Bad Guys (14 page)

Tozzi wasn't listening. His vision blurred. He was thinking about Joel Lando. He wanted to break something. “You're full of shit, you fucking liar. Could never have happened,
never.
Varga had no muscle of his own back then, and that limp prick sure as hell didn't do it himself.”

“I heard it was his bodyguard who actually did the job. Varga just ordered it.”

“Who's the bodyguard? What's his name?”

“I don't know, Toz, I swear. All I know is that they call him ‘the Hun' because he looks like a fucking Nazi even though he's Italian. That's all I know, Toz, I swear.” Bobo raised one hand and laid the other on a video box lying on a shelf. “I swear to God, Toz.”

The Hun, the Hun . . . it didn't ring any bells with Tozzi. He tried to think of German-looking guys, light blonds with clear blue eyes and square heads, tall well-built guys, but he couldn't come up with any grown-up Hitler Youth in the mob. But his head was racing, and he couldn't think straight—he was too angry to think straight.

He grabbed Bobo's coffee-stained shirtfront. “I want to know the Hun's name.”

“I'm telling you, Toz, I don't know any more than I told you. I—”

Tozzi's hand slammed into Bobo's throat, forcing his head back into a shelf. “You think I'm fucking around here? I want that guy's name, do you understand me? I want to know who Varga's bodyguard was and I want to know right now.”

Bobo's face was red, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides like stiff salamis. He was too scared to defend himself. “Toz, I don't—”

“Two hours, asshole. That's how long it'll take me to get a couple of IRS agents down here.” Tozzi was putting all his weight on Bobo's throat.

“Listen . . . listen,” Bobo croaked. “I swear to you, I don't know who this Hun guy is, but I know someone who probably does. Okay? Someone who's been doing a lot of work for Varga lately. You know Paulie Tortorella?”

Tozzi shook his head and let up a little on Bobo's neck.

“He's crazy, the kind of guy who'll do anything for a buck as long as there's a thrill in it. Used to be a nobody, a hanger-on. Did little stupid jobs for Giovinazzo's people every once in a while. These days he calls himself a specialist, a torch. He's a real arrogant little son-of-a-bitch.”

“Where do I find him?”

“I don't know where he lives, but he hangs out at this place on Ferry Street in the Ironbound. A Portugee bar, Leo's I think it's called.”

“How do I find him?”

“You can't miss the little fuck. He looks like a jockey, five-feet-nothin'. And a real loudmouth.”

Tozzi let go of Bobo's throat and pulled the man's face up to his own. “If I don't find this Tortorella where you say, I'll be back. Okay?”

Tozzi didn't wait around for a response. Bobo just stood there, paralyzed, watching as Tozzi shoved his way through the front of the store.

“Hey, Bobo.” The black kid poked his head through the doorway. “We got somethin' called
My Bloody Valentine
!”

Bobo shook his head and closed his eyes.

Tozzi unwrapped what was left of his veal-and-pepper sandwich and tossed it out the window to a mutt pawing through the garbage inside a ripped plastic bag. The dog was all black, and in the dark of the alley, it was just a pair of tawny eyes. Tozzi stared at those fearful, suspicious eyes as the dog sniffed the sandwich. He felt like giving somebody a break because no one was giving him one.

He punched the buttons of the Buick's silent radio in frustration as he looked at the front door of Leo's Tavern, nervously trying to make something happen. The car, a '77 copper-brown LeSabre, belonged to a man in his aunt's building who was laid up in the hospital. Tozzi was “borrowing” it. For the past two hours, he'd been staring at that door and the flickering neon Rheingold sign in the window. His back was sore, his underwear was all crammed up his ass, and he had a throbbing headache. Sitting tight on a plant could be fucking torture.

Since seven o'clock that evening, he'd mentally taken note of everyone who'd gone into the tavern, then one by one accounted for them as they left. At eight-twenty he went in, sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and looked around for anyone small enough to have been a jockey. There were a couple of short stocky guys, but they were all Portuguese immigrant stonemasons, still wearing their work clothes, their shoes and pant legs white with mortar dust.

Tozzi nursed his beer, then ordered another. He struck up a conversation with the bartender about the World Cup games and this wonder that Argentina had on their team, Diego something or other. Tozzi
didn't know shit about soccer, but the bartender was a fanatic, so it was easy for Tozzi to make the guy carry the conversation by just acting enthusiastic. It was one of those bullshitter techniques Tozzi had become good at.

After he finished his second beer, he waved so long to the bartender, who was busy uncorking a bottle of wine for the stonemasons, and went back to the car where he'd been sitting ever since. Now it was twenty to midnight. The bar would be open till two, but Tozzi had a feeling Tortorella wasn't going to show tonight. He didn't have a good reason, he just had a feeling. He reached for the key in the ignition and thought about Gibbons. Gibbons would wait for the place to close. Gibbons always went by the book. Tozzi preferred his instincts. They always used to argue about that.

Anyway, to hell with Tortorella. He had a better idea.

He fired up the engine and pulled the long metallic-brown sedan away from the curb. Tozzi was nervous and he had to move. He knew where he was going, but he wasn't sure why he was going there. He just told himself something would happen when he got there.

“What?”
Her voice on the intercom didn't sound pleased.

“Hi,” he said, leaning into the intercom box. The fluorescent lights in the vestibule were too bright. He felt exposed.

“Who the hell is this?”

“It's me, Thompson. Your lover boy.” He felt like an asshole as soon as he added that.

She didn't respond. After a few seconds, the buzzer buzzed and he pushed through the glass door.

On the elevator up to her floor, he suddenly wondered what the hell he was doing there. But by the time the elevator doors opened on her floor, he wasn't worrying about that. Tozzi told himself he didn't need reasons; only bad guys needed reasons.

Turning a corner in the hallway, he suddenly spotted her leaning against her open doorway, wearing a long blue caftan. Her hair was tousled and loose, her eyes smoky and subversive. Young Lauren Bacall with a little Sophia Loren thrown in. She didn't say a word; she didn't have to.

“How ya doin'?” he said. He hoped a boyish grin would do the trick. If he had a boyish grin.

She didn't say anything. So much for his boyish grin.

“Okay. So now that we both know I'm an asshole and that I shouldn't be pulling this kind of shit at my age, why don't you accept my apology and invite me in for a drink? Two fingers of rum with a splash of soda. And a piece of lime if you've got any.”

“I don't like rum. Will Chivas do?”

“Sure, fine.”

She turned and headed for the kitchen. He followed, watching the bottoms of her bare feet play peekaboo under the hem of the caftan. She seemed to have pretty big feet for a woman. Roberta had little square feet. Fred Flintstone feet. Joanne's were big but narrow and graceful.

“You had a bad day, right?” she said sarcastically as she pulled down two rock glasses from the cupboard. “And you just had to see me.”

“You sound like you've heard this before.”

“Yup.”

“From Richie?”

She gave him the finger.

“Okay, okay. I won't even mention him. I promise. Anyway, I didn't exactly have a bad day, just an unproductive one.”

“For me, that's a bad day,” she said, handing him his drink.

“
Salute
,” he said, and clinked her glass. He thought about mentioning the bomb in his cousin's car, but then decided not to. There was nothing to be gained from bringing it up. Joanne didn't like to reveal much of herself in the way of emotions; she didn't even bother to fake it. Whether she was playing straight with him or not was going to remain her business and hers alone.

“I just came because I wanted to see you,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” She sipped her scotch and looked at him over the rim of her glass. Vintage Bacall. He'd always thought Bacall was hot.

“Yeah, well on second thought, maybe it has been a bad day,” he said. “But I don't really want to talk about it.”

“I know you don't want to talk about it.” There was a wry laugh in her reply. “Tell me, are you still going to be ‘Mr. Thompson' with me?”

He thought about it for a minute. He'd slept with her, for chrissake. If she was involved with the mob, she probably already knew his name, just like Vinnie Clams did, so it wouldn't matter if he told her. He had a feeling she wasn't involved, though. Oh, what the fuck. “My name's Tozzi, Mike Tozzi.”

“That's better.” She raised her glass to him and smiled.

He grinned and put his drink down on the kitchen counter. He looked her in the eye and they started to laugh at nothing. Then he pulled her close and kissed her, a silly, sloppy, delicious kiss. She didn't taste so much of tobacco this time.

“That's better,” he said. He smoothed the material over her ass and the back of her thigh. She wasn't wearing anything under the caftan.

“The kitchen floor isn't my style, Tozzi.” She disengaged from his embrace, picked up her drink, and walked out of the kitchen.

Tozzi grabbed his drink and followed her into the bedroom. It isn't her style, she'd said. It was too uncool just to say no. From the living room, he could see her standing by the bed, pulling the caftan over her head. She stood there looking back at him, resting one fist on her naked hip. She took another sip of her drink, and the rim of the glass underlined those beautiful dark eyes. Entering the bedroom, Tozzi wondered if Bacall ever said something wasn't her style in any of the Bogart movies.

He embraced her and kissed her again, running his hand down her hip. She grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him down onto the bed. He unbuttoned his shirt and turned off the bedside lamp as she undid his belt.

When he was naked, he loomed over her and covered her breast with his mouth, slowly circling the nipple with his tongue as he gently stroked her labia, feeling the warm wetness materializing to his touch. She let out a little moan and threw her head back into the pillows as she tugged on his cock.

He was hard but he was in no hurry. He wanted to give it to her slow, make it last, drive them both crazy. He entered her all the way, undulated his hips awhile, then suddenly pulled out until only the tip was pressing on her clit. She moaned sharply in surprise. He moved ever so slightly, rubbing in and out. She clawed at his chest hairs, rolling her head in the pillows.

Then without warning, he went in again, halfway, then pulled out completely. She screamed and he immediately stuck his cock back in slow and easy, stopping halfway again and rocking gently. Gradually he started to pull out again until his cock was just touching the edge of her clit.

“No . . .” she moaned. “Don't stop . . .”

He worked her clit, moving as little as possible without coming
out. She breathed harder, moaning louder. He kept going, his head starting to spin, the merry-go-round going faster and faster. It felt so good, but he wasn't ready to let go, not yet.

She dug her fingernails into his back and stiffened, her squeals of delight rising in pitch. He kept going, spinning faster and faster. She was coming now, thrashing her head in a tangled nest of her lush hair.

He grinned and stopped then.

“Don't stop,” she rasped frantically, and he started again, working with his tip, which felt like it was about to explode. Suddenly he couldn't hold back any longer. He started coming, slow at first, like a wave building momentum far out in the ocean, gaining height and power as it approached the shore, forming a towering curl that seemed to hang suspended in the air for longer than it naturally should, then finally crashing into the sands with a deafening roar.

After that he fell over onto the sheets, and the foamy remnants of the wave retreated from the sands and slipped back into the ocean.

It was almost three
A.M.
Joanne couldn't sleep. Tozzi shifted position in his sleep and pulled the sheets off her. She pulled them back and frowned. He was a light sleeper, damn it. She turned her head and looked at the phone, frustrated.

If she could just get to the phone in the kitchen, she could call Richie and tell him Tozzi was there. He'd have a couple of his men there in an hour. But she was afraid Tozzi would wake up again if she got out of bed. He might be in deep sleep now, but she didn't dare risk it. When she'd gone to the bathroom a half hour ago, he was wide awake when she returned.