Bad Business (30 page)

He snatched his suit jacket off the hanger and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Rushing back into the kitchen, he threw the jacket on and shoved the cartridge box in his pocket. He snapped the phone off the wall and was
starting to punch out the Manhattan FBI field office's night-desk number when he suddenly felt something cold and hard dead-center on the back of his neck.

“Top of the morning to you, Cuthbert.”

The cold, hard thing retreated from his neck, and Gibbons turned his head enough to see a blue-steel revolver out of the corner of his eye. He didn't have to look at its owner. He knew the blarney all too well.

“What the fuck is this, McCleery?”

“It's Wednesday, Cuthbert. Now, if you'd be so kind as to hang up the phone and put your hands up against the cabinet there.”

Gibbons hesitated.

The blue-steel revolver encouraged him with a sharp jab to the base of the neck. “Please,” McCleery added emphatically.

Gibbons hung up the phone and assumed the position, trying to remember the statutes for justifiable homicide when McCleery unsnapped Gibbons's holster and removed Excalibur. Gibbons was fuming. Next to touching Lorraine, violating his weapon was the worst thing a man could do to him. Justifiable homicide had to apply here. When he got his hands around the son of a bitch's neck, he'd try his absolute best not to enjoy it. But he couldn't guarantee anything.

“Put my gun on the counter and get the fuck out of my house immediately and maybe, just maybe, I won't kill you, McCleery.”

“Oh, you're such a tough boy-o, Cuthbert. I'm shivering in my boots.”

“I'm warning you.”

“And I'm arresting you.”

“What?”

A folded piece of paper appeared over Gibbons's shoulder in his peripheral vision. He didn't need a real good look to tell what it was.

“It's a warrant for your arrest, Cuthbert. From Judge Morgenroth.”

“I'll take it to the john and put it to good use.”

“Let's not be heathen about this now, shall we, Cuthbert? I think it's important that you maintain your dignity. If not for your sake, at least for your bride's.”

“Go fuck yourself, McCleery. This is bullshit.”

“Oh, no, far from it, Cuthbert. It's the fruit of sound investigative procedure, is what it is. You see, despite what you think, I do know a few tricks in this law-enforcement game.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I did manage to get in here without you hearing me. By the way, you ought to invest in one of those New York police locks, the ones with the steel brace. Picking the lock wasn't all that difficult. Invest in some home security. I know you're a tough guy, Cuthbert, but do it for Lorraine's sake. She won't be having you around to bite the burglars anymore.”

“Whattaya talkin' about?”

“You see, I did a little digging in the right places, and I met a fellow over at the
Tribune
, a photographer who showed me some of his work. He had a very interesting series of pictures of you, Cuthbert, strolling along Mulberry Street with guess who? Ugo Salamandra. You two jawing away while he was walking his dog, a couple of his henchmen following behind. Now, when I showed these handsome photos to the judge—well, frankly he became a bit bilious. Seems he didn't like the implication of guilt the photos conveyed—you know, the partner of the prime suspect in the murders of Giordano, Marty Bloom, Cooney, and Santiago walking down the street with the Barber of Seville himself. There was one shot in particular of you tilting your head into old Figaro's ear that really got the judge riled. Consorting with the Zip boss outside of your official capacity, he felt. Anyway, the upshot of it all is that he issued this warrant for your arrest. He wrote one out for Tozzi, too, so not to worry,
you won't be alone. They should be picking him up about now.”

Gibbons chewed on his upper lip. He hoped to Christ that Tozzi had gotten out of his apartment before the posse showed up.

“Now, Cuthbert, if you'll be so kind as to put your hands behind your back so I can affix the handcuffs—”

“What's going on?”
Lorraine came padding into the kitchen, squinting and holding her robe together.

Gibbons turned around with his hands in the air and stared McCleery in the eye. “We got roaches.”

“Good morning, Lorraine. I had hoped we wouldn't wake you.”

She pushed the hair out of her face, then suddenly noticed the gun in McCleery's hand, and her eyes widened. “What're you doing? Gibbons, what's he doing?”

“He says he's arresting me. Can you beat this shit?”

“What?” Her voice was shrill and panicked.

“I'm sorry, Lorraine, but I'm afraid it's so. I've got a warrant here. I'm sorry.”

Lorraine's stare was fixed on McCleery's gun, her hand flat on her heaving chest. “I don't get it. Why? What's he done?”

McCleery was sheepish with her. “I'm truly sorry, Lorraine. But I'm only carrying out the wishes of the court.”

Gibbons rolled his eyes and smirked.
“Jawohl
. Just following orders.”

McCleery glared at him. “Do you have to be reminded, Cuthbert, that anything you say can and will be held against you? Now, if you'd be so kind as to turn around and put your hands behind your back.
Now.”

Gibbons glared back at him and turned slowly. As McCleery started to bend his arms back, he winced and sucked in a short breath.

“What's the problem, Cuthbert? You're not gonna start sobbing on me now, are you?”

Gibbons shook his head and rotated his shoulder slowly. “Bursitis. It's been acting up again.”

“Must be awful getting old.”

Lorraine intervened. “Do you
have
to handcuff him, Jimmy? Is it really necessary?”

“It's procedure, Lorraine. He doesn't have a choice,” Gibbons said, still wincing. “Go 'head, put 'em on, McCleery. I'll live.”

“Jimmy, please.” Lorraine was in anguish.

“All right, all right. How about if I cuff you in front? Can you take that, Cuthbert?”

“Don't do me any favors. Just do your job.”

Lorraine seemed to be on the verge of tears.

McCleery sighed, annoyed with him. He snapped one cuff on Gibbons's wrist. “Turn around, you old goat.” He grabbed the material of Gibbons's jacket to spin him around, then did the other wrist so that his hands were bound in front of him. “Is that comfortable enough for you?”

“Yeah, it's great. All I need now is a piña colada.”

“You're a real wiseass, Cuthbert. I want you to know I'm only doing this for Lorraine. I couldn't care less about you.”

“How fucking kind of you.”

McCleery frowned and turned to Lorraine. “May I use your phone? I have to call in.”

She looked at her husband. Gibbons closed his eyes and nodded. “I guess . . .” she said.

“Thank you.” McCleery unhooked the receiver, punched out a number, and stretched the cord out into the hallway for privacy.

“What the hell's going on?” Lorraine whispered to Gibbons.

“I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it's bullshit.”

“What can I do?”

“Don't bother calling Tozzi. Too late for that. I just hope he got out of the house before McCleery's goon squad caught up with him.”

She looked pained and puzzled. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'll explain later.”

McCleery came back into the kitchen and hung up the phone. He was smiling that big bullshit smile of his. “You're in luck, Cuthbert.”

“Oh?”

“Before I take you over to Central Booking, I have to swing by Little Italy and do a little surveillance job. Nothing major—we won't even have to get out of the car. But it'll be your last chance to taste the good side of the law before you're booked, Cuthbert. Something to remember.”

“I'm touched.”

“Lorraine, once again I apologize to you. I'm sorry it had to happen like this.”

Gibbons let out a loud sigh. “C'mon, c'mon, McCleery, let's go. Your wild Irish pity is making me sick to my stomach.”

“You're a saint, Lorraine. I don't know how you've put up with him this long.”

Lorraine wasn't even listening to him. She was looking at Gibbons, her brows slanted back.

“Don't worry,” Gibbons said softly. “This is nothing. Believe me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She threw her arms around him. “I love you.”

Oh, Christ. Don't get sappy on me now
.

“Yeah . . . me too,” he muttered into her hair.

“We have to go now.” McCleery tugged on Gibbons's elbow.

Reluctantly, Lorraine let go, and the absence of her touch made Gibbons feel cold and lonely. He suddenly felt guilty for not saying in so many words that he loved her too.

McCleery marched him out the front door, and they walked down the marble steps of the old apartment building
in silence. When they turned the landing and started down the next flight of stairs, Gibbons noticed that McCleery had that bullshit grin plastered across his mug again. “What's so funny?” he grumbled.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Your poor wife all alone in the world when her husband and her dear cousin are sent up the river for the rest of their natural lives.”

“Keep wishing.”

“I'll have to drop by and say hello now and then. You know, we Irish are very good at cheering those in grief. I think Lorraine may come to like my cheering nature. If you know what I mean.” His eyes were twinkling.

Gibbons stopped dead in the middle of the stairs and glared up at him. If only looks
could
kill.

“Were you about to say something, Cuthbert?”

Gibbons held his tongue, though his gut was roasting.

Never in a million fucking years, shamus. Even if you were the last limp dick on earth, she wouldn't
.

Gibbons continued walking down in silence. As they turned the next landing, he glanced up the stairwell toward his apartment.

She fucking better not
.

From inside the car, he could see snow flurries swirling in circles over a manhole cover in the middle of Grand Street. Tiny flakes danced across the tinted windshield as heat from the paper coffee cup on the dashboard made a blotch of steam on the glass. Augustine reached for the cup and took another sip as he scanned the cold, gray street outside, casually staring at the dull white van with the rusted door panels parked across from La Bell' Isola Ristorante. Traffic was still light. There were a few unhappy pedestrians walking against the wind with shoulders hunched under their coats, but not many. He put the cup back on the dash and checked his watch again. Almost ten of eight. A truck rumbled by, and the wind suddenly whipped up and howled. The flurries became frantic. Inside, it was calm and warm. Augustine felt insulated, protected. It was a feeling he'd always liked.

From where he sat, Augustine could see Jimmy McCleery's silver Pontiac, parked down the block at a fire hydrant. He'd just arrived a few minutes ago. Obviously
McCleery had gotten the message that something was about to go down here this morning. Augustine grinned, thinking how clever it was to phone in an “anonymous tip” early this morning when there was no one in the office with enough brains to question it. He'd called from a pay phone just to be sure, but there was no way it could ever be traced back to him. Augustine grinned behind his coffee cup, wondering if he was simply that smart, or if the rest of the world was really that dumb.

He watched Gibbons in the front seat with McCleery. Augustine couldn't see a camera anywhere in evidence, but he wasn't worried about that. McCleery was a loyal tool from a long line of Irish cops who liked to bitch and gripe, but who ultimately always did what they were told. They were good worker bees, people like McCleery. If you allowed them to cultivate their little romantic self-images so that they believed they were far more clever than they actually were, they performed admirably. Augustine had no doubt that McCleery had his camera with him and that there was a fresh roll of film in it, the long-range lens affixed and polished, ready for the job. That's the way people like McCleery were, born to serve.

Gibbons, however, was another story. There was nothing worse than a failed WASP, and like others he'd met, Gibbons seemed to revel in his gruff, low-life existence. There had to be more than a few in the Gibbons clan who were sorely disappointed in him, especially if he was related to the Gibbonses of Pittsburgh. This man lived like the ethnics, for God's sake, and yet there was one significant difference between him and men like McCleery and Tozzi. Gibbons wasn't doing the immigrant climb, striving for the better life, the respect, the wealth, the position, and so on. No, Gibbons was a Yankee, just like him. He didn't care about scratching his way to the top. Apparently position meant nothing to him. He couldn't be bribed, bought, enticed, or seduced, because unlike the immigrant children he had no
foolish dreams. He simply was what he was—stubborn, stiff-backed, and uncompromising, with the strict moral code of a Puritan and the X-ray perception of an outsider, an awful combination. Gibbons was beyond wants and dreams. He was beyond temptation and corruption. And that made him very dangerous.