Bad Guys (25 page)

There was a short rap on the door, and the black kid with the Frankenstein haircut and the two earrings in one ear came in. He was carrying a stack of videotapes.

“I found some more tapes for you, Mr. Gibbons.”

“Thanks, James.”

Gibbons took the tapes and put them with the ones he hadn't looked through yet. James was a good kid, despite the earrings. He had a very pleasant, easygoing way about him, which Gibbons thought was phony when he first met him. Now he just thought James was a homo.

On the TV monitor, a crowd of men were walking down the steps of a courthouse. They were all clustered around one man, Richie Varga. Reporters shoved microphones at him and yelled out questions, but Varga just looked at them with lazy contempt. The reporters were kept just out of reach by the circle of prosecutors and federal marshals who'd escorted Varga in and out of court every day. Gibbons had watched several weeks' worth of the television reports on the Varga trials, and each report featured this same crew.

James and Gibbons watched in silence as the cameras followed Varga getting into the back of a big green sedan and driving off with his cadre of marshals. In the next shot, a small dark man with hair too black for his age and dark bags under his eyes stood in front of the crowded courthouse and spoke into a hand mike. James turned up the sound. “. . . tomorrow when Richie Varga is scheduled to take the stand again, this time against reputed crime boss Sabatini Mistretta. This is
Mort Newman reporting from Brooklyn.” An attractive blonde sitting at the anchor desk appeared next. Gibbons reached for the VCR and fast-forwarded the tape.

“You and Mr. Newman are old friends, aren't you?” James said.

“How do you think I got in here?” Gibbons turned the sound back down. He was starting and stopping the tape, searching for the next day's report on the Varga trials.

“Is it true that you're an FBI agent?”

Gibbons glanced up at James, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. “Is that what Morty told you?”

James nodded.

“Then it must be true.”

“He said he owed you a favor. Are you one of his sources?”

Gibbons's eyes were on the screen. “No. He's one of
my
sources.”

“Come on. Morty's been a reporter for thirty years. He's got more integrity than to . . .”

“Than to what? Be a tipster for a fed?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Morty and I have known each other for a long time. It's more a case of ‘you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.'”

“Did you help him with the Bernie Horowitz story?”

Gibbons turned around and looked at James. Bernie Horowitz was a serial killer who murdered fourteen young women in the New York area over an eleven-month period in 1974–75. He was a nut who claimed that the Virgin Mary told him to do it and that she spoke to him through his cat. Morty Newman was the first reporter to break the story of Horowitz's capture and arrest at his apartment in Queens. He was the only reporter to get a film crew into the apartment. Actually it was only into the doorway of the apartment, but the cameraman was able to zoom in and get a shot of the cat. Morty got a lot of mileage out of that cat. A cute little tabby, as Gibbons remembered.

“No,” Gibbons said. “Morty didn't get that one from me.” Gibbons studied James's face. He didn't look old enough to remember the Horowitz murders. Blacks are funny, though. They don't age like white people. They tend to look pretty much the same age their entire lives, then age all of a sudden once they hit seventy. He'd noticed that over the years from studying mug shots on wanted posters. He was always surprised when he saw a black guy's face then read a date of birth that seemed ten, fifteen years off. Maybe James wasn't a kid. Maybe he wasn't queer either.

“Say, James, can I make a call?” Gibbons nodded toward the beige phone on the desk.

“Sure.” James pressed an unlit extension button, picked up the receiver, and dialed nine to get an outside line. He handed the phone to Gibbons. “There you go.”

Gibbons changed his mind. James was definitely a homo.

He took the phone and called directory assistance for the number for Amtrak at Penn Station, then he called Amtrak. “What time is the next train for Washington?” Gibbons looked at the monitor as he waited for the information. Varga was coming out of the courthouse again, dressed in a shiny steel-blue suit this time. Gibbons glanced at his watch. The clerk on the other end of the line said the next train to Washington left Penn Station at ten after noon. Gibbons looked at his wristwatch, then thanked her for the information.

“Going to see the brass in Washington?” James asked after Gibbons hung up.

Gibbons was smiling the crocodile smile. “Nope. I'm going to see this guy.” He put his finger to the glass of the monitor and indicated one of the men surrounding Varga. Only the man's head was visible in the shot. He looked like a fat Popeye.

James scowled. “Brutal-looking motherfucker.”

Gibbons laughed.

Gibbons poured two more fingers of whiskey into each of their glasses. George Lambert hoisted his, sneered and squinted at Gibbons, then downed half of what he had in his glass. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Gibbons half-expected him to grunt out, “Well, blow me down,” each time he knocked back another slug. He was glad he hadn't spent money on anything better than Four Roses. Lambert wasn't a very discerning drunk.

“So what the hell
really
brings you here to my humble abode, Gib?” Lambert rolled his glass between his meaty hands and squinted at Gibbons.

Gibbons flashed his crocodile smile. “The FBI is looking for a few good men, George. They sent me down here to recruit you.”

Lambert frowned. “Go fuck yourself.”

Gibbons knew he'd hit a nerve with that one. Lambert was a frustrated G-man with a very large image of himself. He'd tried several times in his career as a federal marshal to transfer over to the Bureau, but they didn't want him. He was about Gibbons's age, and now he was
just putting in his time, waiting for retirement. But the man still dreamed about living the dangerous, action-packed life of a special agent. Being a federal marshal must've been very frustrating for him. He only got to see the aftermath of what other federal agents did because most marshals are basically just caretakers. They baby-sit witnesses, play social worker for people under witness protection, and maintain real property seized from criminals as IGG, ill-gotten gain. One of George's recent responsibilities was a family-style restaurant in Suitland, Maryland. It would be his headache until the owner, who had been selling cocaine out of the kitchen, exhausted his appeals, which could take George right up to his retirement.

Gibbons freshened up Lambert's drink. Cosigning meat orders and talking to pushy restaurant suppliers was a hell of a way for a tough guy to finish up his career. Gibbons genuinely felt for him.

Lambert suddenly stood up. “I'll be right back,” he grumbled as he headed for the bathroom. Gibbons had already seen the can. It was a great place to get sick in if that was what he was going to do. Lambert's wife, Dora, had left him years ago, but her mark was still on the house. Frilly curtains in the living room. Cream-white Chippendale-style dining-room furniture with gold curlicue trim. And lilac fixtures in the bathroom. Lambert hadn't bothered to change anything in the house, and now everything looked generally shabby and frayed. Maybe letting the place go to seed was his way of getting back at Dora. Still, Gibbons couldn't image getting up every morning and pissing in a lilac toilet.

When Lambert returned, Gibbons could see he was a little unsteady on his feet. He was a big guy, and that made his balance look that much more precarious. He made it to the table and sat down hard. The chair groaned.

“You remember Pete Ianelli?” Gibbons asked. He knew Lambert would. Ianelli was one of the first people to enter the Witness Security Program, a Las Vegas hood who decided to testify against the mob to get out from under an unbelievable gambling debt. The Justice Department decided to send him east, thinking it was easier to hide someone in a densely populated area. Lambert had been assigned as his babysitter, and because the program was new, Gibbons had been assigned to assist in securing Ianelli's new location in Bethpage, out on Long Island.

Lambert chuckled. “What a goddamn pain in the ass he was. Did you know we had to move him out of New York after all that?”

“No,” Gibbons said. In fact he did know. To Kentucky.

“The jerk couldn't keep his big yap shut. The son-of-a-bitch loved to blow his own horn, tell people what a big deal he had been in Vegas. He claimed he only told the old lady at the Italian deli where he bought his cold cuts. He said he thought she was just a nice old lady. Next thing you know I'm getting urgent calls from the FBI in Vegas. One of your undercover guys reported that the mob out there knew where Ianelli was holed up and they had a contract out on him. I had to go up to Bethpage and get him out of there on the double. Who knows how close they got to him? I saved the little jerk's life.”

Leave it to George to make a car trip from DC to Long Island sound like the Entebbe rescue.

“Is Ianelli still around?”

“Oh, yeah.” Lambert sighed, shaking his head like the wise old patriarch of a large extended family. “Still part of my caseload.” He drained his glass and poured himself a little more.

Gibbons assumed that Varga was also part of his caseload. If that was true, Varga was probably his star client, the biggest fish he'd ever handled. That would make watching over Richie Varga Lambert's claim to fame. It was what entitled him to drink with the big boys.

Gibbons watched Lambert raise the whiskey to his lips, watched how he squeezed his tiny eyes shut when he swallowed as if the booze caused him pain. The bottle only had about four fingers left in it. The bastard could really drink. Gibbons felt a little light-headed himself. Of course he had to drink his share to keep Lambert going. He just wished to hell the bastard would keel over before they'd have to go to a second bottle, which would have to be from Lambert's stash. Lambert liked cheap gin, straight, and to Gibbons, drinking straight gin was like swilling witch hazel.

He reconsidered asking Lambert outright, but he knew what the answer would be. Lambert would put on this smarmy high-and-mighty look as he quoted chapter and verse on Justice Department policy for making formal inquiries about people under the protection of the Witness Security Program. Besides, Lambert would want to know why Gibbons was asking about Richie Varga, and if Gibbons knew Lambert, he'd blab it to more than just the old lady he bought cold cuts from. Gibbons just wished the hell he'd hurry up and pass out.

“Hey, George,” Gibbons said.

Lambert fixed a glassy-eyed stare on Gibbons. “What?”

“You ever hear from Dora?”

Lambert grunted and snuffled. “Who gives a shit about her?” he slurred. All of a sudden he seemed very drunk.

What a dunce Lambert was. He should've tried patching things up with her. Dora wasn't so bad. Except for her taste in decorating, she always seemed all right.

“Beautiful woman,” Gibbons said with a note of regret. “Last time I saw her you were still married. Most women let themselves go to hell after they've been married for a while, but not Dora. She had some figure. You have to admit she was a fine-looking woman, George.”

“You didn't have to live with her.”

“True.” Gibbons didn't live with anybody, but he didn't want to talk about that. He thought about Lorraine. She sure as hell would never put in a lilac toilet. “True,” he repeated sadly.

“I don't want to talk about Dora,” Lambert ordered gruffly. He hauled himself out of his seat, turned the rest of the bottle into his glass, then wandered into the living room. He dropped into a brown vinyl recliner with a noticeable tear on one of the arms. Gibbons suspected that the chair came after Dora had left, his first attempt at decorating revenge. “You want more?” he called to Gibbons. “It's in the kitchen, in the cupboard. I got gin. Maybe something else, I dunno, look in the back.”

“Sure.” Gibbons went into the kitchen, which Dora had apparently remodeled when avocado and burnt orange were the “in” colors, and opened cupboards until he found the booze. There was a half-gallon of Gilbey's, a fifth of Gordon's, and an unopened fifth of Boodles. He must've been saving the Boodles for a special occasion. Behind the gin, there were a few dusty bottles. Gibbons pulled down a very old bottle of Lemon Hart rum with the Gilbey's. If they had to keep this up, he'd be damned if he was going to drink straight gin.

He opened the refrigerator and looked for something to eat. He figured he better eat something to soak up the alcohol or else he'd be passing out too, which would make this another goddamn wasted trip. Gibbons's plan was to search the place for an address book, a ledger, something that might give him a clue as to where the government was hiding Varga. If only goddamn Lambert would just give his liver a break and fall asleep.

He found the end of a loaf of white bread in a plastic bag and some liverwurst so he made a sandwich with a lot of meat on one slice of bread. The bread was very dry. After the first bite, he opened a jar of mayonnaise and dipped the sandwich in.