Bad Business (12 page)

Gibbons considered biting his little upturned nose off. “Why don't you leave us alone, McCleery?”

“I was just on my way out, Cuthbert, me boy.” He pulled up his collar. “But remember what I said about appearances. This doesn't look kosher.”

Ms. Halloran's jaw was set, her eyes keen. “If you intend to make an accusation, Mr. McCleery, do it through the court. We have nothing to hide.”

“Oh, it's not for me to be reporting such things to the court, Ms. Halloran. I report whatever I learn to Mr. Augustine. He'd be the one deciding whether or not it should go to the judge.”

“And I'm sure you'll be running back to Mr. Augustine shortly to let him know what you think you've seen.”

“Well, Ms. Halloran, I do work for the U.S. Attorney's office. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't mention it to someone.” Those Irish eyes had a life of their own.

“Then please give my regards to Mr. Augustine. Tell him that if he'd like to discuss my choice of lunch guests with
Judge Morgenroth, I'd be more than happy to oblige him.” She was oozing battery acid. Gibbons was beginning to like her.

“I'll be sure to let him know, Ms. Halloran. Eat hearty, gentlemen. Lorraine.” McCleery bowed his head, then backstepped to the door, keeping his eye on Lorraine. Before he left, he gave Gibbons a tiny salute.

Screw you, McCleery
.

Lorraine opened her menu. “He does have a point. This does look fishy.”

Six eyes glared at her. Lorraine was asking for it.

Gibbons leaned on his elbows. “Who're you, now? Sandra Day O'Connor? How do you know what looks right?”

Lorraine snapped the menu closed. “Jimmy made a valid point, I thought. I'm entitled to agree with him if I want.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, then if you two are in such agreement, go paint his fucking bathroom ‘honeydew with raspberry accents.'”

“I'm sure he'd appreciate it.”

“Sure he would. If you were in it.”

Ms. Halloran's eyes were darting around the room. She looked embarrassed. People at other tables were looking. The waiters were making believe they weren't there.

Tozzi laid his hand on Gibbons's forearm. “Gib, it's a public place. Come on.”

“Tell your cousin,” he snapped. “She's the one who keeps starting it.”

Lorraine had that high-and-mighty Medusa face on. “I'm going to the ladies' room.”

“Why don't you paint it while you're in there?”

Her majesty ignored him and marched off. Ms. Halloran sighed loudly, stood up, and followed her. This was typical. What is it about women and bathrooms? They love it in there. Those two'll be gone for an hour now, having a fucking encounter session in the john. Christ.

One of the waiters came over and asked if they'd be staying
for lunch. The guy was very grave, like somebody had died. Tozzi told him there was no problem and asked him to bring the wine list. Either Tozzi was trying to placate the establishment, or the stupid bastard thought he could still make a play for Ms. Halloran with a little Chianti in the middle of the day. Jesus.

Gibbons propped his chin on his fist and stared out the window at the traffic on Grand Street, thinking there was no way they were going to eat now. And even if they did, he wasn't going to enjoy it. This was all McCleery's fault.

Shoulda shot him before he came in. Lorraine thinks he's so goddamn poetic? Then let him die young
.

Gibbons was staring out at the Bell' Isola Ristorante across the street when he noticed the door that led to the apartments upstairs opening. A fat man in a long camel's hair overcoat stepped out, leading a dog on a leash. It was a German shepherd pup, his gangly legs still too big for his body. The dog sniffed around the sidewalk like crazy, straining to get to the curb. Gibbons squinted and got a better look at the fat man. It was who he thought it was. Ugo Salamandra.

Well, there was nothing to be gained from hanging around here. Except heartburn. Gibbons stood up and started putting his coat on.

“Where you going?” Tozzi said.

“I forgot. I gotta go take care of something. I'll just grab a slice of pizza on the way back to court. Apologize for me.” Gibbons sidled past Tozzi.

“But, Gib—”

“I'll catch up with you later at the office.” He opened the door and went out into the cold before Tozzi could say anything else. He didn't want to hear it.

Walking to the curb, he buttoned his coat and pulled down his hat. The fat man with the shepherd pup was rounding the corner across the street. Gibbons shoved his hands in his pockets and trotted across Grand Street to catch up.

The dog was snuffling along the curb, hopping down into the gutter, sniffing around, then jumping back up and sniffing the sidewalk. On the other end of the leash, Salamandra was talking to the pup in Italian. It sounded like he was encouraging him, giving him a pep talk. When Gibbons caught up with the fat man on Mulberry Street, he pointed down at the dog.

“That mutt takes a crap in the street and you don't clean it up, you're busted.”

Salamandra looked over his shoulder at Gibbons, then looked past him. Two greaseballs were suddenly flanking Gibbons. Fucking Sicilians, they come out of nowhere.

Salamandra didn't seem surprised or startled by the intrusion. He was sleepy-eyed, smiling that big ho-ho-ho smile of his. “You can no arrest me. Poop-a-scoop law is a city law, no federal law. Effa-B-I gotta no jurisdiction with poop-a-scoop.” He looked like a big fat smiling Buddha.

Gibbons looked at the greaseballs. They both had short legs and huge shoulders. Neither one wore a coat. Just suit
jackets with sweaters underneath. Buddha was still smiling like a fool. Sure, it's easy to be calm when you got protection like this.

“So, you remember me,” Gibbons said.

“Sure, I remember you. I don' remember you name, but I know you face. Why not? I see you in court all the time. You one of those Effa-B-I men who arrest me in Brook-a-lyn long time ago, no? When you make a mistake, think I'm-a somebody else.” Salamandra looked him in the eye, big grin on his face. The guy had crust.

“You still think we made a mistake, huh? You think we got the wrong guy?”

“Why, su'! I'm-a no drug deal'. I'm-a businessman. I'm-a import Italian food—cheese, olive oil, tomato, peppers—”

“Yeah, and I'm the Pope.”

The dog was yelping, pulling on the leash. “Come on, Meester Effa-B-I. Walk with me. My dog, she want to walk.”

They started walking, the dog leading the way, taking them down Mulberry toward Canal Street.

Gibbons jammed his hands in his coat pockets. “You seem like a pretty happy guy for someone facing federal drug charges, Ugo.”

“Always be happy.” Buddha made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Never good to be sad. You be sad, it make you sick, then good-bye, you die. Always laugh. Good for you, better than medicine.”

“Whatta you, a doctor now?”

Salamandra laughed. “Come on, Meester Effa-B-I, it's-a Christmas.” He pointed up at the strings of lights wound with tinselly garland strung across Mulberry Street from telephone pole to telephone pole. “Everybody should be happy for Christmas. You no like Christmas?”

Gibbons shrugged. “When I was a kid, I liked Christmas.”

Salamandra shook his head. “No, no, no, Meester Effa-B-I. No good to think this way. You die young, you think this way.”

Gibbons looked him in the eye. “Is that a threat?”

Buddha's pudgy cheeks wrinkled as he grinned. “You so suspicious. You must be Italian, no?”

“No.” God forbid.

They passed by a storefront “social club” where three paunchy, middle-aged men in dark suits stood in the window, gazing out. They stared at Gibbons and Salamandra, followed them with suspicious eyes. One of the greaseballs mumbled a greeting to them. Salamandra caught Gibbons looking back at the three wiseguys and he laughed again. It was a wet, juicy laugh.

“You think those men are Mafia, no? Very bad men, you think.”

“What do
you
think?”

Salamandra pouted and shrugged. “I never meet any Mafia man. I don' know what Mafia man look like.”

“How about your codefendants? You know what they look like.”

Salamandra pursed his lips and shook his head, as if to say
You know nothing
. “Those men in court—they are not my friends. I do not know them. Is true. But I know one thing—they are no Mafia. Maybe criminal, yes. But Mafia, I don' think so.”

“Why not?”

“Mafia like, ah . . . like Santa Claus.” He nodded at a paper Santa taped to the window of a pizzeria. “Sure, everybody in the whole world know about Santa Claus, but he no real man.”

“So you're telling me there's no such thing as the Mafia?”

“Yes, sure, of course there is Mafia. But no in America.
Used
to be Mafia in America. Maybe twenty, twenty-five years ago. Today maybe they call themselves Mafia, but they no Mafia. They all just punks, no
coglioni
.” He grabbed his crotch. “You understand what I say? They do crazy things and say they Mafia. But no true. Is bull-a-shit.”

“What about the Zips?”

“I don' know what's-a that.”

“The Zips, the Sicilian wiseguys who're operating over here. Guys like you and the other defendants.”

“Those guys, I know nothing about them. Me. I'm-a no Mafia. I am businessman. I tell you that already.” Buddha pouted and punctuated his statement with a nod.

“So you're telling me there's no such thing as the Mafia?”

“In America, I don' think so.”

“How about in Italy?”

“In Italy, in Sicily, yes, I think so. Very quiet, but very powerful in Sicily.”

“But according to you, there's no Sicilian Mafia over here.”

Salamandra shrugged and looked at Gibbons as if the answer was obvious. “Sicilian Mafia very quiet people. If they here in New York, nobody ever know. Maybe they here, maybe they no here. You can never know.”

“But you're not in the Sicilian Mafia?”

“No! I tell you that already.”

“And you're not the Barber of Seville?”

Buddha laughed so hard his eyes disappeared in his fat face. Then he suddenly started to sing at the top of his lungs. “Fiiii-ga-ro, Fiiii-ga-ro, Figaro, Figaro . . .” The dog stopped dead in its tracks, flopped to its haunches, and looked up at its master in disbelief. The sound was painful. “You see? I'm-a no too good Barber of Seville, huh?” He laughed, tears rolling over his cheeks, spit gathering in the corners of his mouth. He was a real juicy guy.

Suddenly Gibbons's beeper went off, and the dog freaked, straining to break free from his leash. The greaseballs moved up behind him in a hurry. “Call off the guard, Ugo. It's just my beeper.” When the greaseballs backed away, Gibbons unbuttoned his coat and unclipped the device from his belt to see who wanted him. He recognized the number on the LED readout. It was the office. They wanted him to call in.

“Better go make you phone call, Meester Effa-B-I. Maybe you gotta go arrest another businessman.”

“It can wait.” Gibbons switched off the beeper and stuck it in his coat pocket. “Tell me something, Salamandra. You seem to know an awful lot about the Mafia for someone who isn't in it.”

“Let me ‘splain to you. In Italy, every schoolboy knows about the Mafia. In America, you have cowboys. The sheriff, he go
bang-bang
, shoot all the bad men, make a big hero. Am I right? In Italy, we have the Mafia man. They call
un uomo d'onore
, a man of honor. Same thing like cowboy.”

Gibbons snorted and spit in the street. “Man of honor, my ass. I've been chasing mob guys for thirty years, and I've never met one who even came close to being honorable.”

Salamandra extended his hands in exasperation. “But that's what I say to you. In America, no Mafia. How can you find man of honor in America if they are no here?”

Gibbons glanced down at the dog and frowned. He didn't like playing straight man for this tub of shit, but he wanted to know what this guy was all about. He was too calm for someone on trial, especially in court. But as aggravating as Salamandra was, talking to him beat going back to the restaurant and having another fight with Lorraine.

“What about in Italy, Ugo? Are the men of honor honorable over there?”

“Absolutely. The men of honor, they work in secret. If someone tell their secrets, they get
very
mad.”

“And then what?”

“They kill you, they kill you
family
. They make you pay.” He shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and stuck out his bottom lip. It was all obvious to him.

They came up to the corner of Canal and Mulberry. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper on Canal, horns blaring at the poky pedestrians bundled in their winter coats, hats down over their eyes, meandering across the intersection, most of them clutching shopping bags. Gibbons had noticed that
people always get dopey around Christmastime, especially the ones who come in from Jersey and the Island to go shopping. They don't watch what's going on around them. All they're worried about is their Christmas shopping. It's amazing more of them don't get run over. Maybe it would keep 'em home if a few more did. A splat on the pavement in a down parka. Goose feathers stuck to a couple hundred pounds of bloody hamburger. A nice image. Ought to put it on TV as a public-service announcement. Make these idiots think twice before they go searching for bargains in the city.