Bad Business (4 page)

Tozzi
definitely
liked her. And he hated her. Gibbons knew the feeling. Most guys end up with someone like that at one time or another in their lives.

“Hey, Gib, did you see who's here?” Tozzi was looking toward the prosecution table. “Isn't that your old buddy, Jimmy McCleery?”

“Who?”

“Jimmy McCleery.”

Gibbons followed Tozzi's gaze to the prosecution table. He squinted to make out the face of the guy in the brown tweed sport jacket. It was him all right. Jimmy fucking McCleery, the shamrock Victor Mature. He was standing there with his arms crossed, serving up a crock of his bullshit to one of the bright-eyed young prosecutors. It was amazing that the kid was standing up straight listening to him. Usually McCleery had whiskey breath strong enough to knock a horse over. But
some
people thought his blarney was charming. The son of a bitch.

“I hear McCleery quit the Bureau. He's working for the U.S. Attorney's office now, as a special investigator.”

“McCleery's not fit to sweep the streets. How the hell that guy ever got to be an FBI agent is beyond me. Thank God he's not one anymore.”

Tozzi was shaking his head. “I could never figure out why you had it in for him.”

“He's a worthless piece of shit. His mere existence offends me.”

“I remember that time they put you two together while I was on vacation. When I got back, he was telling people that partnering with you was like spending two weeks in hell. You never did tell me what happened.”

Gibbons ignored him, staring hard at McCleery.

“Hey, Gib, you still there? Talk to me.”

Gibbons glanced at his watch. “What the hell's holding things up? Trial should've started ten minutes ago.”

“You're changing the subject, Gib.”

Gibbons glared at him. “You're right. I am.”

“Gentlemen?”
The chief prosecutor in this case, Tom Augustine, was standing at the wooden railing, facing the kennel. “Gentlemen, can I have your attention?” The master's shiny auburn-coated setter was addressing the mongrels.

“Gentlemen, we're going to be delayed for a while. I don't know how long. Now, I know you have other things to do,
but please stick around until we know how long this is going to be. Thank you.” Augustine walked back to the prosecution table.

The mongrels groaned and scratched.

“Shit,” Tozzi muttered. “Fucking lawyers.”

“Hey, c'mon, Toz. Augustine's not a bad guy. He's easier to work with than most of the other assholes in his office.”

“A lawyer is a lawyer, and they're all good for nothing. Augustine's no exception. I mean, look at him. Mr. Ivy League with the square jaw, the perpetually ruddy cheeks, that floppy dirty-blond hair, a real all-American type. That was the type of guy Lesley Halloran always went after.”

Gibbons smirked. “So it's nothing personal how you feel about Augustine.”

Tozzi threw him a dirty look.

Gibbons had to laugh. Like a book, this guy.

“All rise
, ” the bailiff suddenly shouted over the hubbub. “Court is in session. The Honorable Irwin E. Morgenroth presiding.”

Judge Morgenroth whisked out of his chambers, the black robe swishing behind him. He hopped up the steps leading to the bench, pounced on his big leather chair, and glared out at his court. The judge was small and completely bald, with thick glasses and a slightly jaundiced pallor. He was the chihuahua here. And like many small dogs, he had a grating bark and a quick bite.

The judge scanned the defense table, his head bobbing as he counted heads. “We have some absentees,” he snapped. “Where are Mr. Giordano and his counsel, Mr. Bloom?”

“Your Honor?”

Heads turned to the rear to see who had just burst into the courtroom.

“Your Honor, may I approach?” It was Marty Bloom. He was gasping, out of breath.

“Move it, Mr. Bloom. You're late.”

“I'm moving it as fast as it goes, Your Honor.” Marty Bloom hobbled down the center aisle, his briefcase and coat on one arm, books and papers jammed under the other. His glasses were askew on his face, one shirttail out of his pants. Despite his sparse thatch of kinky gray hair, Bloom was the sheepdog in this show. He dumped his things at his table and went to the bench. Morgenroth leaned down and conferred with him in private for a few minutes. The chihuahua's squinty expression became progressively more and more skeptical and annoyed.

The judge looked up then and pointed a bony finger at Tom Augustine. “Approach the bench. This concerns you.”

Bloom and Morgenroth filled the chief prosecutor in on whatever the hell was going on, and Augustine listened intently, nodding with his hand on his chin. The setter's posture was erect, head high, a model specimen of his breed. Tozzi was right about that—there was something a little too regal about Augustine. But what the hell, that was the way the guy was brought up. Can't ditch the silver spoon once you're born with it. Sure, Augustine was from the right side of the tracks, but he still was an okay guy. You really couldn't fault him for being high society.

“What's going on?” Tozzi whispered.

Gibbons shrugged. “How the hell do I know?”

The judge summoned the other defense lawyers to the bench then, all eighteen of them. Eighteen suspicious faces crowded around the little chihuahua and listened. Then the grumbling started. It quickly escalated, with the lawyers in the back shouting out their objections in order to be heard over the others. Morgenroth clamped down fast, banging his gavel repeatedly until there was silence.

“I want all of you in my chambers in ten minutes. Court is dismissed until two o'clock this afternoon.” He pounded his gavel once more, collected his papers, and hopped down off the bench.

“Now what?” Tozzi sounded disgusted.

“Gentlemen?”
Augustine was back at the railing. “You can go. We won't be needing you today. I'm sorry we couldn't tell you sooner.”

The mongrels growled.

Augustine shrugged. “Sorry. We had no way of knowing.”

He was about to turn away when Gibbons reached over and grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “So what was that all about?”

Augustine looked both ways, then bent forward and whispered. “The shit just hit the fan. Vincent Giordano has decided to turn against his mob pals. He'll testify for the government in exchange for reduced charges.”

“Sounds like good news.”

“Could be very good news. The defense will kick and scream for a couple of days, demand mistrials for their clients, seek injunctions and so forth, but if I know Morgenroth, he won't go for any of it.” Augustine straightened up and lifted his chin. The setter allowed himself the hint of a grin. “I think we've got them right where we want them now—by the balls.”

Gibbons grinned. “Excellent.”

“I have to run now. Can't keep the judge waiting.” Augustine returned to the prosecution table to collect his things.

Gibbons turned to Tozzi. “You hear that? Sounds like these guys are screwed.”

“Huh?”

Tozzi wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at that Halloran woman again.

Gibbons crossed his arms and shook his head. Like a fucking book, this guy.

Gibbons turned around in his seat to tell the others what Augustine had just told him, and suddenly he caught a quick glimpse of his own reflection in the glasses of the guy behind
him. Seeing his image was like the sudden recollection of an old familiar photograph. Bulldog.

Just then McCleery appeared in his peripheral vision. Gibbons watched McCleery's back drifting up the aisle, shuffling out with the crowd. Gibbons bared his teeth.

It was dark by the time Augustine's driver dropped him off in front of his town house on East Sixty-sixth Street. Fifth and Madison were still jammed with rush-hour traffic. People staying in town after work to do their Christmas shopping. As his car pulled away from the curb, he set down his briefcase on the sidewalk and pulled up his collar. He paused to look up at the Georgian facade of his house, the two columns flanking the entrance, a very rare architectural style for Manhattan. His grandfather had purchased the house in 1907, and even with the current depressed state of real-estate prices, it was still worth a pretty penny. The thought of selling it, however, was deeply depressing and nearly unthinkable. Augustine let out a long sigh into the cold air and wondered what in heaven's name he was going to do now.

Giordano, that spineless little tool, had panicked. He was ready to deal, ready to testify against the others. No patience, no guts. Augustine had promised them a mistrial. What did Giordano think? That he could make it happen
overnight? This was a very unusual trial. It would take time. And what was Giordano
really
thinking? Was he genuinely prepared to testify against Salamandra to save his own hide? Was he really that naive to think the government could protect him from his Sicilian friends? Damn him. Getting a mistrial was going to be difficult, but now, thanks to Giordano, it was going to be near impossible.
Damn
him.

Augustine picked up his briefcase and started for the front steps. He had to think. He had to come up with a good strategy or else he could forget about his fourteen million for the campaign. He needed a drink and he needed to be left alone in his study so he could think this through. He needed to—

“Yo! Mr. Augustine.”

Augustine's gut clenched as he spun around to see who was calling him.

“Over here, man.”

An overweight black man sitting behind the wheel of a brown UPS truck double-parked at the curb a few doors down was waving him over. The truck's flashers clicked loudly, but Augustine had just noticed it there. These delivery vehicles are so ubiquitous at Christmastime. The man was sucking on a straw attached to the biggest paper cup Augustine had ever seen, bigger than a milk-shake cup, easily over a quart. Augustine was immediately leery of him. How did this man know his name? Yes, he was mentioned in the papers frequently, but he wasn't a celebrity. Did this delivery man know him from his address? Possibly.

“What can I do for you?” he called out, his foot planted on the bottom step.

“Got somethin' for you.” The man put the straw back in his mouth and motioned with his head that whatever he had was inside the truck.

Augustine didn't move.

The black man scowled at him. “Got somethin' you gonna want, man. Go 'round back.”

Augustine disliked the scolding tone, but he felt it unwise to ignore him. Perhaps it was just a delivery, and the fat man was too lazy to bring it in himself. He walked toward the truck and the fellow repeated the head gesture, indicating that he should go to the rear of the truck.

Augustine's throat was dry as he stepped between the parked cars, thinking that the man may have a message from the Sicilians. He assured himself mentally that they wouldn't try to harm him. After all, he was the key to Salamandra's freedom, wasn't he?

The truck's rolltop door was open a foot or so at the bottom. As he stepped closer, the door suddenly rose, the clattering noise startling him.

“Hey, Augustine, long time no see.”

Augustine let out a slow breath. It was Nemo, the contemptible dwarf, holding up the door with one hand, a smirk on his face.

“Step into my office.”

Augustine hesitated, looking over his shoulder.

The smirk disappeared from Nemo's face. “Hurry up! Get in!”

He stepped up into the truck and Nemo let the door fall with an abrupt bang.

“So, how the hell you been, Augie?” Nemo said as he sat down on a blue plastic milk crate on the floor. He was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and a teal-blue T-shirt underneath with some kind of printing on it.

“You shouldn't have come here. What do you want?”

Nemo pulled a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros with his teeth. “What do you think I want?”

As Nemo lit the cigarette, he laughed that hissing laugh of his, and Augustine was suddenly reminded of the trip they took to the farm in Sicily. Augustine forced himself to control his breathing. He looked around the inside of the truck. A wall sconce cast an incongruously warm glow over the interior. Through the opening between the cab and the
body, he could hear the black man sucking up the dregs of his drink. The floor was littered with paper bags and plastic containers as if someone had been living in here. He glanced over his shoulder. Against the wall behind him was a sloppily rolled rug, a very large rug. Blood rushed to Augustine's head and throbbed in his ears. Oh, my God . . .

“We got some problems,” Nemo said.

“Yes. I'm aware of that.” Augustine coughed into his fist.

Nemo pressed his lips together and shook his head. “So why ain't you doin' anything? See, I don't think you realize how much is involved here. That's why you been dickin' around.”