Bad Business (10 page)

“Thank you.”

Giordano's stomach cramps felt like a boa constrictor in his gut. He wished to hell Bloom would cut it out with the chitchat. He wished to hell Bloom had stayed home today. And that fuck Augustine, who the hell needed him today? If
he had done his goddamn job the way he was supposed to, none of this would've ever happened. Fucking lawyers.

The doorbell rang. Cooney and Santiago perked up like startled cats. Santiago had his hand on his hip where his holster was.

Bloom gestured at the door. “Dr. Augustine, I presume.”

Cooney nodded toward the dining room.

“In there,” Santiago said, hustling them into the dining room where they had to wedge in between the chairs and the boxes and all the other shit in there. Santiago blocked them in. His hand was still on his gun.

Cooney opened the door as far as the chain would go and peered out. He had his gun out, hidden behind the door.

“UPS. I gotta delivery fo' Mr. Pete Tozzi.”

The boa constrictor wound itself around Giordano's heart and started to squeeze. He got up on his toes and strained to look out the window over the stack of boxes on the bureau next to him. There was a brown UPS truck at the curb, its flashers blinking. The dashboard was littered with McDonald's bags, wrappers, and cups. It was French Fry.

“We're not expecting a delivery,” Cooney said, real deadpan, like “Get the fuck outta here, man.”

The boa coiled around Giordano's middle. Oh, shit.

He stretched to see past Bloom and Santiago. In the hallway mirror he could see French Fry's shirt, the rolls of fat straining the buttons. He couldn't see his face, but he could see the clipboard French Fry was holding in his hand and that gigantic gold ring of his with “FF” on it.

Oh, man, Cooney's gonna know. Cooney's gonna know you're bullshit. UPS guys don't look like that. They don't wear rings like that. They don't put shit all over the dashboards of their trucks. Shit, Cooney's gonna know
.

“Are you refusing delivery, sir?”

“Well, what is it?”

“Don't know. You want it or not?”

“Hold on.” Cooney closed the door and glanced at Santiago. “Tozzi tell you anything about this?”

“Nope.”

“So what could it be?” Bloom piped up. “Why don't you use that metal detector thing you used on me? Maybe somebody sent another lawyer.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Asshole
.

“Go ahead. Use the metal detector,” Santiago said.

Cooney nodded, then opened the door. “Please step away from the door,” he told French Fry.

“Why?”

“Because I won't accept delivery if you don't.”

“Whatever.”

In the mirror, Giordano could see French Fry moving back down the steps. Cooney took the chain off and hunkered down then, his arms moving. Giordano imagined him passing the metal detector over a big lumpy package, the rug folded and wrapped in brown paper. Panic zinged through his chest as he suddenly tried to remember if there was anything metal in that plastic inner layer where the dope was hidden. Supposed to be just dope and plastic, right? It had to get through customs, right? Nemo would've thought of that. Wouldn't he?

His heart was struggling like a rabbit caught in a trap with the boa closing in. Oh, Jesus.

Cooney stood up and spoke to Santiago without looking at him. “It seems to be all right.”

“Sign for it, then wait for the guy to leave before you bring it in.”

“Right.”

Cooney put the chain back on the door. “Come on up,” he called to French Fry. “I'll sign for it.”

The clipboard passed through the slit in the door. “Sign on number six.” Cooney signed and passed it back.

“You have a Merry Christmas now,” French Fry said.

“Yeah, you too.”

Giordano got up on his toes just in time to see French Fry hauling his big fat ass into the truck. He got behind the wheel, reached over, grabbed a few french fries from a bag on the dash, and crammed them into his mouth. The engine roared, and the truck pulled away.

Giordano's heart was ready to blow a gasket.

Cooney started dragging it in. “Jesus, this is heavy.” It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

Santiago holstered his gun and walked out into the hallway, closing the door and locking it. “Open it.”

Giordano stopped breathing when he saw Cooney unfolding his pocketknife to cut the twine. What if he slips and sticks it through the rug, pierces one of the packets, and smack starts spilling out? Oh, shit.

But Cooney didn't slip. He cut the twine and ripped off the paper. The rug was loosely rolled and folded over twice. It looked like a big submarine sandwich sitting there on top of the paper. Cooney unfolded it, then unrolled it halfway. Santiago unrolled the rest of it with his foot.

“No note?” Bloom asked.

Cooney shook his head. He looked suspicious. The boa tightened around Giordano's stomach.

Bloom stooped down and felt the pile. “It's a very nice rug. I bet it's real. What do you think? Persian? Turkish?”

Giordano suddenly realized Bloom was talking to him. He shrugged quickly. “I dunno. I dunno anything about rugs.” He wondered how that sounded. Did he say it too fast? Was he too quick to deny that he knew anything about it?

The agents weren't saying anything, just standing there, frowning down at the rug. Santiago looked at Cooney. “Should we call this in?”

Cooney puckered his lips and shook his head. “Just write it up in the log. The old man probably sent it out to be cleaned or something.”

Santiago looked skeptical. “He never bothered to clean anything else. Why would he have a rug cleaned?”

Jesus. He hadn't thought of that. Nemo should've put a note in with the rug. A receipt or something.

Marty Bloom stood up, shaking his shaggy head, a world-weary smile on his face. “You boys are always looking for the criminal angle. Maybe Tozzi's uncle bought the rug before he died. Maybe he sent it out to be repaired. Maybe it's a Christmas gift. Maybe he lent it to someone who heard about the man's death and now he's returning it. Maybe—”

“Okay, okay. You've made your point, counselor,” Cooney said with a laugh. “Sometimes a rug is just a rug, right?”

Santiago narrowed his eyes. “Unless it's something else, and you're putting up the smoke screen here.”

“That's entirely possible, Santiago, but what would my reasons be for bringing this rug here? Is it a murder weapon? Am I part of a plot to kill my own client and smuggle his body out in this rug? Does this make sense to you, Santiago?”

Santiago just stood there with his arms crossed. Cooney was snickering. Bloom was waiting for an answer.

Santiago finally smiled. “All right, all right.” He started to roll it up again. “Let's get it out of the way. Remember to tell Tozzi it came,” he said to Cooney.

The two agents rolled up the rug and folded it the way it came, then dragged it into the room where all the bicycles were. Giordano took a breath.

Bloom picked up his briefcase. “So, Vincent, shall we go upstairs and get comfortable?”

“Anybody want a coffee?” Cooney asked. “We just put a pot on.”

“Please,” Bloom said. “With a little milk. I have my own Sweet'n Low. Thank you.”

“How about you, Giordano?”

“No. No, thanks,” he said as he followed Bloom up the stairs. He wanted to get away from the rug. He couldn't stop looking at it, and he was afraid Cooney and Santiago would notice him making bug eyes at it.

As they reached the top of the stairs, the doorbell rang again and Giordano jumped.

Bloom turned around and looked at the door, wheezing and out of breath. “That must be Augustine.”

Santiago answered the door. Augustine found a pleasant smile for him. “Good morning, Santiago.” It was difficult for him to be pleasant with Santiago. Santiago reminded him of Congressman Rodriguez.

“Morning, Mr. Augustine.”

Cooney came out into the hallway as Santiago unfastened the chain. Tom Augustine stepped in from the cold, his briefcase in one hand, a shopping bag with wrapped Christmas presents in the other. Augustine spotted the metal detector in Cooney's hand, and he clenched his jaw and held his breath as the agent ran it up and down the length of his body, then passed it over the briefcase and the bag. It was a perfunctory check, nothing unusual. They checked everyone who came in, government lawyers included. The detector was calibrated to ignore small amounts of metal. There should be no problem. But as he unbuttoned his coat, he wondered if anyone would notice that he was wearing a rather pedestrian navy-blue wool overcoat today instead of the taupe cashmere. If anyone asked, he'd say he spilled coffee on it and had to send it out for dry cleaning.

He peered up the stairway. Bloom and Giordano were staring at him like monkeys. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Bloom nodded, holding his chest. “Hello, Tom.”

“Good morning.” Giordano had a strange look in his eye. Hostile but scared, one emotion feeding off the other.

Augustine offered the pathetic bastard his smile. It was the least he could do.

He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, though his heart was thumping. Might as well get on with it. It was just mind over matter at this point. Just get on with it. Do what has to be done.

“Before we get started today,” he said, “I have a little surprise for everyone.” He held up the shopping bag. “In light of the season. Cooney, Santiago, would you come upstairs for a moment?”

Augustine headed up the stairs. The two agents followed him up. Giordano and Bloom went into the bedroom where they were going to be working. He followed them in. He put his briefcase on the floor and set the shopping bag down on the bed. Bloom had collapsed in the easy chair to catch his breath. Cooney and Santiago stood at the foot of the bed, waiting. Giordano leaned against the bureau next to Bloom.

Without taking off his coat or gloves, Augustine reached into the bag and pulled out two boxes wrapped in shiny green foil paper and red ribbons. He checked the tags and gave one to Santiago, the other to Cooney.

“Thank you, Mr. Augustine,” Cooney gushed. “You shouldn't have. Really.” Totally insincere.

“Thank you, Mr. Augustine.” Santiago sounded more genuine, but it was probably a good act.

“You deserve much more, gentlemen,” Augustine said. “I want you to know that I realize what you're doing here is above and beyond the call.” Augustine smiled warmly. “Go ahead and open them. Please.”

The agents looked at each other, little boys about to do something they knew they shouldn't. They shrugged in unison, then went to work on the ribbons.

Reaching into the bag again, he glanced at Giordano and quickly looked away from the hostile stare. His heart was pounding.
Go on. Just get it over with
, he told himself.
You've done it before
. He reached in with both hands and found the guns layered in the pages of today's newspaper. He forced himself not to rush. He made sure he had a good grip on each weapon, gloved fingers inside the trigger guards, before he pulled them out. “And now, gentlemen . . .”

The sudden explosions shook the small room. Cooney toppled back, arms over his head, and was thrown out into the
hallway. Santiago crashed against the wall, a spray of blood across the wallpaper, then fell forward and hit his head on the edge of the bed. His fall made more noise than Augustine expected, like a sack of rocks hitting the deck. Like dead weight.

Augustine's butterflies suddenly turned into champagne bubbles of elation. The twin pistols were wonderful extensions of his arms. They were power. How could he ever have doubted the efficacy of these wonderful weapons?

He turned to Giordano and Bloom, two scared little monkeys with open mouths and fearful eyes.

Augustine smiled. “I know what you're thinking, gentlemen. They're Glock 19s. Holds a seventeen-shot clip and almost entirely made of plastic.” He had one pointed at Bloom, the other at Giordano. “I believe one of your drug-dealer clients stole a similar gun into court last summer, Marty. Breezed right though the metal detector and used it on a rival in the men's room. Do you remember?”

Bloom was pressed into the armchair. He was inhaling, but he wasn't exhaling. He was clutching his chest.

The gun in Augustine's right hand suddenly went off again, as if it had fired itself. Two short barking shots. Bloom's head flew back, then bounced forward. He gradually curled into himself and fell out of the chair. Augustine took note of how remarkably ungraceful dead bodies are when they fall. There were two ragged holes in the back of the chair, one right on top of the other.

Giordano hissed, “You fuck.”

Augustine was blinking and breathing fast, but he felt like he was soaring. “Some people are expendable, Vincent,” he said, gulping his breath. “I told Zucchetti that at the farm, but he didn't want to hear it.”