Bad Business (33 page)

Tozzi looked through the windshield. She was frantically pointing across the street. Nemo was stooped over, holding his belly. The dwarf had a pistol in his hand, and it was pointed right at him.

Shit
.

Nemo blinked and shook and shuddered as he yelled. “You. Bring that fuckin' rug over here. Hurry up!”

Tozzi drew in his elbow and felt the Beretta inside his jacket. He glanced at Lesley and Patricia, then glanced up at the windows. It was no place for a firefight. He let out a slow breath and moved over to the side of the car, raising his hands and nodding, making eye contact with Nemo. “Be cool. I'm coming,” he called out. “I'll bring it to you.” He leaned over the hood and rolled the rug until it rolled right off the nose of the car. He folded it over twice and started to haul it up onto his shoulder. It was heavy and hard to get a good grip on. He bent his knees and got under the weight, hoisting it higher on his shoulder, which made his stitches smart.

As Tozzi struggled with the bulky load, checking for traffic before he crossed, a taxi and a pickup truck suddenly raced by, the drivers ducked down behind their steering wheels. They must've seen the junkie with the gun. Tozzi kept his
back straight and held his breath as he walked across the street and headed for Nemo.

“Where do you want it?” Tozzi asked, making sure he made eye contact with Nemo.

“In the van.” Nemo was reeling in place as if his feet were stuck to the pavement, but his voice was angry and his eyes were intent.

“Is the back open?”

“Wha'?”

“The van. Is it unlocked?”

It took a moment for Nemo to comprehend, then he shook his head and motioned with the gun for Tozzi to get moving. Tozzi went to the back of the van. Nemo was struggling to get his cramped legs to move. The gun was shaking like crazy in his outstretched hand.

“I guess you got it made now, huh?”

“Wha'?” The dwarf's voice had become a subhuman, metallic bark.

“Apparently Zucchetti doesn't want his dope, so I guess it's yours.”

Nemo shook his head and growled something Tozzi couldn't understand.

“This must be a lifetime supply, huh? More. Couple of lifetimes. Man, if I were you, I'd just take it and disappear. You got it made.”

“Shut up.” Nemo was trying to get his key in the lock and keep his eye on Tozzi at the same time, blinking and squinting, his face like raw meat.

“Yeah, man, you're gonna have it made. All this junk, all of it just for you. Won't ever have to worry about scoring again.”

“Shut up!”
Nemo screamed.
“I'll kill you!”
It was a wild, brutal, anguished cry, a wounded-animal cry.

“Listen, you can sell what you don't need, make a bundle for yourself. Live wherever you want, big house, nice car—as many cars as you want. Nice looking broads, too, the kind
who like guys with cash. You know what I'm saying? You're gonna have it made, Nemo.”

“Wha?”

Tozzi let the rug fall. It flopped to the cold black pavement at Nemo's feet. Nemo looked down, and the gun went slack in his hand. Tozzi grabbed his wrist and threw it in the air, then grabbed a fistful of coat and spun Nemo around, pushing him up against the van and smashing the gunhand against the metal doors. Nemo couldn't put up much of a fight. It happened too fast for him to figure it out. The gun clattered to the ground, and Tozzi trapped it with his foot. Nemo stumbled and tripped over the rug. He collapsed in a heap on top of it, hugging it, slobbering over it, practically humping his object of desire. He was like a horny little robot dog from outer space going haywire. Tozzi went to pull the Beretta, but changed his mind when he remembered the Zips in the windows across the street. He stared down at Nemo and shook his head. Under the circumstances, Nemo's was an easy mind to lead. Almost too easy.

He kicked Nemo's weapon under the van and considered taking out his handcuffs, wondering if that would provoke the Zips upstairs. But before he could do anything, Tozzi heard a loud crash and the crunch of metal on metal, then the screech of tires spinning. It was coming from up the block. A black Mercedes was fighting its way out of a parking space, ramming the cars in front and in back, revving its engine and burning rubber, like a mad bull in a tight pen. When it was finally free, it burned more rubber, making a wild run up Grand Street.

Suddenly Tozzi heard another engine roaring behind him from the other end of the block. He turned around and saw a silver Pontiac sedan tear away from the curb, swerve dangerously close to the parked cars on the other side, then fishtail back on course, chasing after the black Mercedes. The silver car whizzed past in a blur.

Tozzi frowned. No. Was it? He thought he'd seen Gibbons
in that car, Gibbons with Jimmy McCleery behind the wheel. What the hell were they doing here? What the hell were they doing
together
?

He watched the two cars racing up the street, then he looked up at the third-floor windows of Salamandra's building. Half a dozen Zip faces were pressed against the glass, trying to see the chase through the parted curtains.

“Get your fucking foot off the gas, Gibbons.”

“Watch the road, asshole, before you hit somebody.”

McCleery was pressed back in his seat, clutching the steering wheel, white as a potato, eyes popping out of his head. Gibbons was right up next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, his wrists still handcuffed in front of him, sitting on the hand brake, stomping on the accelerator, chewing on his upper lip. The speedometer said they were doing seventy.

“Get your foot off the gas, you crazy bastard.”

“Shut up and follow that Mercedes. And don't lose it.”

“You're nuts!”

“You think you're some hot-shit lawman, McCleery? I'll show you how to be a good fucking lawman. Drive!”

The Mercedes screeched around a corner, hanging a right onto the Bowery.

Gibbons snarled and let up a little on the gas. “Turn! Follow him!”

McCleery wasn't listening, so Gibbons grabbed the wheel
with both hands and yanked on it. The car screeched around the corner, nearly sideswiping a cab. The stench of burning rubber filled the inside. Gibbons floored it again, and McCleery had no choice but to steer as they rode a breakneck slalom course around double-parked vehicles and startled pedestrians.

“Jesus Christ, Gibbons, you're gonna get someone killed.”

“Don't be a pussy, McCleery. If you're gonna kill someone, just make sure it's the right someone.”

“You're a lunatic. Who the hell do you think that is in that Mercedes?”

“Are you trying to be cute or just stupid? That's your boss's car.”

“Tom Augustine? Jesus Christ, why're you chasing him?”

“Why's he running? He must be guilty of something. Kidnapping's a bad rap, and he knows it.”

McCleery swerved around a chestnut-and-pretzel vendor pushing his cart down the side of the street, barely missing him. Gibbons didn't think McCleery could get any whiter, but he did. “Oh, my God in heaven . . .”

“Leave him out of this. And watch that nut on the bike.”

McCleery swerved to the right to avoid a messenger on a bike in the middle of the road, but the car fishtailed and sideswiped a white Cadillac coming out of a parking space. The Pontiac smacked the Caddy with a sharp
thunk
.

“Jesus H. Christ, Gibbons! The car's hardly paid for!”

“You got insurance. So does he. Drive.”

“You've gone too damn far now.”

McCleery reached into his jacket and pulled his gun, but Gibbons quickly snatched his arm and jammed it into the roof. The gun discharged and blew a hole straight through.

“Look out!” Gibbons shouted.

Some idiot pulled out right in front of them. McCleery leaned on the horn with the butt of his gun as he veered into the oncoming lane and careened toward a city bus, squeezing past the idiot and scraping the length of the bus. The
noise was deafening as Gibbons strained to bend McCleery's hand back over the steering wheel, wrenching the gun out of his grip.

Gibbons chewed on his lip. Tozzi better fucking be right about all this, he thought. If Augustine is innocent . . . It was too awful to think about it.

McCleery's eyes bugged out as he glanced from the road to the muzzle of his own gun staring him in the face. “You lying bastard! You told me you had bursitis. I cuffed you in front to give you a break, but you don't have any such thing. You lied to me.”

Gibbons snorted a laugh. “You're a chump, McCleery. Always were, always will be.”

“You'll rot in hell, Gibbons.”

“I won't be alone.”

The Mercedes turned again, making a full-tilt screeching right onto Canal Street, pedestrians in the crosswalk diving for the curb to save themselves.

“Follow him!”

McCleery listened this time and did the steering himself. Canal was bumper-to-bumper with rush-hour traffic, but the Mercedes didn't care. It bulled its way down the street, straddling the center line, muscling vehicles aside on both sides. Furious drivers jumped out of their cars and yelled at the black bull charging through.

“Go!” Gibbons ordered, leaning on the horn as McCleery steered down the aisle the Mercedes had created.

Some outraged guy in a business suit jumped into the road in front of them and refused to move. Gibbons showed him the wrong end of the gun through the windshield. “Move, asshole!” He fired through the roof. The businessman jumped for cover over someone's hood. Gibbons gave it gas, and the car bucked and plowed on through, shearing off the crumpled fenders and door panels that the Mercedes had already trashed.

The Mercedes looked like a battered beer can as it cut off
traffic and turned off Canal into Mulberry Street. Traffic was bumper to bumper here, too, but that didn't stop the angry black bull. It charged like a linebacker, ramming cars right and left, shoving them into parked cars, making space for itself as it forced its way through the heart of Little Italy.

“Go! Go! Follow him.” Gibbons stuck the gun in McCleery's neck, and McCleery didn't hesitate. Gibbons gave her gas as McCleery banged and clattered through the wreckage, swimming upstream after the Mercedes.

Tozzi, I swear to Christ. If this is one of your bullshit cowboy fantasies, I'll kill you
.

When they reached Grand Street again, the traffic had lightened considerably. Drivers had managed to get out of the way of the madman in the Mercedes. Mulberry was clear above Grand. The only moving vehicle in sight was a garbage truck collecting trash at the far end of the block. Seeing a clear path, the Mercedes made a run for it, racing up the street. Gibbons bit his upper lip. If Augustine got away now, he could disappear on a side street, ditch the car, and jump down the subway. He'd claim the car was stolen. He'd claim anything. He was the white knight of truth, justice, and the American way. He was Mr. Clean. They'd believe anything he said. No way, not this time. Gibbons floored the accelerator, jabbed the gun deep into McCleery's neck, and put his face to the man's ear. “You lose him, you die. I swear to Christ, I'll do it, McCleery.”

“Be reasonable, Cuthbert.”

“Fuck reasonable. I'd do it just to keep you away from my wife.”

McCleery's mouth was moving, but nothing came out as he navigated around the last wreck in the crush, then straightened the wheel just in time to prevent a collision with a pizzeria. They ran a red light at Grand. Angry horns blared and trailed off behind them as they sped after the fleeing Mercedes.

“Catch him!” Gibbons yelled. “Catch up!”

Smoke was rising from the Mercedes's front tires. The bashed-in fenders must've been rubbing against the wheels, slowing the car down. A hubcap flew off then, and Gibbons could see that one tire was flat. He was riding on the rim, swerving like crazy. But he wasn't giving up.

And neither was Gibbons.

As they were about to overtake the Mercedes, Gibbons glanced ahead to the back of the garbage truck. A sanitation worker was tossing a dried-out Christmas tree covered with tinsel into the truck's iron jaws. Gibbons kept his foot on the gas and grabbed the wheel. “Leggo,” he yelled, and jerked the wheel to the left so that they were running alongside the Mercedes. Gibbons looked out his side window. The picture froze in his mind. Augustine with his face pressed against the steering wheel, steering with his fists, squinting and twitching, teeth clenched and gums showing, the whites of his eyes flashing as he struggled to keep them open—a demented demon riding a wild black bull from Hell.

Gibbons jerked the wheel hard to the right and held on. They collided with Augustine—
thunk!
—jolting him over to the side. Gibbons held on to the wheel. Sparks flew over the hood and into the windshield. Metal screamed. Up ahead, the garbage men scattered. At the last second, Gibbons turned in his seat and released the wheel, reaching in front of McCleery and grabbing his headrest to secure them both. The crash was deafening—shattered glass, tortured metal, escaping steam.