Bad Business (31 page)

A car slowly came up from behind and double-parked next to Augustine's car. It was a Mercedes too. The driver—a man with a dark moustache—looked at Augustine and motioned with his hands, asking if he was going to leave the space. Augustine shook his head and the man smiled, shrugged, and moved on. He watched the man cruise farther up the block, where he found a space closer to Salamandra's restaurant. Augustine noticed that this man's Mercedes was one of the new models with the sleek Bauhaus-like design. His was only a 420, three years old. When the man got out of his car, Augustine saw that he was wearing baggy white pants and a white T-shirt under his leather jacket. The man looked like a pizza maker. A pizza maker driving a brand-new, top-of-the-line Mercedes. Augustine's face hardened. Good God, what this country has come to.

Another rickety old panel truck that looked like it had been through a war clattered toward him from the other direction. There was Chinese writing on the side, and the back was open. It was jam-packed with wood-slat boxes and open peach baskets full of that peculiar produce they sell out on the sidewalks up and down Mott Street in Chinatown. Augustine followed the truck with his eyes, frowning.

After the truck turned the corner, he shifted his gaze back to Salamandra's restaurant. A car with New Jersey plates was double-parked in front, a nondescript metallic blue sedan. It was directly across from the disheveled white van. Augustine strained to make out the faces behind the car's windshield. The driver was Tozzi—he was sure of that—but who was that with him? He'd warned Tozzi not to bring anyone. Damn him!

But then the person leaned toward Tozzi and moved out of the glare. Augustine was able to make out her face, the short blond hair. Lesley Halloran. Augustine coughed up a laugh. How stupid. Well, too bad for her. He'd thought she had some smarts, but she'd just have to go down with him. They can be prison pen pals. Very romantic.

Augustine unconsciously worked his thumb into his cheekbone as he reconsidered the situation, pausing to analyze this new wrinkle in his plans. Would Halloran's presence adversely affect the desired outcome? It shouldn't really. McCleery will get photos of Tozzi delivering the rug to a known Zip hangout, which will prove conclusively his involvement with the Sicilians. Judge Morgenroth's hands will be tied when the pictures are presented to him. A government conspiracy orchestrated by a greedy FBI agent will be made evident, and the judge will have to declare a mistrial. Salamandra will get his heroin, and he and his people will be off the hook until their case is retried, by which time these people can either choose to flee or face charges that Augustine will personally convolute to a point where the typical lower-class jury will be so confounded as to vote for acquittal rather than wrestle with the difficult issues at hand.

Lesley Halloran's participation here might actually be a boon, now that he thought about it. She and her paramour will obviously claim that they were not delivering drugs for resale but in fact making a ransom payment in exchange for young Patricia. The U.S. Attorney's office can counter that this matter of Patricia's kidnapping is a pure fabrication intended to mask the true nature of the transaction. With Ms. Halloran a criminal defendant, any testimony she gives concerning the alleged kidnapping will hardly be credible. Only the child herself will be able to testify as to her abduction in the wee hours by an ugly little dwarf. It will sound like a fairy tale when the child takes the stand, a frightening nightmare, which is exactly what the prosecution will contend.
And of course, children are so easy to destroy on the stand.

Augustine smiled with great satisfaction. This would work out better than he'd anticipated. It was worth more than fourteen million dollars, but he wouldn't dicker with the Sicilians now. Fourteen million will be more than sufficient to get him into office.

He tilted his head back against the headrest. Thank God he'd taken the initiative here and arranged the kidnapping himself. Salamandra didn't think he was working hard enough for them. He only wished he could see Salamandra's face when he produced the rug. That would prove conclusively that he was worth every penny of his price. He stared at Tozzi's tacky domestic sedan through lizard eyes and savored the sound of the titles: The Honorable Mayor of New York City, Thomas W. Augustine III . . . Mayor Augustine . . . His Honor.

Augustine reached down for the car phone on the console and punched out the number. It rang four times before someone picked up.

“Pronto.”

It was one of the flunkies. Augustine imagined that it was the pizza maker who'd arrived in the new Mercedes.

“Let me speak with your boss.”

“Who?” The oaf was pretending to be puzzled.

“Mr. Salamandra,” he said testily.

“Who?”

“Tell him it's his patron saint.”

Silence. “Hold on.”

Augustine held the phone to his ear as he watched Tozzi getting out of his car. He was dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Good. Without a suit and tie, he would look even more culpable in the photos. He moved around to the trunk, looking all around, waiting to be approached.

Be patient, Tozzi. Just a little longer.

“Hello. Who is this?” Salamandra sounded annoyed.

“Did I wake you? You sound upset.”

“Who is this?”

“The patron saint of lawyers.” Augustine let it roll off his tongue with the same sarcasm Salamandra exuded whenever he'd used that nasty euphemism in the past.

“I don't know who you are. Good-bye.”

“Don't hang up.” The Sicilian was afraid of a wiretap, but there was no need. Augustine knew there were no current writs authorizing wiretaps on the apartment over La Bell' Isola. “Don't hang up on me. I have your rug.”

Silence—the typical Italian suspicion combined with unspoken hostility.

“I said I have the rug. Do you want it or not?”

Silence.

“Now listen to me. I know you don't trust me. You think I've failed you, but you're wrong. I'm going to do everything I originally promised and more. I was never supposed to have anything to do with the supply end of this deal, but here I've recovered your merchandise for you. I'm also going to secure the mistrial if you'll just cooperate.”

Silence.

Augustine's face was flushed. He felt that he was talking too much, doing too much explaining. He rubbed his cheekbone as a dull throb started under his eye. He shouldn't have to explain anything to this immigrant thug. After all, who was the prize here? Who was the linchpin? He should just be telling Salamandra what to do. This is
his
initiative, dammit.

“I want you to pick one of your expendable flunkies. There's a blue car double-parked in front of the restaurant at this very minute. Mike Tozzi is waiting outside that car. He has the rug. Send your flunky down to get it.”

“You crazy.” There was venom in Salamandra's gravelly voice.

“No, I'm not crazy. Far from it. I've got Tozzi by the balls, so he's no threat to you. Just send someone down to get the rug from him, someone you can spare to lose.”

“What you mean 'spendable flunky? Nobody in my family is 'spendable. I care for my people.”

“You're being a fool, Ugo. There are forty kilos down there waiting to be picked up. Go get it, why don't you?”

Silence.

“Is trap,” Salamandra finally said. “You double-cross me. Police down there, under the cover. They wait for somebody to come out and take rug.”

Augustine's face was hot. The man was an insufferable dolt. “No, Ugo, there's no trap. There are no police down there. Just one man who works for me, and he won't bother anyone. He's by himself. He's part of my plan.”

“What plan?
We
make plan. You no make plan.” Salamandra was furious.

“Listen to me. I'm trying to save your ass
and
your business. Me. If you're too proud and stupid to accept the fact that someone else can accomplish your work for you, then to hell with you.”

“Stupid? You say
I
am the stupid one? You bring the rug here to this place, to my address, and
I
am stupid?
You
are stupid.”

“I assure you there is no danger if you cooperate and act quickly.” Augustine's teeth were clenched. “Send a man out to pick up the rug. You stay hidden inside. You can concoct an alibi later if need be. The man you send out will be indicted, but I'll let his case get plea-bargained down as far as possible. Worst-case scenario, he'll do six months to a year. I'm sure you have plenty of loyal followers who'd do that for you gladly.”

Silence. Then a sudden eruption. “And what about Tozzi? He is FBI. He is trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” Augustine tilted his head back, blinked and grinned. He'd been waiting for this. “Look out the window, Ugo. Are you looking?”

“Yes, I look.”

“Do you see the old white van parked across the street? The one with all the rust?”

“Yes.”

“You probably can't see him from where you are, but Nemo is behind the wheel.”

“Nemo!”

Augustine was pleased to hear Salamandra so upset that one of his soldiers was working with him. It proved to him that his power over his clan wasn't as absolute as he thought.

“Can you see anyone else in the van? Can you see the passenger seat from where you are?”

“Yes . . .” Salamandra was dubious but grim.

“What do you see?”

“I see the small head, blond hair.
Una ragazza
, a little girl. Down on the floor, with tape on the mouth.”

“Yes, and there should also be tape binding her hands and feet. That's your lawyer's daughter.”

The silence was like an oven door being thrown open, silent but blistering.

“Tozzi has already agreed to make a trade: the rug for the child. He apparently cares a great deal for Ms. Halloran, so he'll do anything to get the little girl back safely.”

More blistering silence.

“Trust me on this, Ugo. It'll all work out. I've got all the bases covered. You'll get your heroin, and Tozzi will take the fall. I guarantee it. It'll be at least a year before Figaro is tried again, and in that time I can do a lot. Evidence can disappear. Witnesses can be encouraged to become forgetful. There are all kinds of possibilities.”

Salamandra wasn't listening, though. He was talking to someone else, in Italian. He spoke fast and excited. Other voices asked short, sharp questions. It was hard to tell over the phone just how many people were in on the conversation. They sounded confused, though, and Augustine didn't like that. Confusion led to panic, and that wouldn't do. They had to send someone out to get the rug now, or this whole
thing would fall apart. Augustine's face was throbbing so hard on that side it was difficult keeping that eye open. You couldn't expect Tozzi to ring the doorbell and bring the goddamn thing in himself. No. But Tozzi shouldn't be kept waiting. He was another excitable wop, unpredictable and prone to reckless behavior. Salamandra had to act
now
before Tozzi did something rash. Tozzi could screw this up royally.

“Salamandra,” he barked into the phone, but Salamandra was busy, jabbering with his fellow monkeys. Goddamn him.

“Salamandra!”

Good Christ, why can't they listen to reason? His goddamn heroin was right there. The perfect fall guy was right there, waiting. McCleery and his camera, right there. They were this far from bringing the whole trial toppling down, this far from doing it, this far.

“Salamandra! Answer me!”

But no one was listening to him.

“Salamandra!”

Augustine fought to keep his eyes open. That infernal drill was boring into his skull again.

“Salamandra! Talk to me!”

Lesley stuck her head out the car window. Tozzi thought she was all cried out, but now she was on the verge of tears again. “What's wrong, Mike? We've been here fifteen minutes. Where is she?”

Tozzi tried not to show it, but he was getting worried, and she was picking up on that. Where the hell were they? He knew they wanted their dope—there was no question about that. Augustine was supposed to have arranged everything, but maybe he was having problems with the Zips, maybe they were trying to screw each other. Shit. This wasn't good. It should've happened already. Quick and clean. Patricia for the rug. Something must've gone wrong. And he had a bad feeling that Patricia was gonna suffer for it.

“Mike, talk to me, for God's sake! Where are they? Are you sure this is the right place?” Lesley was hanging out the window, pleading with him. He had to do something. But what?

He looked up at Salamandra's tenement. Christmas decorations were still hanging from the telephone poles—huge
candy canes wrapped in silver garland. He could see curtains moving on the third floor in all four front windows. They were up there, and there was a bunch of them. They were watching, but they weren't doing anything. Tozzi became very aware of all the hardware he had strapped to him. It radiated on his skin like uranium. The Beretta 92 under his jacket in a shoulder holster. A .38 Ruger SP101 in a belt clip. The little Bauer 25 on his ankle. A total of twenty-seven rounds, plus two full clips for the Beretta in his pocket. Yeah, but how many of them were up there? What kind of fucking arsenal did they have? And what about Patricia and Lesley? Couldn't start a goddamn firefight with them here. Shit. There had to be another way. There had to be something else he could do.