Bad Guys (20 page)

In the meantime Tozzi got out of his car and tiptoed to the edge of the shadows behind the carpet outlet. The little man got out of his car and walked across the lot to the back door, about thirty yards from where Tozzi was standing. Tortorella seemed to be looking for something. He bent down and picked up a discarded Styrofoam coffee cup that was on the ground next to the dumpster, then turned it over into his hand. Walking back toward the door, he threw the cup away.

When the door opened, Tozzi was certain that the key to the back door had been left in that coffee cup for a night visitor. By the dim light spilling out of the doorway, Tozzi could see that what Tortorella had unloaded from the car were plastic gallon jugs. Filled with something flammable, no doubt. He waited for the little man to bring his jugs in and shut the door behind him before he made a move.

Paulie Tortorella went behind a counter and took out a headset radio from the display case. He turned up the volume, found his favorite FM rock station, put it on his head, and adjusted the volume back down. He liked working to music.

Billy Joel was singing “Uptown Girl.” Paulie sang along softly with him as he fetched a gallon of gasoline and mounted the stairs to the second-floor showroom. On the way up he noticed that the carpeting was that fire-retardant industrial stuff. It didn't matter. The flames from the first floor would take care of the second floor. He just had to make sure the roof caved in.

He took a ten-penny common nail out of his pocket and punctured a few holes near the top of the plastic jug; then he went to work, squeezing the jug to douse the drapes, the satin promotional banners on the walls, and the ceiling. He was careful not to spray gas on the walls any lower than three feet from the floor. Investigators always look for excessive burn marks on the lower part of a wall, a sure sign that a flammable liquid was splashed around the room. Paulie prided himself on leaving no clues.

When he ran out of gas, he tossed the crushed jug downstairs and followed after it. He was thinking about Billy Joel in greasy coveralls making time with Christie Brinkley in the “Uptown Girl” video.

Paulie grabbed two more jugs and went down to the cellar, which had been left unlocked for him. He switched on a light and traced the water pipes until he found a rag tied around a section of pipe near the shutoff valve. He'd left instructions that a wad of candle wax be jammed
into the pipe so that the sprinkler system would be choked off. By the time there was enough heat built up in the basement to melt the wax in the pipe, it would be too late for the sprinklers to do any good. Eventually the melted wax would flow out with the water, leaving no evidence of tampering. The rag marked the spot where the wax block was. Paulie noticed that somebody was even good enough to leave some broken wooden crates under the pipe just as he'd asked. He was very pleased with these arrangements.

Paulie punctured another one of the jugs and sprayed gas on the crates and stacks of cardboard boxes all around the room, gleefully taking aim at what he thought was the most expensive merchandise.

The deejay on the radio was giving the weather and complaining about the humidity. “Well, here's one for the heat,” the deejay said. “‘Dancing in the Street,' the original by Martha and the Vandellas.” Paulie was surprised and delighted that they weren't playing the Mick Jagger-David Bowie version. He loved old Motown. Puncturing the next jug, Paulie sang out loud with Martha. He was having a good time now.

When the jug was empty, he drop-kicked it behind a stack of Technics turntables. It clattered loudly when it hit the concrete floor. The nice thing about these thin plastic milk jugs was that they were consumed in the fire. No evidence. The not-so-nice thing about them was that you couldn't leave gas in them for too long. The gas eventually eats through the plastic and the jug leaks, which is not what you want in the trunk of your car. Paulie knew what he was doing, though. He knew how long you could trust these milk jugs once you filled them with gas. He also knew that you had to fill them right to the top with no air space. Air space makes fumes, and it's the fumes that are deadly. The fumes, not the gas itself, is what ignites and explodes. A good torch is always careful about the fumes.

Back on the first floor, Paulie picked up the last two jugs and assessed the room. They'd left a lot of boxes and cartons around the showroom the way he wanted. That was good. Electronics merchandise isn't so flammable that it doesn't need a little help. Especially when the carpeting is flame-retardant.

On a shelf near the cash register, there was an old-fashioned radio in a cathedral-shaped wooden cabinet. Paulie had asked that an old radio be here for this job. Standing on a chair, he turned it on with his knuckles, turned down the volume, then peeked around the back to make sure the tubes were starting to glow. Transistors don't get
hot, but tubes do. Someone left this old mama on all night, a tube exploded, the wooden cabinet started to smolder, and that's how the fire started. At least, that's how it will appear to have started.

A fucking genius is what I am, Paulie thought to himself. He admired the old radio.
This
is real genius. That Stevie, man. You ask him for something, and it's always right there where you want it, no fail. Good man.

Paulie didn't give a shit what they said about him. Stevie Pagano was all right as far as he was concerned. Stevie always had jobs for him, good jobs like this one. When Paulie asked for certain things to be on the job waiting for him—rooms to be set up a certain way, wax in the pipes, whatever—Stevie made sure it got done. And Pagano always paid promptly. By the end of the week the cash just appeared in the safety-deposit box at Paulie's bank, like magic. Yeah, working for Richie Varga's family was all right.

There was a lot of good stuff on display in the showroom, and Paulie got a real kick out of dousing it all. It was the same feeling he got as a kid when he squirted lighter fluid on ant hills and set them on fire. One time, when he was home alone, he torched his sister's dollhouse. Just stood there and watched all the tiny furniture burn, room by room. The elegant dining room, the little rec room, the frilly bedrooms, the whole little place. It didn't look like the house they lived in; it was a house for rich people. These were nice little things, lots of things, and they all burned real nice. When the whole house was engulfed in flames, little Paulie's heart was pounding. In a panic he threw the dollhouse out the window, then ran outside and put out the fire with the garden hose. He put what was left of it in two paper bags and ditched them in somebody else's garbage around the corner. When his sister got home later that afternoon, she got frantic. Where was her dollhouse? Paulie said he didn't know. Maybe burglars took it, he said. That night in bed he thought hard about the little house on fire while he played with himself. It was the first time he ever beat off.

After draining the last of the final jug onto a big total-sound speaker that was nearly as tall as he was, Paulie tossed the jug behind a counter, then reached into his pocket for the matches. He pulled out a little box of wooden Blue Tips, which he preferred to paper ones. Wooden matches had a little weight; you could fling them farther.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Paulie couldn't help rubbing his crotch. This part always got him excited.

He scanned the big room, knowing exactly where he'd start and how he'd proceed, but before he struck his first match, he reached up and fiddled with the selector dial on the headset. His station was running a string of commercials, and he had to have music now. All the rock stations were playing heavy-metal shit at this time of night, either that or that little fag Phil Collins. But just as he was about to settle for a change of pace and go back to the classical station that was playing a Strauss waltz, he found the Ronettes doing “Be My Baby.” He pictured the three girls in those tight sequined cocktail dresses and their outrageous beehive hairdos. Yeah.

Striking the first match, he gazed into the little flame and sang along with the backup.

He flicked the match at the satin wall hanging that advertised Bose speakers. It caught with a
phooop
so loud it drowned out Ronnie for a second. Before long the whole wall was on fire, flames beating against the ceiling panels.

He flicked another match at the opposite wall, and a flame ran down the length of the room and ignited the drapes at the front windows.

He was dancing now.

Paulie ran down to the cellar where he stood on the stairway and tossed match after match until the room looked like hell.

He rubbed his crotch. He was dribbling.

Back up on the first floor, he sidestepped around the perimeter of the showroom, tossing matches, singing. Fire danced in his eyes.

Finally, at the back of the room, he stood before his creation like a conductor before his orchestra. It was beautiful.

“What the—”

The music suddenly stopped as the headphones were ripped off his head. He could hear the full force of the hiss and roar of the raging fire as the room spun and his back slammed against the wall. His feet were off the ground, and his twisted shirt was digging into his armpits.

Tozzi stuck his face right into Paulie's. He ground his fists into the little man's chest, holding him up against the wall. He'd always wanted to pin someone up against a wall this way with his feet off the ground. Tortorella was light enough to do it.

“Who's the Hun?” Tozzi shouted at him. “What's his name?”

Tortorella struggled and kicked to get free.

“I'll ask you once more,” Tozzi yelled in his face. “You don't answer me, I throw you in the fire and lock the door.”

The whites of Tortorella's eyes were showing as he glanced at the heavy steel door.

Tozzi didn't want to give Tortorella a chance to think about it, so he dragged him closer to the flames to show him that it wouldn't take too much effort to heave him in.

“You want to burn, you little fuck?” he yelled. “Then tell me. Who's the Hun?”

“Steve, Stevie,” Tortorella shouted back, still struggling.

“Stevie what?”

“I don't know. I swear.” In the glare of the fire, Tortorella looked more like Jerry Mahoney than Knucklehead Smith.

Tozzi swung him around like a sack of grain so that his legs dragged through burning cardboard. Smoke was overtaking the room, filling his lungs. He hoped he could hold out just a little longer than Tortorella could.

“Stevie what?” he yelled, swinging Tortorella over the flames again.

“Pagano,” the little man muttered, then repeated it louder twice more to placate the madman.

“Where is he?” Tozzi yelled. “Where do I find him?”

Suddenly an explosion rocked the floor and threw Tozzi off-balance. The wiry little man landed on his feet and quickly kicked Tozzi in the groin.

Tozzi doubled over. Pagano, Tozzi repeated over and over to himself, holding himself together as the pain thrummed through his body. He scrambled to his feet, coughing. Steve Pagano. He couldn't forget it.

He saw Tortorella run out the back door and he stumbled out after him, breathing into the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn't stop coughing.

Outside the cool air hit him like a cold shower. He coughed and heaved uncontrollably. All his body wanted to do was get the smoke out of his lungs. He heard an engine starting and he saw the shiny black fenders of the Caddy moving in the dark.

Then suddenly he heard tires screech and the whine of a transmission in reverse. Taillights were rushing toward him fast. Tortorella was going to run him down.

Tozzi turned and made a running leap into the dumpster. He landed in a cushion of trash just as the tail of the Caddy bashed into steel.
The impact jolted him. He heard it and felt it vibrating all around him.

Tires screeched again. Tozzi stood up and saw the Caddy swing around the lot, heading for the driveway. He unholstered the 9mm automatic, leveled it against the edge of the dumpster, and squeezed off seven shots with quick deliberation.

The big car whooshed by him, making for the street. He jumped out of the dumpster and ran down the drive in time to hear the sound of a flat tire slapping madly against pavement. Tortorella wouldn't get far on that. At least it would slow him down for the cops. And the broken taillight pieces by the dented dumpster would place Tortorella at the scene of the crime. Good.

Tozzi smiled like a werewolf, still catching his breath. Shooting out the tires, he thought with satisfaction. He'd always wanted to do that too.

Then Tozzi heard the screams of approaching sirens and broke into a run for the Buick. He didn't want to be around when the firemen and the cops showed up.

Hayes the librarian sat behind his desk in the File Room looking through a card-catalogue drawer, checking something against what was on his computer terminal. Gibbons was sitting at a cubicle watching him. There was a sugar doughnut on a paper napkin and a cup of coffee on Hayes's desk, and from time to time Hayes would break off a small piece of doughnut and eat it, leaning forward over his desk to keep powdered sugar off him and out of the keyboard. He was making that doughnut last the way little kids make things last, and it was aggravating the hell out of Gibbons. Why the hell didn't he just eat the goddamn doughnut and be done with it?