Bad Business

by Anthony Bruno

  He stuck his chest out, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. Then he remembered something Neil Sensei always said to the class. Win before you get there. Tozzi squeezed out a small grin to make himself believe that he’d already won. But even though this kid was an overweight punk, he had a jo stick and he looked like he was out to impress his buddies.

  “You gonna tell us where it is, or you want your head cracked open?” He moved in closer.

  Tozzi forced himself to stay put. He didn’t answer the guy. He didn’t want to be distracted with talk.

  “Hey, I asked you a question, man,” the kid yelled. “I want an answer.”

  Tozzi said nothing. Just stood his ground.

  “Fucker,” the kid grumbled as he made his move. He raised the jo stick over his head and lunged, intending to bash Tozzi over the head with it.

  Tozzi waited, made the moment stretch, waited for the stick to start its downward arc toward his head. Then when the guy was totally committed to his attack, Tozzi moved slightly to the side to avoid the blow and caught the jo stick, underhanded in the middle of the stick, overhanded at the end. Without disturbing the flow of the attack, he guided the stick and swung it down between them, then back up until they were back to back, continuing the motion so that the guy had his hands over his head, still gripping the stick. Tozzi swung the stick down and behind the guy’s head so that he fell over backward, losing his grip. Remembering that there were two other homeboys waiting for him, Tozzi jabbed the end of the stick into the kid’s face and bashed his nose as if he were breaking the balls on a pool table. The kid grabbed his face and yelped as Tozzi spun around to greet whoever was coming next.

  The other two homeboys were rushing toward him, the black guy and the Hispanic, but they were hesitant, one waiting for the other to go first.

  French Fry yelled to them. “Go, muthahfuckah! What’chu waitin’ for?”

  The black guy stepped forward. He was holding a bokken, one of the wooden practice swords, and he came at Tozzi, slashing it from side to side one-handed, like a pirate. The whoosh of the bokken sounded menacing, but he was committing his balance with each swipe. Tozzi waited for him to slash all the way to one side, then he moved in fast and took advantage of the length of the jo stick and poked the end into the black guy’s throat, pushing him back, sinking the stick into his vocal chords. The guy made a sound like he was going to throw up as he fell back on his haunches, clutching his neck and gagging.

  “Hey, what’s going on here? What is this, Mike?”

  Tozzi looked up and saw Neil Sensei coming out of the locker room. He was wearing his street clothes.

  “I could use a little help here, Sensei,” Tozzi called out.

  The Hispanic kid turned away from Tozzi and dashed toward Neil. Sensei wasn’t very big, so the dope must’ve figured he’d have an easier time with the little guy. He figured wrong.

  “You ain’t helping nobody, cocksucker,” he grunted as he ran up to Neil with his fist cocked, thinking he was gonna punch Neil’s head off. But as he delivered the punch, Neil deflected it and extended his arm, so that the guy clothes-lined himself with his own momentum. He fell backward and hit the floor hard, his head bouncing off the bare wood. In a daze, the stupid kid raised his knee and tried to lift his head, but he could barely roll it from side to side.

  Tozzi was watching Neil, admiring his calm and effortless movement when suddenly he was grabbed from behind. He felt cold metal under his chin. That goddamn hunting knife. Instinctively he’d grabbed the huge hand to save himself, pressing it against his collarbone to keep it from cutting him, but the guy was fucking strong. Tozzi tucked his chin in and looked down. He recognized the baloney forearm and felt the big belly against his back. Fucking French Fry.

  “You think you funny wit’ dis aikido shit, you and you frien’. Now I’m gonna be funny. Tell me where that fuckin’ rug is or I cut your fuckin’ head off and throw it out the window.”

  Tozzi scanned the room, struggling to keep the blade off his throat. Then he spotted Neil waving to him from the other end of the room. “Bow,” he yelled.

  With that one word, Tozzi knew what to do. He relaxed his shoulders and settled into his one-point as he bowed from the waist, holding French Fry’s arm against his chest and flipping him over his back. French Fry hit the mat with a colossal thud and screamed like a cat, writhing and clutching the other arm, the one Tozzi had already fractured.

  “Whoa, I’m gettin’ the fuck outta here, man.” The Hispanic guy zigzagged out the door, holding the back of his head.

  The black kid was already gone.

  The white guy, whose nose was a bloody mess, ran to his boss’s aid and helped French Fry to his feet. He kept looking to see where Tozzi and Neil were, afraid of what they’d do next. “C’mon, French Fry. Let’s go. C’mon, C’mon.” French Fry moaned and wailed like an old momma at a funeral, his eyes squeezed shut as the white kid led him out the door. They forgot the hunting knife and left it on the mat.

  Good, Tozzi thought, dropping his head in exhaustion. At least we can get fingerprints.

  Feeling faint, he got down on one knee and examined his wound. His gi was soaked with blood. He sat down and closed his eyes, trying not to pass out.

  “You’re bleeding, Mike.” Neil Sensei was on the mat, standing over him.

  Tozzi nodded and opened his jacket to show him.

  “Don’t get up. I’ve got a first-aid kit in the locker room. Just yell if they come back.”

  Tozzi nodded. “Okay.”

  But when Neil was out of the room, Tozzi scooted to the edge of the mat, looked over at the doorway to make sure no one was there, then peeled back the mat. As soon as he saw it, his body went slack and he relaxed. The blue and beige pattern on the maroon background that was etched in his mind was right there in front of him, right where he’d put it that afternoon after he and Lorraine were attacked at Uncle Pete’s.

  Tozzi let the mat fall back into place, covering the rug again. He scooted away from the edge and lay back on the mat, looking up at the cracked ceiling, listening to his heart work. It was beating hard and slow, like a gong.

  Tozzi ran to the phone as soon as he got into his apartment. He’d figured out what he was going to do while they were stitching him up in the emergency room. It might work, he thought. It definitely might work. Use the little rat to smoke out the big one.

  He dialed directory assistance in New York and asked for the number for the New York Tribune’s editorial offices. He shrugged off his coat, careful not to pull the stitches under his armpit as the recording gave the number. He jotted it on the edge of a magazine on the counter as the recording said it a second time. He hung up with his finger to get a new dial tone and punched out the number.

  It rang twice and a woman answered. “Editorial.”

  “Mark Moscowitz, please,” Tozzi said.

  “I’ll see if he’s in. Who should I say is calling?”

  “Tell him it’s Mike Tozzi.”

  Tozzi glanced at his watch. It was 10:10 P.M. The Tribune is a morning paper, so they should be putting tomorrow’s edition together right now. The little shit fucking better be in.

  “Tozzi. What can I do for you? Got any more good quotes for me?”

  Tozzi pictured the overgrown rat’s snide expression. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do, Moscowitz.”

  “I guess some guys never learn.” Tozzi could hear him lighting up a cigarette, exhaling into the phone. “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “Well, since it’s a slow week for news because of the holidays, I thought I’d give you an exclusive interview. For the record, this time.”

  Moscowitz coughed up a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Who needs you? You’re gonna tell me you’re innocent. Big fucking deal. That’s not news.”

  “How about if I said Tom Augustine is framing me? Is that news?”

  The rat snorted. “You’re wasting my time, Tozzi. Go peddle your vendetta somewhere else. Try the Post.”
r />   “Hey, I can prove it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Go ’head, I’m listening.” The rat sucked on his cigarette.

  Tozzi pulled up a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. He knew exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. He’d been going over it for the past two hours, trying to figure out the best way to make this bastard swallow the hook. He unbuttoned his shirt and reached in to feel the stitches as he started. “This whole investigation into the murders at my uncle’s house? It’s a complete fuck-up, top to bottom. Augustine and his sidekick McCleery have taken my guilt as a given from the very beginning. That’s not how you run an investigation.”

  “Yeah, right. Tozzi, you sound like every other con waiting his turn on death row.”

  “Hey, give me a little credit here. I do know something about criminal investigations—I’ve been doing it long enough. These clowns aren’t following any procedure I’ve ever heard of. And I think that’s depriving me of my constitutional rights.”

  “Hang on, hang on.” Moscowitz put down the phone for a second. “You mind if I record this conversation?”

  “Go ’head. It’s fine with me.” Tozzi smiled. The rat was taking the cheese.

  “Okay, talk. Now, exactly how are you being deprived of your constitutional rights here?”

  “Augustine insisted that the FBI stay out of this investigation because I’m an agent, right? But who’s got the most complete, state-of-the-art forensic labs in the world? The FBI. If you knew you were innocent of a crime, wouldn’t you want the best labs and technicians available to prove it? Why do I have to settle for second-best? I’m being deprived of my rights as a citizen.”

  “So what’re you saying? The Jersey cops are incompetents?”

  “No, I have no problem with them. I’m sure they’re doing the best they can with the facilities they have. No, my problem is with that handpicked albatross the U.S. Attorney’s office put around their necks, Jimmy McCleery.”

  “Hold on. I want to get this down now. ‘Handpicked albatross’ . . . Okay, now what’s your problem with McCleery? He used to be one of your guys, wasn’t he? He was in the FBI, right?”

  “Yeah, he was in the Bureau. But did you ever wonder why he didn’t stay?”

  “No, why?”

  “Let’s just say he left under a cloud.”

  “Why? Whad’ he do?”

  Tozzi looked up at the ceiling and grinned. “I don’t know if I should say . . .”

  “Hey, you want me to print this? Give me the whole goddamn story or forget about it.”

  “Well . . .” Tozzi smiled.

  Make him want it.

  “All right, forget about it, Tozzi. See? I knew you were bullshit.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Why the hell should I protect McCleery? He doesn’t give a shit about me.”

  “That’s right. So what’s McCleery’s story?”

  “Where do I begin? There are so many. Well, there was this time out at LaGuardia Airport. It must’ve been October, November 1986. We got word that this Colombian gang from Queens was bringing in coke on domestic flights from Florida. There was this baggage handler working for them who intercepted the dope right off the plane. Six agents were out on the tarmac waiting for this guy to make his move, and when he did, McCleery and his partner were the first ones to apprehend him. But McCleery is such a genius he insists they do a field test on it, right there and then, and so he slits open this brick of coke.”

  “Yeah? And what happened?”

  “The wind happened, that’s what happened. A whole kilo, gone with the wind. Had to let the fucking guy go because we didn’t have any evidence.”

  Tozzi leaned his elbows on the table and grinned. That was the time McCleery replaced him as Gibbons’s partner. The way he heard it, Gibbons nearly killed him, he was so mad.

  Moscowitz exhaled into the phone. “Coulda been an innocent mistake. I’m sure McCleery’s got a different version of how it went down.”

  “Well, if you call him to ask, make sure you also ask him about the time he found Jimmy Hoffa’s remains.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Jimmy Hoffa. McCleery told everybody he’d been working this lead for a long time, and he was sure he found out where they dumped Hoffa’s body. A pet cemetery in the Catskills. All the big guns from the labs down in Washington came up for the dig. McCleery was in his glory, telling everybody what to do. They dug up one grave after another, but after a while the pathologist on the scene said he didn’t think any of these were human bones they were digging up. McCleery went nuts, insisted that Hoffa was there, grabbed one of the plastic evidence bags and screamed these bones were too big to be an animal, swore on his mother’s grave that he had to be holding Jimmy Hoffa right there in his hand. A great Dane named Daisy is what he was holding. The people who’d had their pets buried in that cemetery mounted a class-action suit against the Bureau. We ended up paying a bundle in damages because of that nitwit.” Tozzi shook his head. It was a true story. He was there.

  “Yeah, this is all very amusing, Tozzi, but what’s this got to do with your case? You’re telling me they’re botching the job, but you’re not telling me how.”

  “Well, have they produced a murder weapon yet? Where I come from, that’s the first thing you do in a murder investigation, connect the weapon to the suspect. But they haven’t even got a gun. They’re gonna try to bring charges against me based on flimsy circumstantial evidence. If I tried to present a bullshit case like this to my boss, you know where he’d tell me to go?”

  “Yeah, but you got no alibi. You said you were home that morning, but you got no one to back you up.” Moscowitz was cocky, like he thought he knew something.

  “See? Augustine’s got you buffaloed too. If the U.S. Attorney’s office wants to charge me with murder, I don’t need an alibi until they present their case. The burden of proof rests with the prosecution, not the defense. They need to produce a weapon. They have to establish the fact that I was there at the time of the murders. That’s the way the law is written in this country, Moscowitz.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. So what’s your point? Why do you think you’re being singled out for this thing?”

  “I was a convenient scapegoat, that’s what I think. When you were so kind as to print that remark I made in court, Augustine must’ve figured he could hang this on me and save Figaro from going down to a mistrial. If they couldn’t come up with a real suspect, they’d use me.”

  “What’s Augustine got against you? You got a history with him?” The rat wasn’t so cocky all of a sudden. The hook was in, and he wanted to know more.

  “I don’t know what Augustine’s problem is. Why don’t you go ask him?”

  “I will.”

  Beautiful.

  Tozzi felt his stitches again. “One thing I have been thinking, though, and this is between you and me. You understand?”

  “Don’t worry. I understand.”

  “Okay, say Augustine gets an indictment and gets me in court, tries the case himself and gets a conviction. My head would look pretty damn good on his wall, wouldn’t it?”

  “Whattaya sayin’?”

  “I’m saying that getting me convicted wouldn’t hurt his chances for winning the next mayoral election. He’s gonna be scrounging for liberal votes, minority liberal votes. Locking up a killer FBI agent would appeal to those voters. Don’t you think?”

  “It might.”

  Tozzi could hear the wheels turning over the phone. “But this is just between you and me, Moscowitz. It’s just speculation.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t repeat it.”

  Tozzi smirked. Yeah, I’ll bet.

  “Look,” Moscowitz said. “Lemme do a little checking around. I’ll need some other sources to back up your stories. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Sure. No problem. I know how it works.”

  “Hey, and thanks for calling me. I’m glad there’s no hard feelings.”

  “No, n
o hard feelings.” You fucking little shit.

  “I’ll be talking to you, Tozzi. I promise. Take it easy.” The rat hung up.

  Tozzi sat there, staring at the receiver in his hand, touching his stitches.

  And when you talk to Tom Augustine, asshole, make sure you give him my regards.

  — 20 —

  The phone rang.

  Tozzi’s eyes shot open. His heart was hammering. The bedroom was dark. He stared at the red digits on the clock radio—5:44. It was dawn. He stared at the ringing phone on the night table. Who the fuck—?

  He reached over and grabbed it. “Hello.”

  No one said anything, but someone was there, listening.

  “What? Whattaya want? Speak.” Tozzi laid his hand on his bare chest. His heart was going crazy. He was thinking somebody had died. Then his fingers found his stitches and he remembered what happened last night.

  “I received a call from Mark Moscowitz just before midnight.” It was Augustine. “He asked me to comment on some nonsense he said you told him. I convinced him that it was all rubbish and that he shouldn’t pursue it any further.”

  Tozzi sank back into his pillow and just lay there for a moment, listening to the silence on the line, blinking his eyes, trying to think. It was like listening to the silence in a chess game when it was your move.

  “I’ve thought the matter over carefully,” Augustine suddenly continued. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”

  “How do you know this phone’s not tapped?” Tozzi finally asked.

  “I know for a fact that McCleery and the police haven’t had it tapped. If you’ve put a recording device of your own on this line, I’m sure you’ll destroy the tape after you’ve heard my offer.”

  Confident as ever, the fucking bastard.

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  Augustine laughed. “That’s because you’re the one who fancies himself the hero, and heroes never have any options. They always have to do the right thing. Which is what you’re going to do.”