Bad Business (8 page)

“You mean that shriveled-up old guy who kept stealing the candied almonds from all the tables?”

Lorraine frowned at the memory. “Yes. Him.”

“Gee, I'm sorry to hear that. He's the one who had the brownstone, isn't he? On that little park over there where the yuppie kids took over.”

“Yes. Van Vorst Park.”

“You know, Toz, I hear those old houses like your uncle's are going for three, four hundred thousand these days.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tozzi could see it coming.

Gibbons looked down at Lorraine, one eyebrow raised. “How much did your uncle like you, Lorraine?”

“More than he liked Michael.” Lorraine was smoldering. She stared down into the tin and started picking around for another cookie, trying to ignore them both. It was definitely nervous eating.

“Seriously, Lorraine. Were you close to your uncle Pete?”

She took her time sorting through the tin until she found a tollhouse cookie. “I hear you saw Jimmy McCleery today,” she said, real catty. “If you run into him again, please tell him I said hi.” She closed her eyes and slowly bit into the cookie.

Now Gibbons was smoldering. He glared at Tozzi. “Hurry up and get your coat on.”

Tozzi bit the insides of his cheeks as he stood up. “Be right with you.”

As he took his coat off the back of the chair, he caught a glimpse of Gibbons's face. You could've fried an egg on it. Tozzi tried not to smile, but he couldn't get over it. Gibbons
was
a jealous husband. Tozzi watched Popeye glaring at Olive Oyl as she made a big production out of eating that tollhouse cookie, Popeye getting more steamed by the minute. Tozzi couldn't believe she could be such a ballbuster. He never would've guessed Lorraine had it in her.

Well, blow me down.

At least Lorraine's not Lesley Halloran. She must be a
real
ballbuster. Can you imagine what it would be like to be married to her? What a thought!

Yeah . . . what a thought . . .

“Wake up, Tozzi! Let's go!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Tozzi rushed out into the hallway so they wouldn't see his red face.

Giordano could see his breath in the cold air even though he was sweating like crazy. The stocky Puerto Rican FBI guy and his partner—the tall blond guy, what's his name? Cooney—were leading him up the stairs outside this old brownstone. They had him by the elbows in that cop grip they all use. That other FBI guy, Tozzi, was at the top, trying to get the front door open. The old guy Gibbons was up there with him, staring out at the dark shadows in the park across the street, looking pissed. He always looked pissed, this guy.

“Hey, sometime today, huh, Toz?” Gibbons said.

“It's an old lock, Gib. It's cranky . . . like you.”

“Hurry up and get it open, Tozzi.”

Giordano glanced over his shoulder at the boss. Mr. Brant Ivers, Assistant Director in Charge of the New York FBI, the big cheese. He was down on the sidewalk, casting a long shadow under the streetlight. Mr. Straight. The type of guy who plays tennis. Drives a Lincoln, plays tennis, and goes on cruises with his wife. Square shoulders, square head, gray at
the temples, sorta like that anchorman they used to have on Channel 12. The guy who ended up in the bin.

Giordano glanced up at Tozzi huddled over the lock with a bunch of keys in his hand. Come on, come on. Giordano shrugged and rotated his head. He could feel the bulletproof vest under his shirt. Body armor, Tozzi called it when he'd helped him put it on. But what if they shoot for the head? And whose bright idea was it to bring him to Jersey City? This is supposed to be a
safe
house? You hide people out in the woods, in Montana and Wyoming, places like that, not in Jersey City, for chrissake. Salamandra's guys could be anywhere around here. In the shadows in the park, with one of those sniper rifles. Come on! Open the goddamn door.

Tozzi finally got the door open. He pulled out his gun and waved to the two guys waiting down on the sidewalk with Ivers, the guys with the assault rifles under their raincoats. The rifles ran up the steps and went in with Tozzi and the old sourpuss. After a moment, lights started going on in one window after another.

Jesus Christ, what the hell are they trying to do? Tell everybody in the world we're here? I gotta get outta here. These fucking people are gonna get me killed. I gotta get outta here
.

After the whole house was lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, Gibbons came back out. “It's clear. Bring him in.”

Cooney and the Puerto Rican guy lifted him by the elbows again and led him up the stairs. As they reached the top landing, Gibbons was shaking his head, looking disgusted, muttering under his breath to his buddies: “Wait till you get a load of this.”

The overhead lights in the hallway were blinding, and Giordano had to squint as they brought him in. It felt colder inside than out, but a different kind of cold. A dead cold. They quickly hustled him out of the doorway and over to the staircase.

“Stay away from the windows,” Cooney said to him.

“Why?”

“Snipers.”

Oh, Jesus. I gotta get outta here. First chance I get, I'm fucking gone
.

He felt a little faint, a little nauseous back in the corners of his jaw. He closed his eyes and let his head sink into his overcoat. A deep shiver gripped his chest and shook him hard.

“Giordano? You all right?”

He nodded and gulped, sucked in a breath.

“Are you sure?” It was Ivers, the big cheese, standing in front of him.

“Yeah . . . I'm okay.”

He opened his eyes then, and that's when he got a good look at the place. Holy shit.

Giordano couldn't believe what he was seeing. The place was a fucking indoor junkyard. There was a room on each side of the hallway, but you couldn't tell one from the other, there was so much shit piled up everywhere. Bundles of magazines on the floor. Chairs draped with yellowed curtains. Two toaster ovens stacked on a little table in the hallway with an old-fashioned chrome toaster on top. A musty old couch with a heap of shoes on one side, old newspapers on the other. The rug on the staircase was worn through in places, and dishes, plates, cups, and glasses cluttered each step on the bannister side. There were a few bureaus in both rooms, and each bureau held a stack of cardboard boxes that went up to the ceiling. The room that might've been the dining room was jammed with broken-down bicycles. The other room must have been the living room, because there were three TV sets in there stacked up like a totem pole—console on the bottom, twenty-inch in the middle, thirteen-inch on top.

“This is unbelievable,” the Puerto Rican guy said. “And they say
my
people live like pigs?”

Cooney just kept shaking his head. “Great accommodations. How long do we have to stay here?”

Gibbons kicked a deflated football out of the way. “What the hell was your uncle, Tozzi? One of the Collyer brothers?”

Tozzi was coming down the steps, holstering his gun. “Who?”

“You know, the Collyer brothers. The two old guys they found dead in their house in Harlem, buried alive in their own junk. Back in the forties. You never heard of the Collyer brothers?”

“Sorry, I don't remember, Gib.”

Gibbons's face turned ugly. “Neither do I.”

The two rifles came up from the basement. “Don't have to worry about the cellar,” one of them said. “Every exit is blocked solid with . . . stuff. There's a path to the boiler with just enough room to turn around and come back. And that's it.”

“Jesus, Tozzi, didn't your uncle ever throw anything out?” the Puerto Rican guy asked.

“What do
you
think, Santiago?”

“Do you have a specific complaint, Santiago?” The big cheese stepped between the boxes on the floor. He had that ass-pain school-principal kind of voice.
Do you have a hall pass, Santiago?

“No, sir. No complaint. But I am concerned about security here. I'm wondering if all this clutter will impede our ability to protect the witness.”

Ivers shrugged. “You make do, Santiago, and you do the job. We're lucky Tozzi offered to let us use this place. We weren't prepared for witness protection. For last-minute arrangements, I'd say this is more than acceptable.”

Giordano noticed Tozzi staring at the tangle of bicycles in the dining room. He had a faraway look on his face, a look like he wished he were someplace else. Exactly the way Giordano felt.

“Something wrong, Tozzi?” Ivers asked.

“No, nothing. I was just thinking that I gotta go through all this stuff. As executor of Uncle Pete's will, I gotta sift through every bit of it, catalog the good stuff, throw out the junk. . . . Jeez.”

Cooney laughed. “Maybe Mr. Giordano here can refer you to a good torch, Toz.”

Ivers turned on Cooney. “Comments like that are neither appreciated nor are they appropriate, Cooney. Not in front of the witness.”

Giordano felt nauseous again. Why did they keep referring to him like he was a thing?
The witness
.

Ivers was staring into his face again. “Are you
sure
you're feeling well, Mr. Giordano?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little cold. That's all.”

“I just want you to know that we all think you're doing a very brave thing. Your testimony against Salamandra and the other heroin traffickers will be invaluable. When this is all over, those men are going to be doing hard time. Your identity will be protected, and you won't have to worry about retaliation from that bunch.”

Oh, yeah? Then you don't know shit, mister
.

Ivers leaned closer into his face. “You're sweating profusely, Mr. Giordano. Are you sure there's nothing we can get you?”

You can get out of my face
. “I could use a bathroom.”

“Tozzi, show Mr. Giordano to the bathroom.”

Tozzi pointed up the staircase. “Gotta use the one up here. The downstairs toilet is full of golf balls.”

“Golf balls?”

Tozzi shrugged. “My uncle Pete was a weird guy. What can I tell you?”

Giordano followed Tozzi up the stairs, careful not to step on the cups and saucers. The upstairs hallway was cluttered with more cardboard boxes and stacks of old books tied with string. They had to walk single file, there was so much junk,
and when they got to the bathroom, he had to squeeze past Tozzi to get in.

“You know, Ivers is right. You don't look good, Giordano. You must be coming down with something.”

“I just gotta take a crap. Can I have a little privacy, please?”

“You think I'm gonna come in and watch?”

“I dunno. The marshals watch.”

“The marshals are sick people.” Tozzi reached in and flipped the wall switch. There were piles of curtains on the floor, old
National Geographics
under the sink, newspapers and lampshades in the tub. “Besides, there's not enough room in here for two people. Go 'head, do your business. I'll be in that room over there. There might be a bed in there for you under all this junk.”

Tozzi stepped over the boxes and headed for the bedroom across the hall.

Giordano took his coat off and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The glass cover for the overhead light was missing, and the harsh light of the naked bulb in that tight space made him feel all the more claustrophobic. He looked into the mirror. Sweat was pouring down his face. He looked like hell. He looked like a scared little shit, and that's exactly what he was. He ran some cold water, cupped his hands, and doused his face. His teeth started to chatter. Shit. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was fucked, and he knew it.

What the hell was I thinking about? Government witness, my ass. I just had to get outta there. That fuck Augustine was setting me up. I could see it coming. He let things go too far, he let this case go to trial. He wasn't supposed to let that happen. He let it get out of control. There was only one way he could fix it now. Hang one guy so that the others can get off. You could see it coming. He had his goat all picked out and everything. He was gonna screw me. It had to be me. I'm the logical choice, right? Salamandra's a big man, can't
touch him. Most of the others are made guys, can't fuck with them either. The rest of them are all related to Salamandra in one way or another, so Augustine's not gonna touch them. I'm the only one left, the nobody, the one they don't care about. Even though I'm the one who came up with the idea in the first place, made all the connections with the Colombians, then went to Nemo with it. But I'm the nobody, the one they can afford to lose. Zucchetti as much as said it at the farm. I had to get outta that fucking courtroom before Augustine crucified me. But now what? Now Salamandra's gonna crucify me. Sure as shit, his people are gonna find me. Oh, man, I'm fucking dead
.

His heart started thumping. The room was hot and it smelled of mold. He couldn't breathe. He unbuttoned his shirt. The light was too bright. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to move. He was trapped. His heart wouldn't stop pounding. He was gonna die. There wasn't enough air in the room. He felt like he was going to pass out. He sat down on the edge of the tub, stared glassy-eyed at all the shit piled up in there: a spaghetti pot, one of those huge flashlights with the big square batteries, a couple of crushed lampshades, a pipe wrench. . . .