5 Bad Moon (4 page)

“I know what you mean.” Loopy Lou’s face got serious all of a sudden. He stood there like a big iguana with a Brillo pad on its head. Sal didn’t know which eye was looking at him. “You be careful, Sal, you hear? A lotta us guys are depending on you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

The big iguana nodded and went out the glass door into the hallway. Charles followed him with his eyes until he was out of sight, then he opened the door and came in.

Sal glanced over at the one-way mirror across the ward.

“Ain’t nobody in there looking,” Charles said. “I just checked.” He pulled up a chair and propped his foot on it.

Sal rocked in his seat and looked straight ahead, just in case someone was watching. “So what happened? Tell me.” He bent over his lap and squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and grinning. He couldn’t wait to hear the details.

But the
moolinyam
wasn’t saying anything. Sal turned his head and looked up at him. The guy looked guilty as sin.

“No good, man. I had a problem. I don’t think I got him.”

Sal’s stomach bottomed out. His eyes went out of focus. This was what he didn’t want to hear. “Whattaya mean you don’t think you got him?”

“I mighta got him once, Sal. I dunno. But I don’t think he dead.”

Sal’s fists were clenched. He wanted to smack this son of a bitch right in the mouth. He should never have agreed to let him go out and try it on his own. Sal glanced at the mirror again and leaned forward over his fists, mumbling to them frantically, just in case.

“It wasn’t my fault, Sal. You ain’t gonna believe this, but I got distracted. And you ain’t gonna believe by who.”

Sal glared up at him from under his eyebrows. “Don’t start telling me stories, Charles. It’s fucking bad enough already.”

“I swear to God, Sal. This ain’t no story. That girl from that commercial on TV, the Pump-It-Up Girl. She must be Tozzi’s girlfriend or something. She showed up outta nowhere with that body of hers and I got distracted, man.”

Sal’s knuckles were white. He stole another glance at the mirror. Sweat was dripping from his forehead onto his pants. He was tempted to haul off and punch the shit outta this lying bastard.

“It’s true, Sal. I was all set to do him, but then she showed up yelling to Tozzi and I looked up at her and then Tozzi grabbed the gun.”

Panic zinged through Sal’s chest. “You mean he has the gun?”

“No, no, don’t worry ’bout that. I got it at home. He never took it away from me.”

Sal stared down at the sweat spots on his pants. He couldn’t believe this. Tozzi was fucking charmed. And what the hell was the Pump-It-Up Girl supposed to be? His fairy godmother?

Sal wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “This is bullshit, Charles. You’re lying. You didn’t even try. Pump-It-Up Girl, my ass. She wasn’t there.”

“I swear to God, Sal. She was there. And if it wasn’t for her, Tozzi’d be dead now.”

Sal grit his teeth and frowned, his chest heaving. “What about Emerick? Where’s he?”

“Donnie? He’s home too. Don’t worry. He’s okay.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry. You fucked up. I got plenty to worry about now.”

“No, Sal, no. I’ll fix it. I’ll find Tozzi and I’ll get him this time. I promise.”

“Emerick leave any prints?”

Charles shook his head. “No time. Happened too fast.”

Sal grumbled at his fists. “Shit.”

“Look, Sal, I know you mad already, but I got another problem. You know, it ain’t easy keeping Donnie at my place, man. Even with his pills, he’s all over the place. Them pills only keep him doped up so long.”

“So double the dosage.”

“Can’t do that. What if he die?”

“So whattaya telling me here? Just say it.”

“I’m afraid he gonna get loose one of these days while I’m here at work. If I had some money, maybe I could get somebody to come in and give Donnie his pill, put him to bed. But I need cash, Sal.”

“I told you from the very beginning, Charles. There wasn’t gonna be no cash till this was all over. When I can walk outta here, then you’ll get paid.”

Charles’s face froze. He was looking at Sal through slit eyes, like he knew Sal was lying.

“Look, Charles, I can’t leave here till Tozzi’s dead. It’s as simple as that. With him around, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“I told you, Sal. I’ll find him and I’ll do him. But I need some money now.”

Sal’s stomach was in agony. It was one big knot. He couldn’t lose Emerick. Jesus, everything depended on that little fruitcake. Everything. Sal stared at his thighs and shook his head.

“Whattaya shaking your head for, Sal? Sal? You listening to me, Sal?”

Sal mumbled in a trance. “You fucked up once. That’s once too many. You ain’t gonna do nothing no more.
I’ll
do it.”

“That’s crazy, man. I can’t get you out again.” Charles creased up his face like he was in pain.

“You did it once. You’ll do it again.”

“Can’t do that no more. Everybody jumpy enough around here with Donnie gone. They find you missing, all kindsa shit’ll come down.”

“Hey! You wanna get paid or not? You want them nice clothes and the Lincoln and all that shit you told me you wanted? You wanna keep working for me? Then you get me outta here to do the hits. You ain’t no hitter, Charles. Face it. And I can’t afford any more fuckups. Tozzi has to go, fast.” Sal thought about the contract they had on him. If Loopy Lou was right and they got a hitter nobody knows, he’s a sitting duck cooped up in here. He had to whack Tozzi so he could get out as soon as possible.

“Yeah, but Sal, you really think—”

“Yeah but nothing, Charles. That guard downstairs who watches the video monitors? And the other guy who works the all-night shift on this ward? Your friends?”

“Yeah, Buster and Ramon.”

“Right, Buster and Ramon. You told me they both got little habits, the two of them. So they need money for coke, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Shut up and listen for a change. I want you to go buy them some shit. Give ’em a taste for free. Let ’em know, when they do something for us, you’ll give ’em another toot. They’ll get me out and they’ll get me back in, just like the last time. You watch.”

“But, Sal—”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Charles.”

Sal curled into himself as he pulled his St. Anthony medal out of his undershirt. He glanced at the mirror and turned his back on it completely before he slipped his thumbnail into the back of the gold medal and pried it open. Tucking in his chin to see what he was doing, he opened the locket and picked at the folded bill inside until it came out. He unfolded it and smoothed it out on his thigh.

The whites of Charles’s eyes were showing. He was grinning like a wiseass monkey. Sal was pretty sure the
moolinyam
had never seen this president before. Grover Cleveland.

Sal folded the thousand-dollar bill in half and kept it close to his chest. “Take this and get your friends some good shit. Then you give it to them a little at a time so they do what you tell them to. You listening to me, Charles?”

The
moolinyam
was nodding, smiling and nodding. His hand crept over his knee, reaching out for the money. His fingers were like tarantula legs. “Don’t you worry, Sal. I fix everything this time. This time I do it like a pro. Money-back guarantee. Tozzi be so dead he won’t even know it.”

The tarantula snagged a corner of the bill, but Sal wasn’t letting go. “You’re not listening to me, Charles. I said I don’t want you to do it.
I’m
gonna do it. Tozzi’s too tricky.”

“Don’t sweat it, man. You leave it to me. Better for you to just chill out here. You know, just in case they do a surprise night check or something like that. If they find you gone the same night Tozzi die, then maybe they blame you. You stay cool and let me take care of it.” The tarantula tugged on the grand.

Sal looked up at his smiling monkey face and released his grip. But as the tarantula snatched up the cash, Sal went for the
moolinyam
’s crotch with his other hand and grabbed him by the balls. He got a good grip through the gray uniform twills, squeezed hard, and put a clamp on. He wanted to make sure he had the man’s attention.

“Now, tell me, Charles. Whattaya gonna do with that grand?”

Charles’s voice was high and hoarse. “Don’t worry, Sal. I’m gonna fix—”

Sal squeezed.

Charles shut his eyes and groaned.

“You and your two friends got me and Emerick out before, so I know you can do it again. You’ll get me out, I’ll do what I have to do, and then you’ll get me back in before anybody misses me. Same way we did it with Mistretta. Okay? Do we understand each other?”

Sal kept the pressure on. He could feel the throb of Charles’s pulse through his fingers. His own heart was throbbing just as hard.

Charles’s face was creased and tight, his eyes squeezed shut. “Okay, Sal, okay. If that’s the way you wanna do it.”

“That’s the way I wanna do it.” Sal let him go. He could see that Charles wanted to double over, but he was fighting it. Didn’t want to show that he was in pain.

Sal glanced down and saw that Grover Cleveland was on the floor, right next to his foot. Charles must’ve dropped it. “Why don’t you pick up the money, Charles. It’ll make you feel better.”

Charles hunkered down and let out a groan.

Sal let his face go slack and glanced at the one-way mirror again. He wiped his sweaty face and took a few deep breaths. Friggin’ Tozzi. It wasn’t like the guy was magic, he told himself. If he could kill a boss, then killing a stupid little fed like Tozzi shouldn’t be that hard. All you needed was an experienced hitter.

He sat up and looked at his fists, nodding to himself. It shouldn’t be that hard, he thought. He had plenty of experience. Plenty.

He kept staring at his fists, and his thumping heart started to calm down a little.

Gibbons sat back in the blue vinyl armchair and cracked his knuckles one by one as his wife, Lorraine, fussed over her dear cousin Tozzi, scolding him for hopping around the hospital room on one foot the way he was. They were making such a scene, Tozzi’s sick-looking roommate put on his robe and slippers and wheeled his IV bottle down the hall to the dayroom to get out of their way. Tozzi was just trying to collect his things and get dressed, but Lorraine wanted to
help
him get dressed and he didn’t want to be helped. Gibbons understood how he felt. Women don’t have the same sense of dignity men do. What do women always talk about when they get together? Their plumbing, their feelings, and their underwear. Men talk about sports.

He looked out the open window at the noisy intersection of Greenwich and Seventh Avenue South. It was a good thing St. Vincent’s Hospital was right here. This was supposed to be one of the most dangerous intersections in the city, people getting killed here all the time. He thought about the guy who tried to kill Tozzi and wondered if the guy was really a mugger. Maybe the guy really was out to get Tozzi. Maybe the guy had been sent to kill him. Maybe whoever it was who sent the guy wanted Gibbons done too. They were partners, after all. Gibbons tugged on his nose and frowned.

Lorraine was still chasing Tozzi around the room, scolding him like a mother hen. Her long, dark hair was wild today, and the bright sunlight streaming through the windows picked up the silver threads every time she passed through it. She hadn’t bothered to tie it back this morning, she was so worried about her cousin. Just threw on a blouse and a skirt, brushed her hair a little, and rushed Gibbons out the door. She looked nice. Sort of wanton but stern.

The hospital had kept Tozzi here overnight for observation, even though according to Tozzi it wasn’t much more than a flesh wound. They were letting him out this morning, and Lorraine insisted they both go pick him up and take him home, meaning
their
home. Gibbons didn’t put up an argument, even though he hated having houseguests, even when he liked the person. If someone was gunning for Tozzi, he shouldn’t go back to his place right away, not alone. Still, the thought of having Tozzi around the house didn’t thrill Gibbons. The moody son of a bitch was just gonna make everybody crazy. Gibbons couldn’t wait for Lorraine to break the news to her cousin that she was bringing him home to take care of him. Tozzi was gonna have a fit.

Lorraine was standing in the middle of the room with her hand on her hip, exasperated. “Michael, will you please stop bouncing around like that and use the crutches?”

“I’m fine, Lorraine. I’m fine.” Tozzi was holding the crutches in one hand, hopping around on his good foot, trying to collect his things. He was already making Lorraine crazy. Wait’ll he’s around the house for a while.

Gibbons closed his eyes and rolled his neck on his shoulders, listening for the old familiar crick on the left side. There was gonna be one good thing about having Tozzi stay over. Lorraine could bust someone else’s balls for a change.

“Michael! Will you please sit down and let me help you?”

Gibbons winced. She could etch glass with that voice.

Tozzi kept hopping around like an idiot. “I’m okay, Lorraine. I’m fine. I can do it for myself.” Tozzi bounced over to the other blue vinyl armchair in the room, plopped himself down, and started to put his socks on. He managed the left one okay, but you could tell from his face that the right was a struggle.

“Here. Let me do that.” Lorraine reached for the sock, but Tozzi pulled it away.

“I said I’m okay. I can do it.” He was gritting his teeth.

“No you can’t. Give it to me.”

He waved the sock over his head, out of her reach. “It’s dirty, Lorraine. It’s the same one I wore last night.”

“Will you give it to me and stop acting like an ass? I can see it hurts you to bend that leg. Let me help you.”

“I’m not helpless, Lorraine. I can do it.”

She was steaming. “You’re not helpless, you’re hopeless. Gibbons, will you tell him to be sensible? Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Gibbons shook his head. He didn’t want any part of this catfight. No use talking to either of them. They both had those hard guinea heads.

Tozzi managed to get the sock over his toes, but now he was having a hell of a time pulling it over his heel. His face was red and he was biting his bottom lip. Lorraine was biting her bottom lip too. Gibbons didn’t understand what she was getting so cooked up about. If the guy wanted to be a jackass, let him. He’s only hurting himself. ’Course, Gibbons wouldn’t want anybody putting his socks on for him. To hell with the socks. He’d just step into the shoes and stick the socks in his pocket.

“Michael, can I ask you something?” Lorraine’s voice dropped to a slightly more conciliatory pitch.

“Sure. What?”

Gibbons inspected his fingernails. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

“I talked to your mother this morning. She wants to know if you intend to give up aikido now.”

Tozzi’s forehead bulged and his eyes slipped farther under his brow, like rattlesnakes ready to strike. “No, Lorraine, I am not going to give up aikido now. And my mother can go—”

“But she’s worried about you, Michael. She doesn’t want you to do something stupid and end up a cripple.”

Tozzi pointed to his thigh. “I did not do this on the mat doing aikido, Lorraine. I was shot on the street by a mugger.”

“But your aikido didn’t help you fight him off, did it?”

Gibbons pinched his nose to keep from laughing out loud. She had no mercy. But she did have a point.

Tozzi’s face was an angry red ball, but he chose not to argue with her, which was unusual for him. He was, no doubt, following the supposed first rule of the martial arts: Avoid the fight. Either that, or he didn’t have a good answer.

Tozzi tried a clever tactic then. He ignored Lorraine’s original question and answered the one he wished she’d asked in the first place. “I keep telling you, Lorraine, it’s just a flesh wound,” he said. “The bullet went in and came out, didn’t hit bone or anything. I’ll be back on my feet in a week and a half, maybe sooner.”

Lorraine put on the mournful face. This was one of those Italian specialties reserved for people in the hospital. Illness was an Italian delicacy, like baccalà. In fact, the death-and-dying report was a daily bulletin with the older members of the Tozzi clan, and Tozzi’s old lady was the editor in chief.

“Michael, we all know how bullheaded you are. Your mother and I are afraid you’re not going to let this heal properly. Look at yourself. You’re not treating it properly now. And remember, the body doesn’t heal as quickly at your age.”

Gibbons rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Oh, boy.

“What do you mean, at my age? I’m thirty-nine. What’s that? Is that supposed to be old?”

“You’re going to be forty in two weeks, Michael. Face it, you’re not a kid anymore. This martial-arts stuff is for young people.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lorraine. You don’t know the first thing about aikido.”

“I may not know anything about aikido, but I do know you. You’re dying to test for your black belt, and you’ll risk anything to do it. Including the use of that leg. For God’s sake, Michael, you have nothing to prove.”

“I’m getting mad now, Lorraine. You know why? Because you and my mother both belong in a nuthouse. You must think I’m stupid. You think I don’t know I’ve got nothing to prove? I’m a goddamn street agent, for chrissake. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, kicked, clubbed, beaten up, pistol-whipped, stomped. I’ve had guys try to run me over. A crackhead tried to chop me up with an ax in East Harlem one time. Another time some union goon came at me with a circular saw. I’ve even had to put up with attack dogs. Not just once,
three
times. So I know I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve already proved it, a hundred times over. What I get out of aikido is something else entirely. Something I don’t think I can make you or my mother understand.”

Lorraine folded her arms. “Try.”

Tozzi’s nostrils flared. “Well, for one thing, it brings me peace. Which is something I’m not getting from you right now.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, Michael. Why don’t you arrest me for disturbing your peace?” Lorraine’s voice was back up in the chicken-screech range.

Gibbons screwed a pinkie into his ear. This was getting boring.

“Am I disturbing something?”

Gibbons glanced at the doorway. Brant Ivers, Assistant Director in Charge of the Manhattan FBI field office, was standing on the threshold. The boss was here to visit the fallen soldier. Gibbons sat up. This ought to be moving.

Ivers’s square frame filled the doorway just about right. His head was square, his jaw was square, and his shoulders were square. He was artfully gray at the temples, and Gibbons always wondered if he had that done at some fancy men’s salon somewhere uptown. He probably thought it looked commanding on camera, gave him a glint of wisdom and authority. A powerful enhancement for the figurehead. Now that Gibbons thought about it, Ivers
was
sort of like the hood ornament on a fancy old car—silver and stiff.

Ivers nodded to Lorraine and Gibbons, then fixed his authoritative gaze on Tozzi, who was sitting there with his sock hanging off his bare foot like a wool cap on one of Santa’s elves. “How are you feeling, Tozzi?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

Tozzi snapped the sock off his foot and lowered it tenderly to the floor. “Fine. It’s still sore and a little stiff, but I can get around. A couple of days home on the couch and I’ll be functional.”

Lorraine shot him the death-ray stare, but she knew enough to hold her tongue in front of Ivers.

“I’ve spoken with your doctor,” Ivers said. “They think it’s a bit more serious than that.”

Lorraine beamed. She had her argument ready for when Tozzi told her he didn’t want to recuperate over at their place.

Ivers spoke with stern authority. “The doctor wants you off that leg for more than just a few days. I told him there’d be no problem. I’m putting you in for four weeks’ sick leave. If you need more time, you can have it. But I want you to use the time to rest. Do you understand?”

Gibbons could see the muscles working in Tozzi’s jaw. The same muscles were working in Ivers’s. To say these two didn’t see eye-to-eye on certain things would be like saying Jews and Arabs tend to have differences of opinion.

Tozzi thought Ivers was an ass-kissing paper pusher whose top priorities were his own image and his next promotion. He was right about that, but Ivers was also the boss and they had to live with him. It was one of those realities Tozzi had a hard time swallowing.

Ivers thought Tozzi was a hot dog, a disciplinary problem, an embarrassment to the Bureau. He was right, too. Only problem was, Tozzi had a nasty habit of getting results, which prevented Ivers from doing the one thing he wanted to do most in his tenure at the Manhattan field office: Shit-can Tozzi.

It was a cozy relationship, sort of like grit in a clam’s mouth. The irritation often produced pearls.

These two could butt heads like this for hours if you let them, but Gibbons decided to break it up before it got ugly. “Have the police gotten anything on the mugger?”

Ivers pursed his lips and shook his head. “They’ve promised to send me a report today, but they don’t seem to have much. Ballistics will analyze the slugs, for whatever it’s worth.”

“Which probably isn’t much.”

Ivers ignored Gibbons’s observation. He didn’t think much of opinions that didn’t come out of his own mouth. “The detectives assigned to the case will want to talk to you, Tozzi. They’re working on the theory that it wasn’t a simple mugging. They want to know if you have any enemies.”

Both Gibbons and Tozzi snorted out a bitter laugh at the same time.

Lorraine frowned.

Ivers stared at them from under his bushy eyebrows. “Am I missing something?”

Tozzi looked at Gibbons. “Do we have any enemies, Gib?”

Gibbons shrugged. “Only if you count all the wiseguys and mob associates in the five families. What’s that? Fifteen hundred, two thousand guys. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

Lorraine looked ill.

Ivers stood there like a high school principal, coughing to get the unruly class’s attention. “How about specific suspects? They want names.”

Tozzi rolled his eyes up. “Phew! Where do I begin? Well
…
Richie Varga, Juicy Vacarini, Sal Immordino, Ugo Salamandra, Emilio Zucchetti, Jules Collesano, Phillie Giovinazzo
…
” Tozzi ticked them off on his fingers. “Christ, everybody hates me.”

“Don’t sound so proud of it.” Ivers crossed his arms. The stone on his Yale class ring glinted in the sunlight.

Gibbons cupped his chin and considered Tozzi’s short list. Every one of those guys had a reason to want Tozzi six feet under. Him, too.

“Mr. Ivers?” A woman’s voice came in from the hallway.

Ivers stepped out of the doorway, and a smartly dressed black woman came in—glasses, navy suit, pearl-gray silk blouse, black leather shoulder bag. Gibbons guessed she was somewhere between thirty-three and forty-five, attractive in an executive sort of way. She wore her hair straight back and chopped at the neckline, a tortoiseshell hair band holding it in place. The glasses were stylish but sedate, purple-gray plastic frames, half-moons hanging from a heavy crossbar that covered her eyebrows. Gibbons wondered why she was dressed for business on a Saturday morning.