Bad Blood

by Anthony Bruno

  “Why didn’t he use his own car?”

  “He says he only takes it to the grocery store. The guy’s a retired math teacher, an old fart. He’s not our man. I know it.”

  “A retired old fart, huh?” Tozzi laughed through his nose.

  “Shut up and listen, will ya, Tozzi? The killer was definitely no rocket scientist. He closed all the windows in the car before he dumped it into the river. Beetles are airtight. They float. I thought everybody knew that. Christ, I think they even used to advertise them that way.”

  “Maybe he’s not everybody.”

  “Obviously not. Not everybody has the crust to slice up two bodies like Thanksgiving turkey, then stick them in a car and dump them in the river.”

  “You put it so eloquently, Gib.”

  “Thank you. I just got a copy of the medical examiner’s report. It’s right here in front of me. One of the victims was cut on the right, the other one on the left. Initially we thought it was two cuts, but the ME says it was the same cut and that it was done after death. He thinks they were laid out on top of each other, or maybe even stood up face to face when it was done. Chew on that for a while.”

  “Sounds ritualistic to me.” He lowered his voice, looking around for Mrs. Carlson. “You checking out the devil-worship angle?”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Gib? You still there?”

  “Devil worshipers, huh? Why did I know you were gonna say that? Maybe it was Druids who did it. How about that?”

  “Come on, give me a break.”

  “Five minutes on the case and you’ve already come up with one of your Twilight Zone theories. I knew you’d love this one, Sherlock.”

  “I have no theories or opinions until I see for myself what the labs come back with.”

  “And then you can start busting my balls with the cult shit.”

  Tozzi stretched the cord and looked down the hallway. Mrs. Carlson was poking through the linen closet now. “I’ll see you later, Gib. I’m holding up a busy lady here.”

  “Oh, yeah? That sounds interesting.”

  “A real estate agent.”

  “She good-looking?”

  “A very nice personality.”

  “Too bad. So how’s that going? You find a place yet? And does the real estate lady come with it?”

  “I hope the hell not,” he mumbled. “This apartment search is a real pain. I just want to get it over with.”

  “So take a place, for chrissake, any place. All you need is three rooms and a bed. If it’s clean, just take it. You’re not Prince Charming, you don’t need Buckingham Palace.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll see you at five. And by the way, thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Getting me back out on the street.”

  “Oh . . . you’re welcome then. I’ll see you later.” Gibbons hung up.

  Tozzi was grinning as he put the phone on the hook, then walked over to the front windows. The teenage mommy was still having a ball with her kid.

  He could hear Charlene Chan’s heavy footsteps coming down the hall behind him. The mommy flicked her cigarette butt into the street and hugged the baby tight, rocking him inside the open flaps of her leather jacket.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Tozzi?” Mrs. Carlson asked.

  “Oh, fine, fine.” Then he remembered his lie to her. “Just a minor software problem.” Dead flesh is soft . . . at least until rigor mortis sets in.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “How much did you say the rent was again?” The baby was arching his back, sticking his face into the folds of his mother’s sweatshirt, laughing his head off.

  “Eight-fifty. Not including heat and hot water.”

  He knew he wasn’t going to find anything cheaper, not this clean. Anyway, he was sick of looking. He just wanted to get back to work now, real work. “I think I’ll take it,” he finally said, pressing his lips together and nodding.

  “Good for you,” she crooned with a well-practiced gush of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. Tozzi. There is just one final thing we must do before I can draw up a lease. The landlord likes to know who his tenants are, and he does prefer married tenants. Since he does live in the building himself, and there are fewer than five units in the building, he is legally entitled to screen tenants and accept or reject them as he sees fit. But I’m sure there won’t be a problem. There is a Mrs. Tozzi, I take it?”

  “Oh . . . yes. Of course.” His ringless hands froze in his pockets. “She couldn’t make it today. Business.”

  “Oh, I understand. You must be DINKS.” She smiled with all her teeth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dual Income, No Kids: DINKS. You’ve never heard that before?”

  Tozzi shook his head and forced a smile. Bitch.

  “Please forgive me. It’s just an expression. No offense was intended.”

  “None taken.” Offensive bitch.

  “Your wife isn’t a lawyer, is she? Mr. Halbasian doesn’t rent to lawyers.”

  “No. She’s not a lawyer.” Fucking offensive bitch.

  “Good. I’ll get in touch with him today and we’ll arrange for you all to meet. All right?”

  “Sure, fine.” Shit.

  He glanced back out the window at the teenage mother and considered the possibility, then instantly rejected the idea. She’d never pass for a DINK.

  Shit.

  FIVE

  NAGAI DIDN’T LIKE the way D’Urso was acting. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. He was too friendly, too smooth, not so arrogant. And too much smiling, considering why they were all here. He was up to something. Nagai looked to Mashiro for an opinion, but the samurai was preoccupied now, staring at his own hand. It was understandable. He’s never done this before. Americans can just say “I’m sorry.” Not so easy for us.

  “Here, use this.” Bobby Francione threw down a copy of The New York Post on the counter by the dirty sink. “And don’t get blood all over the place.”

  Nagai picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headline: DEATH BUG FOUND IN HARBOR. A picture of the Volkswagen hanging over the water from a cable was under the headline. Very subtle, Bobby.

  Mashiro stood off to the side as Nagai opened the newspaper over the old linoleum counter for him. The samurai put the small silver knife on the counter on top of the paper, then resumed his position, cradling one hand in the other like a small pet. Nagai looked at the man’s thick, fleshy fingers. They reminded him of starfish arms. The one grimy window and the dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in that dingy backroom recreated the ominous gray light that precedes a storm. It seemed too appropriate.

  “I’m all confused,” Francione said, pointing to the small knife with the three-inch blade. “Is all this necessary?”

  “It’s a yakuza tradition,” D’Urso said calmly. “Isn’t that right, Nagai?”

  Nagai nodded. “It’s called yubitsume. When a man has made a serious mistake, traditionally this is how he must atone for it.” He raised his right hand and showed his own mutilated pinkie and ring finger.

  “It’s like when we break legs,” D’Urso said to his brother-in-law.

  Francione suddenly snapped the newspaper closed and pointed to the headline. “For a major-league screwup like this, the fuck-up would be lucky if he was still breathing when we got through with him. If he was one of our guys, he’d be dead by now.”

  Why the hell did D’Urso have to drag that little asshole along wherever he went? Nagai wondered to himself. “How was Mashiro supposed to know that the car those kids stole would float? Floating cars. Who ever heard of such a stupid thing?”

  “That’s no excuse. You shoulda known. Now the cops must be all crazy about this. And why the hell did you have to cut ’em up like that? We don’t need this kind of aggravation now. You people are walking liabilities as far as I’m concerned.”

  Nagai stared at Mashiro’s hand. “And how is that?”r />
  “Just look at yourselves for chrissake. I mean put yourself in our position. We’re supposed to keep the law off your backs—right?—but you guys may as well wear signs around your necks, you’re so damn obvious. Most of you yak guys dress like my Uncle Nunzio with those loud sports jackets and the gooney hats. Then there’s the freakin’ body tattoos all you guys have, even on your dicks . . . and this finger thing.” He gestured at Mashiro’s hand. “If any of you guys ever gets caught, they’ll deport you in no time. You’re all dead giveaways.”

  “Enough, Bobby,” D’Urso said.

  Nagai shrugged, unconcerned. He tugged on the cuffs of his royal blue shirt so they showed outside the sleeves of his sharkskin jacket. “You have your traditions, we have ours.”

  “Tooling around in an old black Caddy with fins? Is that tradition, too? That car looks like the fucking Batmobile. Is that supposed to be your idea of keeping a low-profile?”

  Nagai glared at the punk, wondering why he was even having this conversation with this idiot. “That car belonged to Hamabuchi. He gave it to me. It would be dishonorable for me to give it up.”

  Francione threw up his hands. “Oh, for chrissake, that’s all we ever hear from you people. Can’t do shit because it would be dishonorable. Fuck. I think it’s just a convenient excuse for not doing what you don’t want to do.”

  Mashiro loudly sucked in a deep breath and picked up the knife. Francione’s eyes bugged out at the sight of the knife in Mashiro’s hand. Nagai forced a carefree chuckle. “It must be hard for you, Bobby, having to depend on slanty-eyed creeps like us to keep the slave trade going.”

  Francione’s finger sprang out in front of Nagai’s face like a switchblade. “Don’t get wise, Nagie. You need us to buy the slaves just as much as we need you to get them over here, so just keep quiet.”

  “Tell me then. Where else can you get slaves in this kind of bulk? Slaves that my people keep in line for you.”

  “Don’t try to throw your weight around with me, my friend. You’ve got people, my ass. I happen to know you’ve got nothing over here, Nagai. Zilch.”

  “I’ve got plenty of men here. More than you know.”

  Francione laughed in his face. “You don’t have men. Hamabuchi has men. They answer to him, not you. Only Mishmosh here answers to you.”

  Nagai’s heart started thumping. His throat felt dry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes I do. We know all about you, Nagai. We know that you don’t have any friends back home in Japan either because you fucked up royally over there. You’re on the outs with the Fugukai because you tried to off Hamabuchi so that you could take over the family. But you blew it, right? But instead of having you whacked the way he shoulda, Hamabuchi keeps you around like a little dog on a leash. Am I right or am I right, Nagai? Coming here was your punishment, right?”

  Nagai stared into Francione’s eyes, wanting to take the knife from Mashiro and slit the little bastard’s throat. Hamabuchi’s words came ringing back out of the past: “Now that you’ve gotten the treachery out of your system, you can be trusted not to try it again. Having realized your inadequacies, I believe that your loyalty to me will be that much stronger now. Atone for your error in America, Nagai. Work for me there, and I promise you, your honor will be restored.”

  But when, goddamn it? When?

  Francione looked at D’Urso and laughed. “He’s got nothing to say. He knows I’m right.”

  “Shut up, Bobby, and go stand over there.” D’Urso stepped between them. He put his hand on Nagai’s shoulder and took him aside. Nagai was wary of his touch. “Don’t mind Bobby. He’s a hothead. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “He knows quite a bit for someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  D’Urso nodded apologetically. “Yeah, I know, well, that’s my fault. Antonelli told me. I shouldn’t have said anything to Bobby.”

  Nagai felt hot. They knew too much. He’d said too much himself.

  “Listen,” D’Urso said under his breath, “I want to talk to you about something. I can use more slaves, a lot more, as many as you can get, especially women. Can you arrange it?”

  “The next shipment is due a week from Thursday—”

  “No, no, no, those are already accounted for. I want to up the order. Get ’em over here as fast as you can. If you’re willing to renegotiate the unit price, I’ll put in a bulk order right now. Two thousand slaves, half women. But delivery can’t be any longer than eight weeks. Can you do it?”

  Nagai stared at him. “Hamabuchi and Antonelli make the deals, D’Urso. Not us.”

  D’Urso wrinkled his face and smiled. “Forget about them. I’m talking about something just between you and me. I’ve got some plans, which I can’t really talk about just yet, but I definitely want to include you, Nagai. You’re a very capable guy. I recognized that about you from the start. But it seems to me that Hamabuchi is keeping you down, and that’s not right the way I see it.”

  “Just how do you see it?”

  “Well, the way I see it, this whole slave thing is working out because of you and me. We work pretty good together, and I think we could work better if we were independent, if you know what I mean.”

  Nagai laughed. “You must be kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Who the hell needs these fucking bosses? We do all the work and they take all the profits. We don’t get anything back from them. You know the figures, I don’t have to tell you. If we go out on our own, in three years we’ll have more money than the two of them put together.”

  Nagai shook his head. “We’d never be able to get a shipment out of Japan by ourselves. Hamabuchi would block it.”

  “So who says we have to have Japanese kids? You told me once that you had connections in the Philippines. You used to buy girls over there to work as hookers in Hamabuchi’s Tokyo nightclubs. Isn’t that what you told me? We could start bringing Filipino kids over here. You could arrange it, couldn’t you?”

  Nagai stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged as he thought about it. “In theory we could . . . but in reality we’d be dead in a week if we tried to cross them.”

  D’Urso grinned and shook his head. “Not if you stick with me. I’ve got muscle behind me. Antonelli doesn’t like to fight anymore, he’s too old. He’ll make noise, but he doesn’t really have the numbers to go up against me now. And as long as you’re here with me, we’ll protect you from Hamabuchi’s guys. I guarantee it. Hey, besides, you got Mashiro here to protect you. He won’t abandon you for Hamabuchi, will he?”

  “No, but—”

  “Hai. Mashiro suddenly came out of his trance, interrupting them. Nagai turned toward his man. This was important; he had to witness this. Mashiro had draped a towel over his front, and now he was bellying up to the counter and opening the newspaper again. He held the knife against the pinkie of the pet hand as if he were going to slice a carrot. He looked to Nagai for the go-ahead.

  “Think about it, Nagai,” D’Urso whispered in his ear. “Just think about it.”

  Nagai sighed inwardly and tried to concentrate on Mashiro. He kept thinking about what D’Urso had just said, though. It was crazy. He didn’t want to live here permanently, even if he could have Hamabuchi’s share of the profits. Still, with that much money, he could arrange to have his kids move here, kidnap them if he had to. And he wouldn’t have to deal with their goddamn mother over here. You could do a lot with that much money—

  A low, growly moan came out of Mashiro, and Nagai snapped out of it, feeling guilty for not paying attention at such a crucial moment in the samurai’s life. “Hai,” he said, trying to duplicate Mashiro’s intimidating grunt. The samurai looked over his shoulder at him. A good man, Mashiro. It wasn’t his fault, but still he is responsible. He met Mashiro’s unwavering gaze and nodded curtly.

  Without hesitation, Mashiro hunched over his hand. His shoulders heaved twice. Getting through the joint wasn’t easy. Naga
i knew. Blood quickly covered the newspaper and poured down the crease into the sink. Mashiro squeezed the base of the bleeding pinkie to staunch the flow. Nagai, in the meantime, took the knife and wiped it on the towel. He then pulled a Bic lighter out of his pocket and held the blade over a tall orange flame.

  “Holy shit,” Francione hissed. It was nice to see the punk looking so pale. “What’re you gonna do with that?” Francione nodded at the severed chunk of finger on the blood-soaked newspaper. He was barking. Like a dog on a leash.

  Nagai grinned as he watched the lapping flame. “Mashiro offers it to you. A token of his regret for his mistake.”

  Francione made a face. “Get that the fuck away from me.”

  “You could have an earring made out of it.” Nagai laughed.

  The punk touched the gold stud in his ear. “You’re real funny, Nagai. Flush it down the toilet. And make sure it goes down.”

  “Perhaps I’ll keep it.” Nagai passed the knife to Mashiro who immediately pressed the flat of the blade to his wound, cauterizing it on the hot metal. Nagai took a gray plastic film container out of his pocket and dropped the bloody piece of finger into it. The stench of burning flesh filled the small room as Mashiro asked his boss in Japanese for the flame again so he could touch up the cauterization. Nagai noticed that Francione looked like he was going to be sick. Nagai held the flame and shook the film container to make the punk a little sicker. But the hollow rattling sound that the finger made suddenly made him sad. It reminded him of the sound that fuzzy, white mechanical bear made on his little toy drum, a gift he’d given Hatsu, his oldest daughter, so long ago.

  After Mashiro had finished working on his finger, he rubbed the ceremonial knife carefully with the towel and gave it back to Nagai.

  Francione was shaking his head in astonishment. “You are one tough motherfucker, Mishmosh. Now I see why those slaves are so afraid of you.” He had his hand on his earring again. “How’d this guy get so mean, Nagai? He go to sumo wrestler school or what?”