Bad Business (11 page)

“You fuck, you. You were supposed to fix things. This wasn't supposed to—”

“I
am
fixing things, Vincent.” He nodded toward Bloom on the floor. “The defense attorneys will be up in arms.
They'll fear for their safety. They'll be trembling like mice. Their collective outcry for a mistrial will be so loud and so profound not even
I
will be able to combat it. It's all but guaranteed.”

Giordano tried to grin. “Great. Then it's done, right? The trial, I mean. It's over.”

Augustine nodded. “Just about.”

“So I should just disappear, right? Take off and don't come back.”

Augustine nodded.

Giordano stepped awkwardly over Bloom's body on his way to the door.

“Just one thing, Vincent.”

The scared monkey turned back. “What?”

“That cologne you wear. I've always been curious about it. What's it called?”

“Huh? Oh, it's, ah . . . it's called Singapore.”

Bam-bam! Bam! . . . Bam!

“It's revolting.”

Giordano's head hit the floor between the bed and the wall. Augustine stood there, staring at him for several minutes. Giordano's body did not move.

I'm sorry, Vincent, but I couldn't trust you to be quiet. You were out of control. You'd panicked. You could have told them about me, about the meeting at the farm. I couldn't trust you, Vincent. Zucchetti was right. You were a weak link. Besides, a dead defendant will simply ice the cake for Morgenroth as far as the mistrial is concerned
.

Augustine's pulse slowed as he took a deep breath and collected himself. He set down the pistols and opened his briefcase on the bed. He packed them inside, then took the newspaper out of the shopping bag and dropped it on the bed. Folding the bag so he could stow it, he glanced down at the headline on the metropolitan section of the
Tribune
.
FIGARO LAWYERS DEMAND MISTRIAL.
The byline was Mark
Moscowitz's. He put the folded bag in his briefcase, then picked up the paper and grinned. He was thinking of Tozzi.

Thank you for the inspiration, Michael. And the opportunity
.

They got a table at the restaurant next to the front window, which was good because nobody was talking. Gibbons figured at least they could look out the window if they weren't going to talk. He and Lorraine had had another fight this morning because he didn't want any part of paint colors that were named after fruits. It made his skin crawl every time he heard her say she wanted the bathroom to be “honeydew with raspberry accents.” Christ. He told her, if he'd wanted to live in a goddamn fruit stand, he would've married a Korean. She didn't like that. Then he made the mistake of saying her uncle Pete would never have wasted his money on designer paint, and she accused him of bringing up Uncle Pete because all he was interested in was the inheritance, which wasn't true. He could give a shit if she was left any of that crap at the house. They did all their yelling in the car coming in, and now she was in the frosty stage, going out of her way to ignore him.

Ms. Halloran was doing what all women do in these situations, keeping her eyes down and her mouth shut in a show
of support, even though this lunch date thing was her idea, so by rights she should've been the master of ceremonies here. Instead, she made herself busy digging through her pocketbook, looking for something.

Tozzi, of course, wasn't helping matters, looking broody and suspicious. He was still confused. He didn't trust Ms. Halloran, but he had this big nostalgic hard-on for her. What a piece of work. Someday he'll stop thinking with his dick. Maybe when he turns ninety.

Gibbons waited for everybody to sit down, then he took a seat next to the window and immediately tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf in the basket and unwrapped a packet of butter. The bread was warm, but the butter was nearly frozen and hard as a rock. Lorraine was sitting across from him, sipping from her water glass, her eyelashes lying on her cheeks. She wasn't going to look at him. Jesus. Honeydew with raspberry accents. Is that anything to fight about?

As he tried to butter his bread with the frozen chunk, he checked the place out. It was your basic checkered-table-cloth, family-style Italian restaurant, just a few blocks from the courthouse, in Little Italy. What was a little suspicious, though, was the restaurant directly across the street from this place.

He bit off a piece of bread and looked out the front window at that restaurant across the street. It was on the ground floor of a tenement building. The heavy red-velvet curtains covering the front window made that place seem a little more formal than this place. There was an open menu propped up on the sill, just like in this place. A big painted sign ran from one end of the building to the other:
LA BELL' ISOLA RISTORANTE—FINE ITALIAN FOOD AND WINES.
A map of Sicily was on the far left, showing just the toe of the boot kicking the island like it was a misshapen soccer ball. La Bell' Isola, the beautiful island. That was Salamandra's restaurant. He kept an apartment upstairs. Gibbons glanced at Ms. Halloran and chewed. Was it just a coincidence that she
picked a restaurant across the street from Salamandra's place? Maybe Tozzi was right to be suspicious of her.

Ms. Halloran finally found what she was looking for in her purse. “This is my daughter Patricia,” she said. She put a photograph on the table for whoever wanted to see.

Oh, Christ. Is this the best she can do?

Lorraine picked up the picture. “She's adorable, Lesley.” There wasn't much feeling in Lorraine's words because she was sulking, but she knew what she was supposed to say. “How old?”

“She just turned five last week.”

Gibbons glanced at the picture. “Too bad.”

Lorraine glared at him.

He glared back. “I mean, it's too bad having your birthday in December, so close to Christmas. You never get as many presents, unless your parents are loaded. I know.
My
birthday's in December.”

Lorraine gave him a withering look and took another sip of water. Lesley licked her lips and smiled nervously. She was trying to get the ball rolling here, but she had miscalculated with this move. Most people with young kids figure that's a safe topic, a good ice-breaker. But that only works with other people who have young kids and old geezers who're cuckoo for their grandchildren.

Tozzi picked up the photo and glanced at it. “Cute.” Tozzi looked like one of those stone heads on Easter Island. The kid actually was cute, but he wasn't gonna gush, not for Lesley Halloran. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Lesley braved the frost and flashed one of those dopey parent smiles, thinking she could muscle this party into some sort of conviviality. “Patricia's very excited about Christmas. She still believes in Santa Claus, which is pretty unusual for a city kid.”

Tozzi nodded. Lorraine nodded. Gibbons nodded. Santa Claus. Not much you could say about Santa Claus.

Lesley forged on. “So, Michael, I hear your office is supervising
Vincent Giordano. That's usually the marshals' job, isn't it?”

Gibbons puckered his lips and caught Tozzi's eye. This was supposed to be a friendly little get-together, a little chat, maybe a little harmless shop talk, but nothing more. Did Ms. Halloran think that maybe she'd get lucky and pick up a few choice tidbits about Giordano in the course of conversation? Maybe she thought they'd gotten Giordano to really open up to them, midnight confessions in the safe house, the kind of existential bullshit that happens in spy movies. Maybe she thought that in a moment of despair Giordano had revealed his reasons for turning on his pals. Maybe she thought they'd share this intimate little moment with her—after all, she and Tozzi and Lorraine went way back, didn't they? Maybe she thought she could get a little preview of what Giordano planned to say when he took the stand, so she could start putting together a new defense strategy. Maybe she thought a plate of linguine would buy a little advantage for her and her client Salamandra. Well, think again, toots.

Gibbons bit off another piece of bread and butter. Tozzi may be right on the mark about her.

“So, am I right about that?” Ms. Halloran said. “The U.S. marshals usually do take custody of protected witnesses. This is very unusual for the FBI to be protecting a witness, isn't it?”

Tozzi set down his water glass. “You're right. It is unusual.” From the tone of his voice, he may as well have told her to go to hell.

She paused and looked at Tozzi out of the corner of her eye as her mouth opened in a cautious smile. “Michael, I hope you re not thinking that I asked you here just to pump you for information about Giordano. I certainly realize you can't tell me anything.”

“Good. Then don't ask.”

Lorraine gave her cousin a dirty look. She thought he was
being rude. Well, to hell with her too. She didn't understand what was going on.

Lesley leaned forward and looked Tozzi in the eye. “You don't trust me, do you, Michael?” She turned to Gibbons. Her eyes were extremely blue. “Do
you
think I have ulterior motives?”

Gibbons shrugged. Did she really want him to answer that?

Lorraine was looking daggers at him. She didn't understand.

“Maybe this lunch wasn't such a good idea,” Lesley said. “I'm getting the impression that you guys think I'm up to no good. I realize we weren't exactly friendly way back when, Michael, but I thought that might have been all in the past. A trial like this gets to be a real grind, week after week, now month after month. I was happy to see a familiar face in the crowd when you showed up to testify. I thought maybe you might've felt the same way. That's why I went to your apartment.”

She sounded sincere, and Lorraine was staring hard at Tozzi, waiting for him to make nice. But what Lorraine didn't realize was that criminal attorneys are great actors. Sure, Lesley sounded like she was coming on straight, but you could never be sure with a defense lawyer.

There was a sharp knock on the window then, and Gibbons instinctively reached for his gun. When he saw who it was he frowned, wishing he could pull his weapon and plug the guy through the glass. It was Jimmy McCleery, out in the cold with his hands in the air, stick 'em up, a big leprechaun grin on his face. He lowered his hands and moved to the door. As if anybody wanted him. He looked at Lorraine and all of a sudden her face opened up like a flower, waiting for the son of a bitch to arrive.

“Lorraine Tozzi,” McCleery said as he came up to the table. “You warm a winter's day.” He only had eyes for her.
And how did he know she was still using her old name? Why didn't he assume she was Lorraine Gibbons now?

“Jimmy, how have you been?” She stood up and leaned over Lesley to peck cheeks with McCleery.

Gibbons bit his upper lip and bared his teeth.

“Well, this does look cozy now,” the Irishman said when he was through sucking up to Lorraine. “Two FBI boys, one pretty defense attorney, and the loveliest professor of medieval history a schoolboy could ever want.” McCleery was rubbing his hands. His face was red, and he wasn't wearing a hat. He still had all his hair, the prick, a dark-brown wavy mess of it, and he wanted everyone to see.

“What'sa matter, McCleery?” Gibbons said. “Can't find a bar?”

“And it's so nice to see you, too, Cuthbert.” McCleery's Irish eyes were sparkling. Bloodshot but sparkling.

Gibbons was steamed, but he held his tongue. He hated it when people called him by his first name, especially when they knew he hated his name, but he wasn't going to give McCleery the satisfaction.

“So what's the occasion, boys and girls? A little Christmas cheer?” The sarcasm was as thick as his bullshit brogue.

Tozzi folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Are you implying that something improper is going on here, McCleery?”

“Far be it for me to be accusing you of anything, Tozzi. But it's the
appearance
of impropriety you should be concerned about, my son. Sitting here in the front window for all the world to see. I always thought you Italians were more circumspect.” The eyes were sparkling mean now.

Gibbons folded his arms. “Ms. Halloran, Tozzi, and my wife go way back, McCleery. They grew up in the same neighborhood. If you don't believe me, you can go sleuth it out for yourself. That's about your speed.”

McCleery raised one eyebrow as he shoved his hands into
the pockets of his overcoat, very Inspector Clouseau. “Is that so, Lorraine?”

“It's true, Jimmy. Though Michael and Lesley weren't terribly friendly at the time.”

Gibbons squinted at her. Thanks a lot, Lorraine. Make me a liar.

Lesley spoke up as if she were making an objection in court. “Michael and I lived on the same street. As a matter of fact, Lorraine was my first baby-sitter.”

McCleery's eyes shot open. “Nooooo. You can't be referring to this Lorraine, not the lovely Mrs. Gibbons. Why, she can't be more than a few years older than yourself, Ms. Halloran. It's true, she did marry a man much older than herself, but Lorraine is the breath of eternal youth.” McCleery was staring at Gibbons, a smart-ass grin playing on those golden, poetic lips that Gibbons was itching to make fat.