cummings staring at him again. “You may as well say it,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“How the hell do you know what I’m thinking?”

She smirked. “Come on. I know what you think of people like that man. You’re prejudiced against people who have problems.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You don’t have to. It’s all over your face.”

Gibbons looked at the ceiling and bit his upper lip. Working with her was like having a goddamn wife on the job. Even Lorraine wouldn’t be this bad. He raised his finger and was just about to tell Cummings off when Sister Cil swooped back into the room and resettled herself on the sofa, rearranging the folds of her habit to cover the paint smudge.

“I apologize for the outburst,” she said, clasping her hands in her lap again. “He’s a very sweet man, but certain things upset him without warning. I’m afraid with my dwindling budget, we can’t afford to hire professional help.” She broke out into a beatific smile. “But the paint is very good quality and it was a donation.
That’s
something to be thankful for.” She bowed her head. Amen.

Gibbons smiled and nodded, wanting to stick his finger down his throat. “Speaking of money, Sister, that’s something I want to ask you about.” He sat forward and leaned toward her. “From what I understand, you run this place on your own, and the diocese doesn’t provide you with any funding. Is that correct?”

Cil nodded, her glasses glinting. “Yes, this is a private charity.”

“Why’s that? Wouldn’t you do better hitching your wagon to the diocese? In terms of funding, I mean.”

The nun tilted her head and paused for a moment before she answered. “Yes and no. We would receive money from the diocese if we chose to be under their auspices, but we would also be subject to their scrutiny as well.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Well, Mr. Gibbons, you must understand that I greatly admire Archbishop Leahy. He is truly a wonderful human being, and it’s my opinion that the policies of his administration do not reflect his own personal feelings of Christian love and charity. But there are certain people in the diocese who are not hospitable to my goals here at Mary Magdalene. They feel that the work we carry on here is better done by secular social service agencies, and that we are—well, frankly, they don’t feel that we’re necessary. The thrust of the diocese’s efforts today is education—which is a worthwhile goal, I don’t argue with that. What I do find objectionable is their implied policy that some people are beyond the Church’s concern, that when a young girl makes a grave mistake, she should be thrown on the scrap heap and left to the uncertainties of the secular agencies.”

“In other words, the diocese would shut you down.”

The nun tilted her head a bit more. She looked like a mynah bird, all black and just as vague, searching for one of her memorized phrases. “The diocese might do that, yes. If we took money from them.”

“So where
does
your funding come from?” Cummings asked.

Gibbons almost dropped dead. For once, Cummings was being helpful.

“Mostly private donations.”

“And have these donations been able to sustain you here, Sister?”

The beatific smile returned, more radiant than before. “We get by, Ms. Cummings. The past couple of years have been difficult for us, but God provides.”

Gibbons pulled on his lower lip. “How about your brother Sal? Does he help you out?”

The saintly smile dimmed as the corners of Cil’s mouth drooped. Her eyeglasses flashed. “How do you mean, Mr. Gibbons?”

“Up until two years ago, your brother was involved with several lucrative business enterprises. He must’ve socked away a nice little bundle. I would think Sal would be your guardian angel.”

“My brother has never had any ‘business enterprises,’ Mr. Gibbons. He is a very ill man. He has very few assets of his own.”

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me, but I find that hard to believe. We do know that he has at least one numbered bank account in Switzerland and a holding company in Panama.”

Cil’s back stiffened. “Oh, really?”

Gibbons puckered his lips and nodded. “Really.”

“I think you’re mistaken, Mr. Gibbons. I am my brother’s legal guardian, so I know what he has. About fifteen thousand dollars that came from an inheritance. I put that money into long-term certificates of deposit for him in order to earn the highest interest rate available.”

Gibbons just stared at her and let it get uncomfortable, the overwrought dialogue from the soap opera filling the room. “How about we level with each other now, okay, Sister?”

The nun looked puzzled. She was good at looking puzzled. Gibbons had seen that face plenty of times. It was especially good when she was in custody. Sister Cil had been there that night they arrested Sal in Atlantic City. She looked real puzzled in handcuffs.

Gibbons tried to see her eyes past the glare in her glasses. Fifteen grand, my ass. Sal had to have more cash than that to hire a shooter.

“Lying is a sin, Sister. Even when you’re trying to protect your own brother.”

“I don’t lie, Mr. Gibbons. You should know that.” Her mouth was a short, flat line.

“This place has really gone downhill since the last time I was here. About two years ago, just before Sal was arrested. Could it be, Sister, that this appearance of poverty is all for show? Like Sal’s supposed mental illness?”

She was seething, but keeping a lid on it. “I can assure you, Mr. Gibbons, that I would not subject these young women to any degree of hardship if I had the means to afford better. As I said, Sal has the certificates of deposit, and we maintain a small joint savings account—not quite two thousand dollars—which we agreed to use only for dire emergencies. I can show you all the papers.”

“Hmmm
…
” Gibbons nodded. “When you say that you and your brother agreed to use this savings account only for dire emergencies, does that mean you discussed it with him?”

“I
informed
him, Mr. Gibbons. You know he’s not capable of understanding such matters. He’s a very ill man.” Her glasses were beaming death rays.

Gibbons nodded and looked at her through lizard lids. He knew she was fall of shit, and he wanted to make sure she knew that he knew.

Cummings coughed. “Sister, I’d like to point out for the record that Gibbons and I do not agree on the state of your brother’s mental health, and his opinion that your brother is faking his condition is just that, an opinion. The Bureau does not officially stand behind it.”

Gibbons wanted to get his hands around her neck. What the fuck did she think she was doing? She was cutting his legs out from under him, that’s what she was doing, goddamn her.

“And
I’d
like to state for the record, Sister, that Dr. Cummings is only an observer in this investigation, and
her
opinions in said investigation are worth about as much as a cup of pigeon—” He stopped short and glared at the nun. “Never mind.”

Cil’s chin sunk into her neck. “Excuse me? What investigation? You didn’t say anything about an investigation.”

Cummings spoke. “We’re investigating the recent murders of a Mr. Sabatini Mistretta, Mr. Mistretta’s bodyguard Jerry Rella, a Mr. Frank Bartolo, and a Mr. Lucas Witherspoon.” She ticked off the list like recipe ingredients.

The nun looked puzzled again. “Who’s the last one?”

Dr. Cummings clarified. “Mr. Witherspoon was an employee at the Meadowlands racetrack, where the Bartolo murder took place. He appears to have been an unfortunate innocent bystander.”

Gibbons couldn’t take any more of her shit. “You don’t know that for sure, Cummings. No one does yet. And where the hell did you learn how to conduct a field interview?
We
ask the questions, not her. The Bureau doesn’t provide customer service.”

Cummings inhaled sharply and hardened her face. She turned to Sister Cil. “Agent Gibbons and I have a difference of opinion concerning the nature of these homicides. He contends that these were La Cosa Nostra-related killings. I believe that they are the work of a serial killer.”

Sister Cil slapped her chest. “A serial killer?! Mother of God, pray for us.”

Gibbons chewed on his upper lip. He wanted to strangle them both.

The nun stared at him. “Are you suggesting that my brother is a serial killer now?” Cil was up on her high horse.

Cummings suddenly had nothing to say. She sat there with her arms folded, looking at him with one eyebrow arched over the top of her glasses, waiting for him to clean up the mess she’d made bringing up that serial killer bullshit. She probably didn’t even realize how badly she’d botched this up. Cil was spooked. She wasn’t gonna tell them anything now. May as well just leave. It’ll just be denials from here on in—denials and testimonials as to the saintliness of her dear brother the numskull. Shit.

Gibbons heard something familiar then—a pounding bass and drums. He looked at the television set and saw the camera panning that big, sparkling chrome weight room. It was Stacy’s commercial. The camera found Stacy working her barbell up and down, up and down, jiggling her jugs.

“Wow, she’s pretty.” The brown rat’s nest on the other couch stared at Stacy in a buck-toothed, slack-mouthed trance.

The blond rat’s nest with the kid on her tit moaned in agreement. “Yeah
…
”

“Looks aren’t everything, girls,” Sister Cil said, trying to get their attention.

Cummings put her two cents in. “Physical beauty seldom guarantees happiness in life.”

The girls paid no attention to them. The Pump-It-Up Girl was their idol, and they didn’t want to hear anything bad about her. Actually, Stacy was the one Sister Cil ought to get to come talk to these girls. Minor celebrity, very attractive, Barnard grad. She’d be a hell of a better role model than friggin’ “Loose Lips” Cummings. At least she’s good at her job.

“It’s true,” Cummings said to the girls, trying to talk over the television. “Television images are not reality. I’ve met that woman, and I know that she—”

“This is bad. Very bad.”

The weirdo painter was standing in the doorway, staring at the television. A mug was dangling from his finger. His pant leg was wet, and there was a puddle on the floor at his feet. He was holding a screwdriver in his other hand.

Sister Cil bolted up from the couch. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Your pants will dry. Let’s go find Lucy now.” She led him back where he’d come from.

“At Knickerbocker Spas, we invite you to come on in and
…
”

“PUMP IT UP!” the two girls shouted in unison. It was the first time either of them had shown any sign of brain activity. They were both beaming at the TV.

Cummings watched them, shaking her head.

Gibbons watched her face. It was like watching milk curdle. Amazing how someone with diarrhea of the mouth could always look so constipated.

He looked at his watch, then glanced at the doorway where Cil had taken the weirdo. No use hanging around here, he thought. She wasn’t gonna say anything to them. May as well go back to the field office. He hauled himself out of the sunken couch.

Shit.

Sal clamped his fingers under his armpits. It was friggin’ cold sitting out here in Charles’s Chevy. The wind was kicking up, and the people outside on the street were all hunched over with their hands in their pockets. Too fucking cold for April. He blew into his fist. “So, Charles, what’re we doing here?”

“Waiting.”

They were parked in a no-parking zone on Bleecker Street in the Village, outside a place called Blue Monday’s, one of those NYU hangouts. Charles was turned away, looking out his window, and blue neon light from the sign in the bar’s window tinted the side of his face and neck. The neon letters reflected across the hood of the car, like slithery blue snakes.

Either the
moolinyam
was looking at something, Sal figured, or he was deliberately
not
looking at him. Sal had a feeling he was pissed off about something.

Sal rubbed his hands together as he watched the people passing by. His eyes darted from face to face. He was worried about the contract. Any one of these people could be a shooter. It made him nervous being out here. He wouldn’t feel safe until Juicy was dead. But that one was gonna take a little planning. First things first.

He glanced at Charles’s blue face. “So what’re we waiting for? I thought you knew where she was.”

“I know where she’s s’posed to be.” Charles still wasn’t looking at him. He’d been moody all night, hardly said a thing all the way up here from the hospital. What the hell was his problem now?

“So let’s go find her.”

Charles didn’t answer.

“You’re fulla shit. You didn’t find her.”

Charles finally turned and faced him. “I found her, I found her. Whattaya think I been doing all week driving up here after work? Checking her out and chasing her down, that’s what I been doing. I found her, man. Over there.” He pointed across the street. At the far end of the block, sandwiched between a Greek coffee shop and a hippie leather boutique, was a Knickerbocker Spa, one of the franchises.

Sal shrugged. “So what?”

“So that’s the one where she works.”

“And?”

“And she’s teaching one of her aerobics classes right now. She’s in there.”

Sal grinned. “Nice going, Charles.”

Charles turned away and grumbled something under his breath.

Sal wanted to smack him one. Charles was getting to be a real pain with this attitude of his. He got resentful whenever Sal told him to go do something. The other night on the ward he was like a broad on the rag, all because one of these Arnold Schwarzenegger guys with the muscles threw him out of some spa uptown when he started asking too many questions about the Pump-It-Up Girl. He was too sensitive, this guy.

The fucking guy’s problem was that he thought Sal was gonna stiff him. These past couple of days he’d been moaning and groaning, dragging his ass, complaining that he wasn’t getting nothing out of this. But for chrissake, he knew what the hell had to be done before he could get paid. Mistretta, Bartolo, Juicy, and Tozzi all had to become history, then Sal would be able to get to his money and give him his hundred grand. Then Charles could go get himself that Caddy he’d been dreaming about, fill it full of pussy, Colt .45, and Kools, and drive himself to
moolinyam
heaven. But not until the job was done, the whole job.

Sal bit his fingernail. Money—that’s all this guy worried about. He didn’t know what worries were. Charles didn’t have a contract out on his head. He didn’t have someone out there itching to put a bullet in the back of his head. He didn’t—

Sal’s heart leapt as he spotted a big joochy guy pass in front of the car. For a second, he thought it was Bartolo’s kid, but it wasn’t. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. Jesus.

Charles let out another one of his long, exasperated sighs.

Sal glared at him. He knew this was all for his benefit, but with Charles acting like a goddamn baby, they’d never get anything done tonight, and Sal didn’t have time for any more dry runs. Charles propped his chin on his fist and sighed again, real loud and melancholy. Sal couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. The
moolinyam
didn’t understand that it was his life that was on the line here. It was time to get a few things straight with this guy. “What the hell’s eating you tonight, Charles? You got a beef? Say it.”

“Nothing wrong with me.” The guy still wouldn’t look at him.

Sal bit his bottom lip. “C’mon, Charles, spill it. I can see you’re not happy.”

Charles shrugged, still looking out that window. A moody, blue
moolinyam.
Wonderful. Just what I need right now.

Sal peered through the windshield and focused on the double front doors of the Knickerbocker Spa across the street. This bastard knew more than he was saying. If he knew the Pump-It-Up Girl was teaching a class right now, then he had to know more. What if she always left by some back door, but out of spite Charles was keeping that little piece of information to himself? Then what? Then they’d lose her, that’s what. Sal stared at Charles’s blue face. This guy probably already knew where Tozzi was. One day when he was up here this week, he probably followed the Pump-It-Up Girl to wherever Tozzi was staying. Charles was holding out on him, holding out for his money. But he didn’t even know how to ask for what he wanted, the dumb fuck. That’s why he was acting this way. Sal squinted at the front of the spa again. Son of a bitch! He was gonna lose Tozzi again.

“You know where Tozzi is, don’cha, Charles?”

“I dunno know where he is.” Charles shrugged, unconcerned.

Sal glanced at his watch, then looked at the spa. “If you know where he is and you’re holding out on me, Charles, you’re gonna be fucking sorry.”

Charles rolled his head on the seatback and stared at Sal. His eyes gleamed wet in the blue light. “Oh, yeah? Whattaya gonna do about it?”

Sal laid his hand on the gun in his belt. “I’ll stick this up your ass and give you a lead enema, how about that?”

“Bullshit. You ain’t gonna shoot me. Not out here on the street. Cops pick you up like a bug on a pizza, throw your big ass in jail. And you know what happens they find you out here shooting niggers. You s’posed to be nuts. You s’posed to be locked up at the hospital. They find you out here, man, you fucked.”

Sal’s fingers were freezing. The bastard was right. If he ever got caught out of the nuthouse, he was screwed. Especially if Tozzi was still around to testify against him. He definitely couldn’t depend on those two cokehead guards at the hospital to keep quiet about helping him get out in exchange for dope. He really did need Charles. Shit.

“So whattaya want, Charles? What is it? How can I make you happy?”

Charles snorted up a humorless laugh. “Happy? You don’t give a shit about me. I’m the slave here. You just tell me what to do. Shit, I oughta kick your butt outta this car right now. Then wha’chu do? Huh? Gonna take the train back to the hospital, check yourself back in? Hell no! You need
me
to get you back in.”

“Hey, Charles, let’s not talk crazy—”

“They oughta find you gone in the morning. Then we see what happens. Cops, FBI, they’ll all go hunting for you. You’ll have to run like a dog, man. Serve you right, too. ’Cause that’s how you treat me. Like a dog.”

Sal glanced over toward the spa. A bunch of women came out carrying gym bags. None of them looked like Stacy, he didn’t think. They could be from her class, though, which meant it was over. If they were gonna find Tozzi tonight, they had to get moving soon, but this moody bastard was still pouting, goddammit.

Sal’s stomach was in a knot. “What the hell do you want, Charles? Just say it. C’mon, talk!”

Charles banged on the steering wheel. “What’m
I
getting outta all this? Bullshit, that’s what I’m getting. I tell you I need some money, you tell me I gotta wait. That’s bullshit, man. When you kill Tozzi and that Juicy guy, how do I know you ain’t gonna kill me, too? Huh? You tell me. How do I know?”

“C’mon, Charles. Don’t talk stupid.”

“You wanna know what I want?” Charles bounced on the squeaky seat and turned to face Sal all the way. “You really wanna know what I want? I wanna guarantee.”

“A wha’?”

“A guarantee. You ain’t giving me no money. You don’t give me nothing but more things to do. That’s why I wanna guarantee that you ain’t gonna fuck me when this is all over.”

Sal had to laugh. This guy was crazy, he had to be. “Okay, sure, Charles. You write it up and I’ll sign it.” Sal kept his eye on the spa, waiting for that big head of blond curls to come out the glass doors.

“I don’t want no fucking papers, Sal. I want to get made.”

“Wha’?” Sal wasn’t listening.

“Stop looking over there and look at me. You axed me what I want. This is what I want. I want you to make me. I wanna be a card-carrying, made member of the Mafia.”

Sal just looked at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This guy wanted to get made? What was this supposed to be, funny? There ain’t no nigger wiseguys. Never were and never will be. Can’t happen.

“I said, stop looking over there for that girl, man. Don’t worry about her. Worry about me. I wanna be a made man. Make me or find your own way home.”

Sal’s fists were tight, and his chest was heaving. He was ready to go for his gun. He didn’t give a shit. Where the hell did this guy get off talking to him this way?

“You gonna do it or not? Tell me now.”

Sal turned away to look for Stacy, but Charles grabbed his face and turned him back around. “You gonna do it? I gotta know.”

Sal reared back. His hand was on the butt of the gun. He was ready to plug this bastard through the heart and leave him here
…
Yeah, but how was he gonna get back to the nuthouse? Who’d get the cokeheads to let him in? Shit!

“There she is, Sal. Look.” Charles was smug. He was a real wiseass now.

Sal spotted her right away. The hair and those legs. Denim jacket, miniskirt, dark stockings. “Start the car. C’mon now. No more fooling around. I don’t wanna lose her.”

“Not until I get made.” Charles pulled the keys out of the ignition and rolled down his window halfway. “I’ll throw ’em down the sewer. I swear.”

Stacy started walking up the block.

“Start the fucking car, Charles. She’s gonna jump in a cab and we’re gonna lose her.” A python bulged in Sal’s stomach.

“She ain’t gonna take no taxicab. Look.”

Stacy walked into the open bay of an underground parking garage. Sal could see her going up to the attendant’s booth.

“She gotta car, Sal. I know what kinda car. I know the plate number, too.” Charles was smiling, like he was holding all the cards.

Sal tried to peer into the parking garage, but he couldn’t see her now. A car pulled out of the garage, a big black sedan, but it couldn’t be hers. Too soon, and anyway, it wasn’t the kind of thing she’d drive. But how the hell would he know which one was her car? They were too far away to make out a driver’s face through a glaring windshield. Shit.

“So whattaya say, Sal? You gonna make me or not?”

Sal wanted to go for his gun so bad
…

“Well?”

Make
this,
asshole.

“Well?”

Sal squinted at the garage. “All right, all right, all right.”

“All right, what?”

“You got it. Soon as we get back to the hospital, I’ll make you. Now hurry up and start the car.”

“No.” Charles was shaking his head, dangling the keys out the open window. “Do it now.”

“Right here?” A white VW Rabbit poked its nose out of the garage. “Whattaya, kidding?” Sal watched as the VW waited for a chance to pull out into traffic.

“Take it easy, man. That ain’t her car. C’mon. We’ll do it right now.”

“Charles, there are rules. You gotta be Sicilian to be a made guy. At least Italian. You oughta know that.”

“You gonna be the boss, Sal. That’s what you keep telling me. A boss can make who he wanna make.”

Sal chomped his teeth, staring at the garage. “I can’t do it now. Not here. You need certain things. You gotta have ’em or else it’s not official.”

“We got everything we need right here. All you needs is a gun and a knife. I read all about it in a book.”

A lipstick-red Trans Am shot out of the garage and screeched up the street. Sal wiped the sweat from his nose. “That her?”

Charles closed his eyes and shrugged. “Make me and I
’ll
tell you.”

The python was doing a rumba in Sal’s stomach as he watched the Trans Am disappear around a corner. “Look, Charles, I would do the ceremony for you, but we don’t have everything we need. The way I was made, you need a picture of a saint. You got a picture of a saint? Can’t do it without a saint.”

Charles reached into the back of the car and rummaged through the junk on the backseat. He came up with a ratty-looking back issue of
Ebony
magazine. James Brown was on the cover. “We can use this.”

“Who? James Brown? He ain’t no fucking saint.”

“He’s the godfather of soul. Close enough.” Charles ripped the cover off the magazine.

A little yellow Honda two-seater eased out of the bay. Sal strained to make out the driver, but he couldn’t see through the glare in the windshield. Shit. Charles was holding out the picture of James Brown.