Bad Business (9 page)

The wrench made him think of tools, tools like a file hidden in a cake, tools he could use to escape. He started pawing through the junk, not thinking straight, with no idea what he was looking for, just looking, hoping there'd be something here he could use, something that would help him. He moved the lampshades and started pushing things out of the way, digging deeper, sweating, hoping, his heart pounding hard, like a gavel. He found a pillow. A cloud of dust and mildew rose from it when he moved it, and he held his breath. There was a phone book underneath. He picked it up to shove it aside and saw that there was something else under it. Giordano stared at the thing on the white porcelain floor of the tub, not comprehending right away, not believing
it was what it was. A telephone, one of those little cordless jobs. Holy Christ!

He was afraid to pick it up, afraid it was a trap. Fucking feds would do something like that. But this was stupid, he thought. He was being paranoid. This was all junk in here. The old man, Tozzi's uncle, he was a fucking junk collector. This thing can't work. But then he noticed a thin gray wire coming out of the tub, going behind the pile of
National Geographics
under the sink. He got on his knees and jammed his head behind the toilet. There was a ragged hole in the wall, the kind of hole you'd make with a hammer. The wire went through that hole.

He went back to the edge of the tub and stared at the phone again. The gray wire was connected to the base. This thing couldn't work, no way. He picked up the receiver and listened. His heart was slamming. There was a dial tone.

He sat there, frozen, the dial tone in his ear. Was this a trap? The feds trying to set him up? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Tozzi was outside, waiting for him. What if it wasn't a trap? They'd find this phone eventually. First guy who comes in here to take a crap is gonna see the wire. He wouldn't get a second chance. If he was gonna do something, he had to do it now.
Now
.

Morgenroth was banging his gavel inside Giordano's chest, the judge's little shriveled face red and mean.
Order in the court! I want order, or I'll clear this court
. He suddenly remembered the old movie,
The Fly
, the black-and-white version with Vincent Price, the guy who shrinks down and gets stuck with the body of a fly and the head of a man. That's how he imagined the judge's face inside his chest, and it spooked him. Giordano punched out the numbers fast, before he changed his mind.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Come on, pick it up. Four times. Tozzi was out there, waiting for him to come out. Five times. C'mon. Six.
Answer, goddammit!
Seven—

“Jimbo's Gym.”

“Is Nemo around?” he whispered into the phone. “Tell him it's Vin.”

“Hang on.”

He waited forever, his heart going nuts in his chest.

Nemo finally came to the phone. “You fuck—”

“No, wait. Listen to me.”

“Hey, fuck you, man. You're dead meat. I ain't talkin' to you.”

“Just listen to me, will you, please? I can't talk long. I want you to tell Salamandra that I'm not turning on him. I want you to tell him that I did this on purpose, that I . . . I have a plan.”

“What plan? What the fuck're you talkin' about?”

What the fuck
am
I talking about? Saving my ass, that's the plan. Just tell him anything
.

“I'm gonna force a mistrial. Tell Salamandra I'm gonna force a mistrial.”

“What?”

“A mistrial. I'm gonna make the judge throw the whole case out. Augustine's not doing his job, so I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna tell them one thing, then when I get on the stand, I'll say something else, fuck up their whole defense.”

“How's that gonna work?”

“I can't explain now. I told you. I can't talk long.”

“Whattaya mean you can't talk long? You better fuckin' talk. You know, I'm responsible for you. I brought you in. I sponsored you, goddammit. I'm the one who's gonna take the heat for this.”

“Why? What did Salamandra say?”

“How the fuck'm I s'posed to know? Whattaya think, I called him up? You think I'm crazy? Things're too hot. They probably think I'm in on this with you. That's the worse part about it.”

“Why would they think that?”

“Because I still got the . . . the thing. The thing with the forty gallons of shampoo in it? You know what I'm sayin'? I
can't give it to them now. You don't know who's watchin' them. But what if they think I'm holding out on them, that I'm trying to screw ‘em? You know how much that stuff's worth.”

Forty kilos of uncut heroin. Almost two mil a kilo. Eighty million, give or take a little. Jesus Christ.

“Hey, Vin, you still there? You're not sayin' nothin'.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm here. Listen, I can't stay on the line, but I'm gonna fix everything. We're gonna make everything right with Salamandra. You and me. Okay? Now I'm gonna give you an address. You got a pencil? I want you to bring the forty gallons to this address.”

“Whatta you, crazy?”

“Just listen, will ya? There's this house in Jersey City that this old man used to live in. The guy just died, and the house is full of all kinds of shit. It's packed to the ceiling with junk. You bring that thing there, no one will even notice it.”

“You're outta your fuckin'—”

“And it'll be safe there, because no one can touch a thing in this place until the old man's will is probated. Trust me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You want Salamandra's people to find you with the forty gallons? After they haven't heard from you in how long?”

Come on, Nemo. Come on! Don't be an asshole
.

Nemo wasn't talking.

“Hey, listen, man. You want them to find you with the shit? You with the track marks up and down your arms? Huh?”

Nemo still wasn't talking. He didn't think anyone knew about his habit.

“Listen to me, man. Write this down. Get your man French Fry to deliver the stuff to Mr. Pete Tozzi—T-O-Z-Z-I. Eight-nine-four York Street. That's downtown Jersey City. You got that?”

“Yeah . . . I got it. But I don't know—”

“Just trust me. You bring it there. It'll be safe for at least a
couple of weeks, then you can break in and steal it back. Just get it there, then get in touch with Salamandra and tell him I've got everything under control. Unless you want them to find out that you take the shit yourself. I can tell the prosecutors. It'll get around.”

Don't think too hard, Nemo. Just say you'll do it
.

“All right, all right. But what do I tell Ugo? He's gonna wanna know what
he's
gettin' out of all this.”

“You tell him that I'm gonna force the mistrial. Everybody's gonna get off. That's what he's gonna get. And you also tell him that I'm gonna save him fourteen mil.”

“Whattaya talkin' about?”

“I'm doing that asshole Augustine's job for him. That means he shouldn't get paid. That's fourteen million bucks that stays in the pot.”

“Hey, Giordano, you okay in there?”

Shit
. It was Tozzi.

Giordano reached over and flushed the toilet. “Yeah, I'll be right out.”

“Hey, Vin,” Nemo said, “what's goin' on over there?”

“I gotta go,” he whispered into the phone. “Just tell me for sure—you gonna do it or what?”

“You gonna keep your mouth shut? About me, I mean.”

“Yeah, don't worry.”

Nemo sighed into the phone. “If it's gonna get everybody off the hook and save us fourteen million balloons in the process . . . okay, sure. I'll send French Fry over tomorrow morning with the UPS truck.”

“Great. The sooner the better, okay? I'll be in touch.”

“Yeah, take it eas—”

Giordano hung up and shoved the phone into the telephone book, then reburied it in the tub. The toilet bowl tank was still filling. His heart was slamming as he put the lampshades back on top of the pile of junk. He got up and ran some water in the sink, washed his hands, threw some cold water in his face, used the raggedy towel hanging on the
rack. Had to make it look right. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. His heart calmed down a little. He took another deep breath and opened the door.

Tozzi was leaning against a dresser with his arms over his chest. “You okay, Giordano? I thought you'd died in there.”

“No, I'm okay, I'm fine.” He worked up a smile. “I feel a lot better now. Really.”

Giordano stood on the steps near the top of the staircase, stooping down to see who was at the door. Santiago, the Puerto Rican fed, had yelled at him again not to do that, to stay out of sight whenever they answered the door, just in case, but Giordano was too jumpy. He was worried about the rug. Nemo had promised that he would get it here, and he'd been waiting for that big jooch French Fry to show up with his bogus UPS truck all morning, but where the hell was he? Every chance he got he'd peeked out the window, looking for that goddamn truck, but there were UPS trucks all over the place, making last-minute deliveries. Here it was, Christmas Eve day, for chrissake, and French Fry still hadn't shown up. What was he gonna do, drive up on Christmas Day? No brains, these guys had, no brains.

Cooney, the Puerto Rican's partner, was down there at the front door, checking out whoever had rung the doorbell. Giordano heard the door close then, but all he could see was Cooney's back. He bent down lower to get a better look, but
he still couldn't see anything. Nemo better not have changed his mind. He needed that goddamn rug here, he needed it to bargain with. Eighty million in heroin sewn up in little packets inside that rug. He'll make Salamandra a deal—his life for the rug. Simple as that. It's a hell of a lot of money. He may go for it.

Staring at the dark cloth on the back of Cooney's suit jacket, Giordano suddenly remembered that guy in the barn, the one with the black hood, the one he and Augustine had to strangle. The Italian Rope Trick. He remembered how fucking ruthless Augustine had been, like he'd been killing people all his life. He also remembered Zucchetti asking if that guy had a wife and kids before they killed him. The guy didn't have a family. Giordano's throat went dry. Neither did he.

The stomach cramps came back so bad, Giordano had to hold his breath. Even if the Zips get their rug back, Zucchetti may want him dead anyway, because they don't understand why he did this, because they think he's ratting on them. But if he can buy a little time with the rug, just enough time to get a head start, he's outta here, gone. First chance he gets, he'll disappear. They'll never find him. Not Salamandra, not Zucchetti, not the feds, not nobody.

Giordano's lawyer, Marty Bloom, stepped into the hallway and raised his hands over his head. Santiago moved the hand-held metal detector down the sides of his body as Cooney did a quick check of his briefcase. “I hope I see you go through this rigamarole for Tom Augustine when he comes.”

“Why? Do you think this is a violation of your rights, Mr. Bloom?” Cooney asked.

“Not at all. I just don't want him to miss out on a cheap feel.”

The two agents laughed to be polite. Bloom's borscht-belt humor was wearing thin. Jackie Mason, he wasn't.

Bloom peered up the stairway as he took off his hat and muffler. “Good morning, Vincent. How are you today?”

I'm still alive
.

“Okay, Marty. How ya doin'?” Giordano came down the steps and shook his lawyer's hand.

“I'm all right, Vincent. I can't complain.”

“I didn't think we'd be meeting today. It being Christmas Eve and all.”

“Why do you think everyone always tells you to get a Jew for a lawyer, Vincent? Not only are we smart, but we work Christmas and Easter.” Bloom laughed at his own lines, even when no one else did.

“What about Tom Augustine? Is he coming today?”

Bloom shrugged. “He said he'd be here.”

“Doesn't he take off for Christmas?”

“A prosecutor? Heaven forbid! Convictions are the only religion they know.” Bloom looked over his glasses at Santiago. “You won't tell Tom I said that, will you?”

Santiago shook his head. “Don't worry.”

Bloom looked at his client and raised an eyebrow. “I
am
worried. These government people are thick as thieves.”

Cooney returned Bloom's briefcase. “You're clean. No bombs.”

“Of course not. I send all my bombs to Israel.”

Cooney rolled his eyes.

“You two should have children, you know that? Children are a blessing. You wouldn't be here on this shitty assignment if you had children.”

Santiago grinned. “Pretty soon. My wife's due in March.”

“Mazel tov
, Santiago.”