Bad Business (34 page)

When Gibbons looked up again, the hood of the Pontiac had been sheared in half on the corner of the truck's hopper. The black bull's nose had been flattened, and it was staring right into the stinking maw of the truck. Gibbons looked through the side window, expecting to see Augustine slumped over the wheel, his head bleeding. But the demon was wild. He was in the back seat, climbing out a window.

Augustine made it out and took off on foot, hobbling and
stumbling, but running faster and harder than a man that well dressed ever would.

Gibbons didn't bother trying his door. It was flush up against the Mercedes. He stuck the gun in McCleery's ribs. “Get out, McCleery. Go get him. You wanna catch crooks? Go catch one.”

“You're out of your fucking skull!”

Gibbons cocked the hammer. “My mental state is irrelevant. Now get moving. If Augustine gets away, I'll name you as his accomplice.”

“All right! All right! I'm going.” McCleery tried the door, but it was stuck.

“Go out the back door,” Gibbons said.

McCleery squeezed between the seats and into the back, shouldering the door open.

Gibbons leaned over the seat. “Run, McCleery. Run like a bastard. If you don't catch him in twenty seconds, I'll drop you in your tracks. Now go.”

And pray that he's guilty
.

McCleery nodded, scared shitless. He knew Gibbons wasn't kidding. He tumbled out of the car and hit the ground running. Gibbons watched the chase through the shattered windshield.

Come on, McCleery. Augustine's soft. He's a rich wuss. Show 'em your mongrel ethnic superiority. Come on! Win one for the Gipper, you fucking dumb-shit Harp
.

Augustine ran like his ass was glued together. He had a long stride, but he stomped his feet. He ran like someone who hadn't run in a very long time. Gibbons was surprised. He'd always thought Augustine might be a jogger, the kind who'd wear hundred-dollar running shoes.

McCleery ran like a cop in pursuit of a perp, head back, leading with his chest. He was older than Augustine, but he knew how to haul it, probably because he had cop in his blood. Most Irish guys do. Unless they end up running guns for the IRA. Running was in these guys' genes. McCleery
made short work of it and tackled his boss less than a hundred feet from the garbage truck.

Gibbons squirmed into the back seat, jumped out, and headed for the arrest. He had to make sure McCleery did it right.

When Gibbons arrived, they were both huffing and puffing, out of breath and on the ground, Augustine on his ass, McCleery on his knees.

“Secure the suspect, McCleery. Do I have to tell you everything?”

McCleery looked up at him with pleading hound eyes.

Gibbons leveled the gun on him. “I said, secure the suspect.”

McCleery nodded and crawled over to Augustine, who glared at him forbiddingly. The Irishman looked helpless. His boss had him cowed.

“Come on, McCleery. You're supposed to know this stuff. Stand him up and put him against a wall. Pat him down and read him his rights. Get his arm in the escort position. Let's get with it.”

Augustine's face was twitching something awful. “Do not touch me.” He enunciated every word as he rubbed his face with his fist.

Gibbons leveled the gun on him. “Shut up, counselor. Anything you say can and definitely will be held against you.”

“You're biting off much more than your little mouth can chew, Gibbons.”

“You're resisting arrest, Augustine. You're gonna force my hand.”

“Now, Cuthbert,” McCleery intervened, “can we be reasonable here?”

“No.”

As Augustine climbed to his feet and brushed his coat off, he glanced at the gun in Gibbons's handcuffed hands. He squinted and looked Gibbons in the eye. “It's going to be
very difficult, Gibbons, but I'll do what I can for you.” He was struggling to get the words out. “Driving the way you did is bound to get you a reckless endangerment charge. That's unavoidable. Now, put the gun away before we have to add false arrest to the charges.”

Gibbons smiled with his teeth. “Eat shit, Augustine. McCleery, do your job.”

McCleery was still afraid to touch his boss.

“McCleery, I hate your guts, but I don't like seeing innocent schlubs taking the fall for their masters. You hate my guts, too, but you know I don't lie. Your boss is dirty,
real
dirty. The Zips have him in their pocket. He's also involved with a kidnapping. He's gonna go down, there's no question about it. The only question now is whether he's gonna drag you down with him.”

“Don't listen to this tripe, Jimmy. He's making it up as he goes along. He's bluffing.”

“You got a clear choice here, McCleery. Either you arrest Augustine now, or you'll be arrested with him later. It's your choice.”

“He's trying to fool you, Jimmy. This is all a ruse to protect his buddy Tozzi.” Augustine suddenly got a handle on his twitching. He was beginning to sound like a prince again.

McCleery looked from one to the other, torn and confused, then suddenly he made up his mind, just like that. You could see it in his face. “I'm sorry, Mr. Augustine.” He stepped toward his boss.

“Stop!” Augustine's hand darted into his coat.

“Freeze!” Gibbons swung around and pointed his gun in the prosecutor's face, startling him. Something clattered to the pavement. Augustine had dropped it.

Gibbons stepped on it, shoving the barrel of his gun into Augustine's cheek. He glanced down at the weapon under his foot.

“Frisk him, McCleery. I bet he's got another one just like it.”

McCleery didn't hesitate now. Gibbons took another look at the gun on the ground. A Glock 19, the plastic gun. That's what he thought when he'd heard it hit the pavement. It didn't sound right.

McCleery's eyes were bugging out of his head. He'd found another identical Glock in Augustine's coat pocket. Two Glocks.

Gibbons let out a long breath.
Thank God. He
is
guilty
.

“Twin six-shooters, McCleery.” He gave the special investigator the I-told-you-so look.

McCleery looked grim. “And I know he's not ambidextrous.”

Augustine was as pale as an oyster on a fat man's plate.

“Keep him covered, Cuthbert.” McCleery got out his keys and removed Gibbons's handcuffs. “Turn around,” he said to the prosecutor.

“Hold on one minute, Jimmy—”

McCleery wasn't waiting, though. He spun Augustine around and pinned his arm behind him as he cuffed one wrist, then snatched the other one and finished the job. He gripped the chain and pulled up on it so that Augustine was forced to stoop over.

Gibbons smiled like a crocodile. It was quite wonderful to see a shining eminence like Augustine manhandled so skillfully.

“You're making a big mistake,” Augustine threatened, twisting his head to look up at them, making all kinds of weird faces. But no one was listening.

“Nice work, McCleery.”

“Thank you for saying so, Cuthbert.”

“Shall we go see what Tozzi's doing?”

“By all means. I can read Mr. Augustine his rights as we go. Come along now, Tom.” He jerked the chain and forced Augustine to walk.

Gibbons picked up the Glock on the ground and followed.
He figured McCleery was happy now. His brogue was back. He'd lost it for a while there in the car.

As they approached Grand Street, Gibbons swore that the entire New York City Police Department was in Little Italy, cruisers parked every which way, cops taking down accident reports up and down Mulberry Street from motorists who were shouting and screaming and tearing their hair out. Another gang of uniforms were clustered over by the white van across from La Bell' Isola Ristorante. He could just imagine what was going on over on Canal Street. The insurance adjusters were gonna have fun tonight.

They headed for the van, pushing through the crowd of nosybodies that had gathered around to catch the action. Tozzi was giving his story to the ranking uniform. The dwarf was handcuffed and draped over the fender of a cruiser, moaning and groaning, drooling all over the hood. The rug was on the ground right where Tozzi had dropped it.

“Hey, Toz, I brought you a present.” Gibbons held up the Glock for his partner to see. He jerked his head at Augustine in chains. “You can have him too.”

When the cops saw who the prisoner was, they nearly shit their pants. “Mr. Augustine!” the sergeant gasped. It was like this fucking bastard was the goddamn Pope or something.

“This is all a mistake. A big mistake.” Augustine's face had deep creases, and his eyes were out of kilter. He kept repeating this mistake business like a goddamn parrot.

Tozzi walked up to Augustine and looked down at him. “How's it going, Tom?” He reached into Augustine's coat pockets.

“What do you think you're doing?” Augustine was on his high horse.

“I'm looking for something, Tom.”

“Stop that,” the sergeant ordered. “You're not authorized.”

Gibbons showed his I.D.
“I'm
authorized.” He looked at his partner. “Continue your search.”

The sergeant made a face, but didn't interfere.

“I've already patted him down,” McCleery said. “We've got his guns.”

“That's not what I'm looking for.” Tozzi kept searching, hauling Augustine up straight by his lapels, pawing through all his pockets.

Augustine was going nuts, making strange noises like he needed a lube job, his eyes going in and out of focus. He didn't look like he was used to being touched. “This is illegal. Officer, I demand—”

“Ah, here we go.” Tozzi found what he was looking for in the side pocket of Augustine's suit coat. A patch of rug with an Oriental pattern, a ragged piece about four by four.

“Excuse me,” Tozzi said to the cops gathered around as he went over to the van and started to unfold the rug. “Give me a hand here, Gib.”

Together they unrolled the whole rug on the street. The crowd mumbled and chattered. In one corner of the rug, a square had been cut out. You could see the quilted gray plastic inner lining through the hole. There was a small piece of duct tape on the plastic. Tozzi got down on his knees with the swatch and made it fit like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Son of a bitch. How about that,” he said, staring up at Augustine. “A perfect match.”

“What's that plastic thing inside?” the sergeant asked. He sounded very grim and gruff. Must be one of McCleery's clan.

“Let's find out,” Tozzi said. He scratched at the piece of duct tape on the plastic lining and pulled it off. “Anybody got a knife?”

McCleery had a penknife on his key chain. Tozzi flipped the blade open and inserted it in a slit already cut into the plastic. When he pulled it out, the blade was covered with
white powder. The wind suddenly picked up and blew it into the rug.

The sergeant was stern. “What's that?”

Tozzi looked up at him. “I'll bet it ain't Sweet'n Low.”

“They planted that piece of rug on me,” Augustine pronounced indignantly. “This man is trying to frame me.”

McCleery yanked his chain and bent him over again. “Let's not be making it worse now, hmm?”

“Officer, I demand that I be released. This is a sham. You have jurisdiction here. Do something.”

The sergeant pressed his lips together, staring down at Augustine's peculiar posture as he thought it over. He caught Gibbons's eye, and Gibbons shrugged. “Forty kilos. Heroin. Take my word for it. If you don't want the collar, we'll take it.”

The sergeant didn't have to think about it any longer. “Roll up the rug,” he ordered his men. “Take the suspect down to Central Booking. We'll straighten it out down there.”

Two uniforms took Augustine's arms and stood him up. Looney Lord Fauntleroy tried to struggle, but he was no match for the boys in blue.

“Settle down now, Tom,” McCleery cooed in his ear. “I'll be coming with you. They won't be taking all the credit for this.” He turned to Gibbons and Tozzi. “You coming?”

Gibbons shook his head. “Take him, he's yours.”

Tozzi shrugged. “Technically, I'm still suspended. I'd like to help you out, but . . .”

“Well, I guess his head goes on my wall, then.”

Augustine was still making a fuss. “You think this is very funny, McCleery? You'll see how funny I can make it for you. For all of you. You don't realize what I can do. You don't—”

He stopped suddenly, and his face turned scarlet. Augustine was staring over the heads of the crowd, staring across the street. Gibbons followed his gaze to the tenement. A poker-faced little old man and a formerly jolly fat man were
standing together in the doorway, Zucchetti and Salamandra.

“This is all
your
fault,” Augustine screamed over the crowd, his face twitching again. “You thought you knew everything, but you blew it. You wouldn't listen. You and your stubborn, ignorant peasant mentality—that's your whole problem. All of you. You ruined it for yourselves. It was so good, but you ruined it. You're nothing but filthy peasants. You didn't deserve me.”