Bad Business (13 page)

Salamandra reined the dog in and stepped off the curb. The two greaseballs were right behind them. He was going to cross Canal. Gibbons looked over at Chinatown on the other side. What the hell was he going over there for?

“Lemme get this straight now, Ugo. You say there's no Mafia in America, and you're not in the Mafia. So what've we been doing in court all this time, jerking off? We got thousands of hours of audiotape, videotape, hundreds of photographs, dozens of agents ready to testify that they saw your people dealing drugs, working
together
to sell drugs. Working together like a
family
. And that's how the Mafia works, like a family, right?”

“I don' know. I'm no in the Mafia.”

“Forget about that crap. Just tell me why
you
think the United States government is going to all this trouble and expense to try you guys if it's so obvious that there's no Mafia here, huh? Tell me that.”

Buddha stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged again. “Poo-blicity. Is that how you say? It make good pooblicity for government.”

“Publicity? You don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

Salamandra pointed to the nearest corner, where another crowd of people were waiting to cross Canal. At the edge of the crowd there was a tall, skinny guy holding a camera to his face. The long telephoto lens was pointed right at them.

Gibbons shrugged his collar up and tugged the brim of his hat down over his brow. Shit.

“How you say? Good press? Yes, yes, this is what I mean. Good press. Mafia make good press for United States government.”

The light changed and they started to walk across the intersection. “I don't understand. Explain what you mean.” Fatso.

“I ‘splain to you. You chase Mafia, put ‘em on trial, send ‘em to jail—that make you look good. The lawyers, the judge, the police, the Effa-B-I—everybody look so good. They catch the bad Mafia man. Everybody in America, he know
The Godfather
, yes? Government make people believe they catch-a the Godfather. Oooo, how wonderful, they say. But that's no real, that's a movie peech'.”

Gibbons was watching the photographer out of the corner of his eye. The guy was following them, snapping pictures from across the street. “You're all confused, Ugo. You're not making any sense.”

“No, no, no, no, you listen to me. Everybody in America, they know the Mafia. But in America, there are many, many people much worse than the Mafia. Bad people nobody knows about. You gotta the Chinese people. They bring more
heroina
to America than the Mafia. You tell me. Am I right?”

Gibbons nodded. “Yeah, so what? You supposed to look good by comparison?”

“And what about the Colombians with the cocaine?”

“What about ‘em?”

“And the black Jamaica man with the marijuana. These people, they crazy with the guns and the dirty hair. They shoot anybody, they no care. And how ‘bout Dominican people. They sell a lotta drugs too. And Puerto Rican people do bad things, and the Irish people sell the guns, and Arabia people blow up the plane—”

“So what's your point?”

“American people, they don' know about these other bad people like they know about the Mafia. You put a bad Chinaman in jail, people say ‘So what?' But you put a bad Italian man in jail, people say ‘Oooo, Mafia, whatta good job you do.' Make you look like the sheriff, huh? We put the gold star on your shirt. You read the newspaper, okay? You see peech' of Meester Augustine, dress very nice in nice suit? Joost put the gold star on his suit, he looka joost like the sheriff.”

Gibbons narrowed his eyes. The fat bastard had a point. Mob cases do get more press than most others, and ambitious prosecutors have been known to go after high-profile cases for the publicity. But Tom Augustine wasn't like that. He may have political aspirations, but as lawyers go, he's always been a pretty straight shooter.

Buddha shook his finger. “You no wanna admit, but you know I'm-a right.”

They passed a Chinese restaurant, and Gibbons noticed the dead ducks hanging in the steamy window, roasted to a shiny brown with the heads and feet still attached, hanging by their necks from metal hooks. Gibbons stared at the row of ducks and grinned. Eighteen convicted defendants, all in a row. With a big fat one on the end.

The beeper suddenly went off again. Gibbons pulled it out and looked at it. The office again.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on. I may learn something here
.

He turned it off and put it back in his pocket.

“What's the problem, Meester Effa-B-I. Maybe Sheriff Augustine, he want you. Make-a the—how you say?—the posse, go get Mafia man.”

“You're a real clever guy, Ugo. You know the score, don't you? Well, since you know so much, why don't you explain something to me? According to you, Mafia guys are supposed to be men of honor, right? So how can a man of honor sell drugs? You can't tell me pushing dope is honorable.”

Buddha gave him that look again, the it's-so-obvious look.
“You say you know Mafia, but you know nothing. Let me ‘splain philosophy of the man of honor. A person who takes drugs, he has no honor because he is weak and disgusting to do such a thing. This kind of person deserves to become a junkie. He chooses this for himself. Nobody make him take the drug. If a man of honor sells this weak person some drug, that's joost business.”

“Sounds like bad business to me.”

Buddha frowned and shrugged. “You say that joost because it is against the law to sell drugs in America. But that law is not Mafia law. That law make no sense. You can sell whiskey to a drunk, that's okay. Why? I don't know. Makes no sense. Politicians make up the laws to help themselves. That's why they make no sense. Mafia law make sense, and that's what man of honor must obey.”

Gibbons shook his head. “You know, you're full of shit, Ugo. The mob is in it for the money, just like everybody else. And that's all there is to it.”

“Mannagg'.”
Salamandra bit his knuckle in exasperation. “Of course, everybody want money. Whatta you think?”

“Then why should the Mafia be above the law?”

“I no say that. You ask me what I know of man of honor, and I tell you. I no say is good or bad.”

Gibbons wanted to bite Salamandra's knuckle for him, hard. The fat bastard thought he was clever.

The dog whined and looked back at Salamandra with expectant eyes as they weaved through the crush of people on the sidewalk. The crowd was probably scaring the poor animal. Salamandra spoke to the dog in Italian, very soothing and assuring.

Gibbons glanced back at the two poker-faced greaseballs. He still couldn't figure out where the hell Salamandra was going. As they passed a Chinese fishmonger's stand, Gibbons's eye was drawn to a mess of purple-gray squid in a nest of crushed ice. When he looked up again, he spotted that
photographer about twenty feet ahead of them, walking backward and snapping pictures.

Why don't you take that fucking Nikon and get the hell outta here before I stick it up your
—

“I tell you something, Meester EfFa-B-I, now you tell me something.” Buddha had an earnest, inquisitive look.

“Whattaya wanna know?”

“Vincent Giordano—is he sick in the head?”

Gibbons looked at him from under his brows. He had to watch what he said to Buddha about Giordano. “I don't know, Ugo. You think he's sick in the head?”

“I think yes, he is crazy. Because only crazy man testifies against the Mafia.”

“You said there's no Mafia in America. You said none of the Figaro defendants were in the Mafia.”

Buddha raised an index finger. “No. I say
I
am not Mafia. The men on trial, some of them are from Sicily. I don' know about them.”

“So what're you saying here? Giordano's crazy because the mob is gonna put a contract out on him? What is this supposed to be, news?”

“You don' know how Mafia work. Not American punks,
real
Mafia from Sicily. Somebody like Giordano betray the Mafia, they become like terrorist. Many people get hurt, innocent people, not just one man. You understand what I say?”

Gibbons bared his teeth. “You're not trying to scare me, are you, Ugo?”

Salamandra's eyes bulged. “You
should
be scared.” Only crazy man not scared. If somebody make the phone call and tell Mafia where they can find Giordano, it would be like the whisper from God. Maybe they joost kill him, leave everybody else alone. These men, they get mad—
madonna
, they don' care, they joost kill and kill and kill. You don' know. Sicilian people very bad sometimes.”

“You're Sicilian.”

“Yes, but I am no Mafia. Besides, I am innocent. I already tell you that.” Buddha was smiling from ear to ear.

The beeper went off again. Gibbons didn't even take it out of his pocket.

“They must want you bad, Meester Effa-B-I.”

“Guess they do.” Mind your fucking business, you fat asshole.

Salamandra bent over and spoke to the dog in Italian again, tugging on the poor mutt's leash. “We see you later, Meester Effa-B-I. My dog must do her business.” He waved good-bye the way the Italians do, backwards, curling his fingers into his palm, and they crossed the street to a concrete park where a few Chinese mothers were out freezing with their babies. Salamandra led the dog to a patch of dirt over by the iron-pipe swing sets. He made a pushing motion with his hands, and the dog hunkered down and started to take a dump. The greaseballs stood by and watched as if it were interesting. Looming in the background were the Tombs, the high-rise lockup where Salamandra would've been spending his days if he hadn't made bail.

The skinny photographer had taken up a position behind an iron-bar fence on the far side of the park. He was catching some great shots of the dog. Ought to get him a fucking Pulitzer prize. Asshole.

Tozzi stood in front of the elevators with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the numbers over the stainless-steel doors. Gibbons was standing next to him, grumbling because he didn't get lunch.

Gibbons hit the “up” button again. “So what'd you do now,
goombah
? You make a scene with Ms. Halloran at the restaurant?”

“Me? I didn't do a thing. Actually, it was going pretty well after you left. Lorraine was miffed, but Lesley was okay. She's all right. I may have been wrong about her.” The bell rang and the elevator doors opened.

Gibbons grumbled again as they got in. “Well, you must've done something. Why else would Ivers be calling us in at one-thirty in the afternoon on Christmas Eve?”

Tozzi pressed “4.” “Why do you assume it was me who did something wrong? What about you? What're you, Saint Joseph in the manger?”

Gibbons grumbled something under his breath. The bell dinged again, and the elevator opened on the fourth floor.
“C'mon. Let's go. They're waiting for us.” They stepped out of the elevator. “Augustine's office is this way, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Tozzi took off his coat as they walked. “Why are we meeting
here
, anyway? What's wrong with the field office? If Ivers is gonna chew me out, I don't want it to be in front of Augustine.”

“See? You just admitted it. You
did
do something wrong.”

“What're you talking about?”

“You just said you didn't want Augustine to hear Ivers chewing you out. If you're assuming that Ivers is gonna give you a tongue-lashing, then you must've done something to deserve it. Right?”

Tozzi gave him a dirty look as they walked. What he was wondering was whether they were gonna be reprimanded for having lunch with Lesley Halloran. McCleery must've run back to Augustine from the restaurant and given him an earful. They didn't discuss the case, so there was no reason to be reprimanded. But as McCleery said, it was the
appearance
of impropriety. It's too bad. They were sort of getting along at lunch. He wondered if he'd have to wait until the trial was over before he could ask her out. If he decided he wanted to ask her out, that is.

They turned a corner and walked together down another long, brightly lit corridor. The division heads were all up in this wing, the U.S. Attorney in the big suite at the end of the hall. The big man and all his top honchos. They all had nice offices in this wing, as Tozzi remembered, nice paint on the walls, not the usual government-issue colors, antique furniture, wall-to-wall carpeting. They came up to the dark-stained double doors of Augustine's office. His name and title were painted on the door in gold leaf.
THOMAS W. AUGUSTINE III, ASSISTANT UNITED STATES ATTORNEY FOR THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK, NARCOTICS DIVISION.
Tozzi turned the heavy brass handle and opened the door.

One of Augustine's assistants was sitting at the secretary's desk. He was just a kid, a year or two out of law school at
most, but he had that I'm-in-control, prep-school look. Actually he looked like an Augustine-in-training.