Tozzi got down and went to the warped wooden door. Through the slit where the door didn’t quite meet the frame, Tozzi was able to see Buddha and Bells sitting at their table. He put the rim of his empty glass against the door, careful not to make any noise, then put his ear to the base of the glass. Low-tech surveillance, but the best he could do on the spur of the moment.
He listened for a full minute, but all he could hear was the jukebox playing softly out in the bar. He took his ear off the glass and looked through the slit. Buddha and Bells were just sitting there, not saying anything. They seemed to be waiting each other out.
Bells was looking down at something on the floor between him and Buddha. Tozzi got up on his toes to see what was so interesting. He furrowed his brows when he finally spotted the blue and yellow kid’s backpack. There was some goofy-looking character on the front of the backpack, a fuzzy blue thing with googly eyes and a cookie in its paw. The crazy eyes reminded him of Freshy DeFresco’s when he wanted something.
Buddha was moving a pair of salt and pepper shakers around the tabletop as if they were chess pieces. He seemed to be lost in thought, intent on the salt and pepper. Only his fingers moved. For a little guy, Buddha had a big face, but the face seldom moved, except for the eyes. Even his dyed-black hair, which he combed in a slight pompadour, seldom moved. From his build, you’d expect Buddha to be a wiry kind of a guy, but Buddha didn’t say much and he didn’t move much—that was why they called him Buddha. He was like one of those statues. Of course, the name was deceptive. Snakes don’t move much either, not until they strike.
It looked like Bells was waiting for Buddha to make the first move. He just sat there with his arms folded on the table, a trace of a grin on his face as he watched the capo move the salt and pepper shakers around the table. They were waiting each other out.
Tozzi went back and forth between squinting through the crack in the door and putting his ear to the glass, waiting for one of them to say something.
After a while, Buddha’s glance slid down to the backpack on the floor, lingered there for a moment, then floated back up. He looked Bells in the eye. “Your wife come back yet?” His voice croaked from underuse.
Bells shook his head.
“What’s it been? Month, month and a half?”
Bells raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “She ain’t coming back. She left everything—wedding ring, engagement ring—everything.”
“That’s too bad. What was it, another guy?”
“Margie? I dunno, maybe. Who knows? She was a wack and a half. I only hope she’s happy wherever she is.”
Buddha picked up the salt shaker and stared at it. “Pretty girl. She always seemed like a nice kid.”
Bells didn’t respond, and they fell back into silence.
No wonder this meeting was taking so goddamn long, Tozzi thought.
Buddha looked down at that backpack again, then clicked the glass salt shaker against the pepper shaker for a little while. Finally he pointed at the backpack with his chin. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”
Bells stared at him as if he were crazy. “Why not?”
Buddha frowned and shook his head. No was no.
“You’re being stupid,” Bells said.
Buddha didn’t respond. Tozzi waited for the capo to react, but Buddha’s face remained placid. Tozzi was surprised. Capos normally don’t tolerate being called stupid, not from their underlings.
“Stupid,” Bells repeated, his voice rising as if Buddha were passing up a great opportunity. “You’re being stupid.”
Tozzi furrowed his brow, his ear to the glass. Maybe Bells was higher up in the mob hierarchy than the FBI had thought. The guy definitely wasn’t doing any bowing and scraping here.
Buddha cleared his throat. “The kid’s a screw-up. He’ll never pay it back.”
Bells nodded toward the men’s room and leaned over the table. “His buddy Santoro will keep him in line. He looks like he’s got some sense.”
Tozzi grinned.
But Buddha wasn’t impressed. “And what do you know about Santoro? Nothing.”
“What do I need to know? I’ve seen the place these guys got over in Union City. They’re putting out five hundred videos a day. They’re doing good business. I checked with Canoga Park. They know who Santoro is.”
Tozzi watched for Buddha’s reaction. He should’ve been just a little bit impressed. After all, Canoga Park, California, was the porno capital of the United States, and the Bureau had gotten a big porno distributor out there who was now cooperating with the government to vouch for Mike Santoro with the New York mob. If Santoro had friends in Canoga Park, he had to be okay. Tozzi put his ear back to the glass.
Buddha went back to clicking the salt against the pepper. Another long wait. “No,” he finally croaked. “The kid’ll screw up. It’ll end up being messy. No one needs messy.”
Bells started tapping the backpack with the side of his shoe. “He came up with this, didn’t he? That doesn’t make him a fuck-up. You said he couldn’t borrow any more until he paid up what he already owed. Well, here it is. Thirty-two, five. I don’t call that being a fuck-up.” Bells stepped on the backpack and flattened it out a little.
A sickly smile uncurled under Buddha’s nose. “Who do you think you’re kidding, Bells? The kid didn’t come up with that money. You did.”
Bells laughed. “Me? Are you crazy or what? What do I look like, Santa Claus?”
The capo’s smile snapped back into a short flat line, and his eyes dimmed. Buddha didn’t have to say that he thought Bells was full of shit.
Bells showed his palms. “Let’s start making a little sense here, okay? Why the fuck would I put up this kind of money for anybody.”
Buddha shook his head. “Not for anybody. For Freshy DeFresco.”
“So what’s so special about Freshy DeFresco that I should go in the hole just so he can get a loan from you? It don’t make sense.”
The salt shaker clicked against the pepper, like a clock ticking. “Nothing special about Freshy. Except that he’s got a sister named Gina.”
Gina? Tozzi fumbled the glass, but he managed to catch it before it hit the floor. His face was flushed.
Bells was staring hard at Buddha, his eyes bulging. He looked the way Tozzi felt.
Buddha’s sickly smile uncurled again. “You think I don’t know nothing. Lemme tell you something, Bells. I know a lot. I know all about you and that broad. You’re like a fly around shit with her. You oughta be ashamed of yourself. That’s why your wife left you. Has to be.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? What’s that got to do with this?” Bells pointed down at the backpack.
“Everything. You wanna get in that broad’s pants so bad, you’ll do anything. Like helping out her little brother, the fuck-up. Like getting him a nice big loan that he probably can’t handle. Like doing anything to be Mr. Nice Guy so you can impress the sister.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’m telling you, you’re crazy.”
“So maybe I am crazy. So what? But I’m not crazy enough to give these two mooks any money. Tell ’em to go see somebody else. I don’t need their business. Okay?”
“No. It’s not okay.”
Tozzi peered through the crack. The little capo was sitting up straight, his nostrils flared. Bells had finally pissed him off.
But Bells didn’t back down. “Listen to me, my friend. No woman’s snatch is worth thirty-two grand. I don’t care who she is.”
Buddha stared at Bells as he rolled the salt shaker between his palms. “You’re a pretty weird fuck, Bells. I wouldn’t put anything past you.”
Bells grinned like a skull. “You’re losing it, Buddha. You know that? You’re losing it.”
Buddha grinned back. “So why don’t you lend it to them?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Bullshit, you don’t.”
Bells shrugged. “Believe what
you wanna believe. I don’t have cash like that to work with.”
Buddha’s sick grin stretched a little wider. “Go ’head, lend it to them. I give you my blessing. You don’t have to cut me in or nothing.”
Bells just stared at him.
“What’sa matta, Bells? You don’t like that idea? How come? You can be the big cheese all by yourself. Freshy’ll kiss the ground you walk on. He’ll make sure his sister comes sits on your lap and tells you what she wants for Christmas.”
Buddha’s shoulders bounced in a quiet laugh. Bells just stared at him and said nothing. He looked like he wanted to wipe the smile off Buddha’s face, and for a moment Tozzi thought he just might try it, despite Buddha’s four beef boys sitting on the other side of room.
“What’sa matta, Bells? You look upset. You don’t like it when I start talking about your money, do you? My money, it’s okay to talk about. But when it’s your money, it’s different.”
Bells didn’t say anything for a minute. It was as if he weren’t even listening. Then suddenly he smiled. “You do whatever makes you comfortable, Buddha. Nobody’s twisting your arm. All I gotta say is that from a business perspective, you’re being stupid. These two guys are clearing ten grand a week now selling porn. You give ’em the money they need, they’ll buy more equipment, hire more people, expand their distribution. They say they can triple what they’re making now if they can get their hands on some capital.”
“Guys say a lot of things when they want money.”
“I’m telling you, do what makes you comfortable. You don’t wanna give it to them, don’t. I just came to you first because I always do. We do good business together. But if you don’t wanna do this one, I’ll just go look for someone who’s not afraid to make some money. No hard feelings.”
The little capo’s mouth snapped back to a short line. He turned his wrist over and started to punch out numbers on the calculator in his wristwatch. His delicate little fingers had no trouble with the minuscule keypad. Every time he’d get a tally, he’d stare at it for a second, then clear it and start all over again. He did this at least a half-dozen times in a row. Bells watched, grinning like he knew something Buddha didn’t.
“All right,” Buddha finally said, his voice soft and suddenly sleepy.
Bells nodded as if he knew all along what the outcome would be.
Buddha pointed down at the blue and yellow backpack. “I know this money came from you, Bells. I don’t care what you say. If you wanna stick your neck out for this DeFresco kid, that’s your business. But my business is making money. You believe in these two guys so much, fine. I’ll give ’em what they want, but it’s gonna be at a point and a half a week, and you are responsible for them. You understand me? They fall behind in the vig, you pay it. They screw up, they skip town, they blow it at the track, I don’t give a shit. It’s your problem. You understand? If they don’t pay up, then it’s your headache.”
Bells looked him in the eye. “And who in his right mind is gonna collect from me?”
Buddha leaned into his face and stared back at him. “Don’t flatter yourself, my friend. You’re not the only freak in this business.”
Tozzi was confused. Freak? What was that supposed to mean?
“You’re hurting my feelings, Buddha.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your feelings. All I care about is the green. And so do you.”
Bells shrugged. “Money can’t buy me love.” He laughed at his own statement.
Buddha stood up. “Tell your porno friends they can have the money. If I were you, though, I’d get some collateral out of them. Remember, they’re your responsibility.”
Bells stared up at him. “I never forget anything, Buddha. You know that.”
The capo didn’t answer. Instead he reached over the table and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, putting them back where they’d been, next to the bowl full of sugar packets and the Heinz catsup bottle. He headed for the back door then, and two of his four gorillas rushed ahead to get it for him. The other two brought up the rear as the little capo walked out with the blue and yellow backpack under his arm.
Tozzi put the glass down on the sink and flushed the toilet. He ran some water and washed his hands. When he unlocked the eyehook and opened the door, Bells was slumped down in his seat, his arms laid out on the table, palms down. He was staring straight ahead, lost in thought.
Tozzi took a tentative step toward him. “You okay, Bells?”
The loan shark nodded like a robot, then suddenly stared up at Tozzi and grinned. “Yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”
Tozzi shrugged. “Fine.”
Bells stared out into space again. “I got some good news for you guys.”
The toilet was still running back in the men’s room.
FIVE
9:02 A.M.
Tozzi stared out the window at the lower Manhattan skyline across the choppy, steel-gray waters of the harbor. He could hear the shower going upstairs, Freshy singing some stupid rap song about shaking his body, shaking his body. The choppy waves reminded Tozzi of swirls of frosting on a chocolate layer cake, and that made him think about food again. He was tired, hung over, and starving, and there wasn’t a solid thing to eat in this house because Freshy’s parents were spending the week down in Atlantic City, and Freshy would never think of something as obvious as buying groceries. Tozzi had already packed the garbage pail with rotten moldy stuff he’d found in the refrigerator in his useless search for breakfast. The milk he’d poured down the sink was almost cottage cheese, and Tozzi was drinking his coffee black, waiting for Freshy to get out of the goddamn shower and get dressed so they could go find a diner.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he sipped from a New Jersey Devils mug and made a face. He hated his coffee black, but he needed the caffeine. He was fixated on one of those nice big Greek diners where he could have all the milk he wanted in his coffee, eggs over easy, and a pile of hash browns. Yeah, a mountain of crispy-edged home fries would really fill that hole in the middle of his gut right now. And toast, too. Buttered rye toast. If friggin’ Freshy would only get out of the goddamn shower.
Tozzi arched his back and rolled his head on his shoulders. He felt like a bag of shit. He’d ended up sleeping on that lumpy old couch in the living room here. Last night he’d thought about going back to his own place in Hoboken since Joey’s Starlight Lounge was just on the other side of town, but that wouldn’t have been smart. Mike Santoro lived down the shore, an hour away. Someone could’ve followed him home, his real home, and that could’ve led to his cover being blown. So instead of going back to his own apartment and getting eight hours of sleep so he would be rested for his black-belt test tonight, he’d left the bar as Mike Santoro and gone back to Freshy’s parents’ house in Bayonne, crashed on the couch for five hours, and wrecked his back. But that was okay. Better this than having Bells and Buddha know where he really lived. But as soon as he got a decent cup of coffee and that mountain of home fries so that he could carb up for the test, he intended to go home, crawl into bed, and get a few more hours. Good hours. If Freshy would only shut up about shaking his goddamn body and get out of the friggin’ shower.
He rubbed the back of his neck and wished he’d taken a shower himself. He felt pretty scuzzy, and he’d do anything for a fresh pair of underwear. He looked up at the ceiling toward the sound of the running water. C’mon, goddamn it.
Unconsciously he reached for the mug of coffee and brought it to his lips, then frowned and put it back down. Without milk, it was like battery acid. He gazed out the sunny window, about to dump the rest of the cup down the sink, when suddenly he thought he heard something outside. Footsteps coming up the wooden steps that led to the kitchen entrance. Instinctively he turned in his seat so he’d have quicker access to the gun in his ankle holster. Then he remembered that he wasn’t wearing his gun. He had decided not to bring a gun to the meeting last night. One of Buddha’s gorillas could’ve frisked him, and they would’ve taken
the gun as a sign of bad faith.
A key slipped into the lock from the outside. Through the opaque curtains on the door window, Tozzi could see that whoever it was was carrying two grocery bags. Tozzi figured it must be Freshy’s mother, back from the shore.
The door swung open and banged against the kitchen counter.
“What the hell’re you doing here?”
It wasn’t Freshy’s mother. It was his sister, Gina.
Tozzi just stared at her, wondering whether that look of disgust on her face was for the smelly garbage or for him. He reminded himself that he was Mike Santoro, not Mike Tozzi, and the hots he had for her weren’t supposed to be any different from the hots he had for every other good-looking babe he saw in the course of an average day. Except for Mike Tozzi, that wasn’t the case. Gina was special. She was real. She was the Italian-American girl from the neighborhood he’d always wanted.
Gina set down the grocery bags on the counter and pushed her glasses up her nose. The glasses were round with thin purple metal rims, and on her they were sexy. She had soft brown hair that fanned out just below her shoulders, light brown eyes, and a Roman nose. She tended to look mad a lot of the time, but that was just her normal expression. She was slender, about five-five, five-six, somewhere in her early-ish thirties, and she always wore slacks. Never a dress or a skirt, from what Tozzi had seen. Today it was black slacks and black patent-leather flats with a silky banana-yellow top under a green satin bomber jacket. Tozzi thought she looked sharp, very tailored but still hip. But the one time he’d told her he thought she was very attractive, she told him he was full of shit and said she looked like John Lennon in drag, complaining that her breasts were too small and her can was too big, daring him to agree with her. Tozzi knew better than to fall for that one.
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