Bad Guys (28 page)

Mrs. Kinney, a small woman with melancholy eyes and tipped blond hair, sat at one end, telling the two older boys that she wasn't even going to discuss the issue of getting another television for their room. Four televisions in one house is enough, she said.

The teenager was sulking about something, waiting for someone to ask her what was wrong so she could refuse to answer.

The younger girls, ages seven and almost nine, were trading slaps under the table and giggling with malicious glee.

At the other end of the table, Bill Kinney was cutting up a slice of roast beef into small pieces for the little one. His sleeves were rolled back and his tie was loosened. The commotion around the table pleased him, soothed him almost. It made him feel like the benevolent despot of a busy realm. Fatherhood made him glow.

“There you go, Sean,” he said, setting the plate under the little boy's chin. “Eat it all up.”

The heavy silver fork swayed in Sean's little fist for a moment, then he put it down and picked up a square of meat with his fingers.

Kinney smiled.

“Father?” Mrs. Kinney called across the table with exasperated irony. “Will you please tell these two why we cannot have another TV in this house?”

Kinney raised his eyebrows and tugged on his earlobe. He looked at the boys. “Another television, huh?” He nodded solemnly. “We'll take it under consideration,” he said, smiling.

The boys grinned in triumph.

Mrs. Kinney shot her husband a withering look and sighed. He always let the kids win.

He gave her a reassuring look as he reached for the string beans. Just then the phone rang.

The sullen teenager promptly stood up and went into the kitchen to answer it. She walked with her eyes downcast and her back straight, like a nun. Kinney knew this was her way of punishing someone, most likely her mother.

A moment later she reentered the dining room and went back to her seat. “It's for you, Dad,” she said after she sat down.

“Who is it, honey?”

“Mrs. Davis,” she mumbled.

“Did you say Mrs. Davis or Mr. Davis?”

“Mrs.”

Kinney looked at his wife with an annoyed expression. “Now what?” he grumbled.

Mrs. Kinney watched him walk around the table. The Davises called every now and then, and she knew they had something to do with Bill's work. She'd taught herself long ago not to ask for details about his work. After sixteen years of marriage, she wasn't even curious anymore.

In the kitchen, the receiver of the red wall phone was resting on the counter. Kinney picked it up and stretched the cord all the way to the breakfast nook. He looked out the window at the backyard, which was littered with balls, bikes, and toys. The grass needed cutting again.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hi. How are you?” It was Joanne Varga.

“Okay. What's up?”

“Your friend Gibbons and his pal Tozzi paid a visit on a friend of ours in Pennsylvania. East Stroudsburg.”

Kinney felt a tightening in his chest. “When?”

“Very late last night.”

“What happened?”

“They didn't find who they were looking for, that's what happened. Looks did not deceive in this case. We're not happy about this.”

Kinney started to pace. “How the hell did they find their way to East Stroudsburg?”

“I don't know and I don't care. What I do care about is that they blew Richie's cover. You were supposed to take care of Gibbons. What happened?”

“I'm putting together a plan right now, but I had no idea he'd figured out that much. Jesus, this is bad.”

“Not as bad as it could get. I assume these two are playing for bigger stakes than catching a federal witness who plays hooky. They must have something else in mind. After all, Tozzi needs a very good deed to his credit if he's ever going to come in out of the cold.”

“Tozzi's facing time for murder. Good deeds won't help his case.”

“Still, the two of them seem very anxious to find Richie.” Joanne had a way of speaking with a certain kind of double-edged irony that made everything sound like a vague threat.

Kinney fingered his pocket watch in his pants pocket, nervously opening the lid and clicking it shut over and over again. “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

There was a slight pause. Kinney could hear faint ghost voices filtering through the line.

“What do
you
think I think?”

Kinney knew. Gibbons and Tozzi had to die. As soon as possible.

“Feeney's crew will help you on this,” Joanne said.

Kinney pictured that wiseass Feeney and his two punk sidekicks. “Listen, why don't you let me see what I can do—”

“Just get in touch with Feeney. He'll know how Richie wants this handled.”

“You sure you don't want me to try to handle this alone first?”

“Things have gotten out of hand. Richie wants this done his way,” she stated flatly. “I don't think I have to remind you. If they get close enough to start putting real pressure on Richie,
you'll
be our first bargaining chip.”

Kinney stared out at the kids' swing set. He saw the three eyeless heads on the empty swings. His heart was pounding.

“Okay. I'll get in touch with Feeney.”

“Good. The sooner these two are out of the picture the better.”

“You're right.”

A sudden uproar sounded from the dining room, and Kinney's heart leapt. Then he heard the boys laughing.

“We really have no other option now,” she said.

“You're absolutely right. I'll take care of it.”

“I know you will,” she said. “Also, don't forget about Atlantic City. We want that rolling soon.”

“Right. I'm on top of it. Don't worry.”

“Just make sure we don't have to.”

Kinney blew air out of his cheeks as he hung up the phone. “Bitch,” he whispered.

Before he went back to the table, he took a deep breath and put on a stern fatherly grin. “What's all the noise about?” he said as he entered the room.

“The boys are being mean to Chrissie,” his wife reported.

“About what?”

The sullen teenager suddenly burst into plaintive anguish. “They always get away with murder, but I can never do anything.”

“Specifically what are you referring to, Chrissie?” he asked.

Mrs. Kinney answered. “She wants her curfew extended to midnight. She says all her friends stay out that late.” The disapproval was evident in her voice.

The two boys puckered their lips and made soft kissing sounds. Chrissie shot up from her chair and stood over the table with her fists clenched at her side. “See what I mean?” she screamed. “You let them get away with murder.” She ran out of the room and up the stairs in tears.

Kinney glowered at the two boys. “After dinner I want to talk to you two in your room.”

“Does this mean we don't get the TV?” the younger one whined.

“We'll discuss that later,” he said.

A door slammed on the second floor and shook the house. The dining room was suddenly quiet.

“Finish your dinners,” Kinney pronounced. It was so unusually quiet he could actually hear his knife scraping the plate as he cut through the thin slices of rare roast beef.

Foley Square was hazy blue with all the rush-hour exhaust fumes held at ground level by the merciless humidity. Gibbons walked out of the parking garage scowling at the day. He'd heard on the radio while driving in that morning that the overnight low temperature hadn't gotten below eighty and that at seven-thirty it was already eighty-seven degrees. He'd spotted a digital time/temperature sign in the window of a Chase Manhattan branch as he turned off Broadway. It said ninety, and it was only twenty after nine. Now as he crossed Centre Street, he could taste the pollution.

He was in a shitty mood. It seemed like he'd been having a continuous headache for the past two days. It started on the drive back from Pennsylvania with Tozzi after they rousted Varga's ringer. Even though he kept asking Tozzi to shut up, Tozzi kept yammering on about Varga and Kinney and Lando, Blaney, and Novick, harping on what they had to do now, how they had to find Varga, how they would have to use Kinney as bait, how he
had
to nail Kinney and Varga, how he
had
to do it for Lando. It was almost four in the morning when he got back to his apartment, and although he did get some sleep that night, it was more like passing out than sleeping. When he got to the office the next morning, Kinney was there, but if he was wise to anything, he didn't let on. And seeing Kinney in all his golden-boy glory just made the headache worse.

He felt like he'd slammed up against a brick wall because he didn't have a clue as to what he was going to do next. If he went to Ivers with what he knew, it might compromise Tozzi. He considered tailing
Kinney after work but vetoed that immediately. An experienced agent can pick up on a tail in no time. He thought about confronting Kinney directly, but that was too risky. They had no real proof that Kinney was Varga's hangman, so Kinney could deny everything, and then if he brought the matter to Ivers, Gibbons would have to face a lot of questions he didn't want to answer. It was frustrating knowing as much as he did about Varga and Kinney. He felt like he was sitting at a poker game with a pair of aces in his hand but he just didn't know how to play them. He was up most of the night, trying to come up with a solution.

Right now Gibbons needed coffee badly. He went into the Chock Full O' Nuts coffee shop where he always had breakfast, and shuffled through the crush of people lined up for take-out orders. Everybody was complaining about the heat. The air-conditioning inside was minimal, but at least it was a relief from the humidity outside. Office workers sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the winding counter, lingering over their coffees, no doubt trying to forestall going outside for a few more minutes. Gibbons was scanning the place for an empty stool when he spotted someone in back waving to him. It was Kinney, and he just happened to have an empty seat next to him. What a coincidence.

“Morning, Bert,” he said brightly as Gibbons came over.

“Morning.” Gibbons sat down and saw that Kinney was eating one of those all-in-one breakfast sandwiches—a slice of ham, a fried egg, and a slice of cheese on a toasted English muffin. He wondered if Kinney knew that he knew.

“Those any good?” he asked, indicating Kinney's sandwich.

“They're okay.”

The waitress came over, her pencil already poised over her order pad. She was about eighty years old with a face like Whistler's mother, but she was built like a bowling ball and she knew how to hustle. Gibbons noticed her every morning, swerving around the young girls who took their time about everything. “Can I help you?” she asked. There was the bare hint of a Slavic accent in her voice.

Gibbons glanced at Kinney's sandwich again. “Coffee and a sweet roll,” he said.

“Heat the sweet roll?” she asked.

“No thanks.”

She reached under the counter and came up with a sweet roll in a wax-paper bag. She set it down in front of Gibbons with an empty
mug which she filled quickly and accurately. The other waitresses always spilled a little. Sometimes they spilled a lot, but the old lady never missed.

After she left, Kinney said, “So . . . I hear you were in Pennsylvania recently.”

Gibbons stirred his coffee with a wooden stick, looking down at his breakfast. Kinney was an aggressive player. Gibbons considered playing dumb, but Kinney had no time for his deliberations.

“Our friend Mr. Davis in East Stroudsburg,” he said. “I heard all about your little visit the other night.”

Gibbons unwrapped his sweet roll. “News travels fast.”

Kinney didn't respond.

Gibbons blew on his coffee and took a sip. “I suppose now there's a contract out on Tozzi and me.”

Kinney shrugged and bit into his sandwich. “I wouldn't know anything about that.”

“No? You're the butcher of Buchenwald, aren't you? I thought slicing up agents was your specialty.”

Kinney took a long sip of his coffee. Gibbons caught the gleam of the garnet stone in his big college ring. “You're treading on thin ice, Bert.”

“Am I?”

“Think about it. If you go telling tales about me, I'll tell some tales of my own about you and Tozzi. Aiding and abetting a renegade agent suspected of murder is a very nasty charge.”

“You're blowing smoke, Kinney.”

“I have pictures.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“You want to see?”

“I believe you.”

The old waitress scooted back with a fresh pot of coffee. “More?” she asked.