Bad Blood

by Anthony Bruno

  Where the hell did the little punk get off talking to him this way? Nagai looked at D’Urso who seemed unconcerned. Was this what D’Urso really thought of him? Did D’Urso think he was supposed to take shit from this little asshole when they went out on their own? Fuck that.

  “Discipline is my responsibility,” Nagai said to D’Urso with deliberate calm. “We’ll take care of them.” He gave the kids instructions in Japanese.

  But when the kids went to take the slaves from the greaseballs, Takayuki started struggling, shouting in Japanese. “No! Stop! No more beatings. No more stinking chickens. We quit.”

  “What’s he saying?” Francione pulled a sour face. “What’s his problem?”

  Nagai looked at Mashiro who nodded back. He knew what to do.

  “No!” Takayuki screamed in Japanese. “Another step closer and I tell them about the federal agent Mashiro tried to kill right here in the factory. I know about Reiko, too, how she spies for you. I’ve seen her here with D’Urso’s wife and daughter, pretending to be one of us. I’ll tell them all about her.”

  God, no! “Mashiro! Sugu Yatchimae!”

  The samurai’s leg became an instant blur, a peacock tail of motion, as he pivoted, extended, and hammered his heel down onto the side of Takayuki’s neck. Blood spurted where the heel of his shoe ruptured flesh, splattering the other slave and the greaseball who held him. Takayuki crumpled as the greaseball reached into his jacket and pulled a gun. Instantly Ikki lunged, threw the greaseball’s gunhand up, kneed him in the nuts, and cracked him over the head with his elbow. The greaseball dropped to his knees and grabbed his head for protection. Ikki took a step back and stood over him, the greaseball’s gun in his hand. Hideo and Toshio were already in position in case anyone else panicked.

  Mashiro looked grim, deliberately unimpressed. These kids were all right, though. Moe, Larry, and Curly. Nagai grinned at D’Urso, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, searching the man’s face until he was convinced that D’Urso hadn’t recognized Reiko’s name in Takayuki’s outburst.

  Nagai glanced down at Takayuki’s body, then looked at the idiot brother-in-law. “Your problem is solved.”

  “The fuck it is,” Francione yelled. “I want a replacement for him.”

  Nagai nodded slowly and walked past him. “Sure, whatever you want. As soon as the next shipment comes in.”

  He walked over to D’Urso then and stared him in the face. “I heard a rumor that you’re considering a plan for rapid career advancement. It’s not a very good idea. I strongly suggest you rethink your plans.”

  D’Urso’s nostrils flared. “What’re you saying?” For the first time since he’d met him, D’Urso looked angry. Very angry.

  “And also,” Nagai said before D’Urso could get another word in, “I’ve considered your offer, but I have to say no thanks. Things are better for me as they are.” He turned his back on D’Urso and headed for the doorway with Mashiro and the kids in tow.

  “Hey, hold on, Nagai!” D’Urso reached out to grab Nagai’s arm, but Mashiro’s hand locked onto his wrist before he touched him.

  “There’s nothing to discuss, D’Urso. You know where I stand.” He pushed through the plastic drapes into the cold air. The sun sparkled off the chrome on the big black Caddy’s long fins as his entourage followed him down the steps of the loading dock. He could feel D’Urso glaring at him from inside the loading dock with his fists clenched in his suit coat pockets. The man was burning up inside. The world was shattering around him. Nagai knew the feeling.

  As Ikki opened the car door for him, Nagai stared up at D’Urso. Be smart, my friend. Put it out of your mind.

  He got into the car, and Mashiro put it in reverse and started to back away from the loading dock. Through the windshield, he watched D’Urso standing there glaring at him, his expensive blue suit shining in the cold sun.

  TWENTY-ONE

  D’URSO PEERED through the heavily tinted windows as Bobby squeezed the Mercedes between a double-parked cement truck on the right and a dumpster on the left. Clusters of tenements on both sides of the street were being renovated for condos. Hoboken—the whole fucking town was always under construction, but as far as he was concerned, it was still ugly.

  The revolving drum of the cement truck had pink polka dots painted on it. As they passed by, D’Urso could hear the cement in the drum rumble and ping. He watched the polka dots glide up and disappear over the top, and he thought how nice it would be to stick Nagai in a cement truck with fucking pink polka dots, the son of a bitch.

  Clearing the truck and the dumpster, Bobby hung a right onto an even narrower one-way street made worse by cars carelessly parked bumper-to-bumper along both curbs. At the next corner, he turned right again onto Adams where cars were double-parked solid in front of Farinelli’s Italian Specialties, so Bobby just stopped in the middle of the road. Farinelli’s jerky-looking kid was standing outside in front of the window where all the provolones and the salamis were hung, waiting there like a mamaluke, holding the bag. Look at that, will ya. Long dirty hair, earring, black Bon Jovi T-shirt. What a jerk.

  Bobby hit the button and his window rolled down. “Hey, Cheese,” he called out to the kid. “You get the order right today or what?”

  “I always get it right,” Cheese said with a sniff as he walked into the street. “It’s my old man who fucks up, not me.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did you remember to make the sandwiches with prosciuttine and not plain ham this time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what kind of peppers did you put on? Hot or sweet?”

  “Sweet.”

  “And is the mozzarell’ fresh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You lie.”

  “I swear to God.”

  “Ask him about the marinated mushrooms,” D’Urso said.

  “Yeah, the marinated mushrooms, Cheese. They in there?”

  “It’s in there, it’s in there.”

  “Yeah? And what’s to drink?”

  “Orangina and a Diet Coke. Okay?”

  A tinny car horn let out a blast just then, and D’Urso turned around in his seat to see where it was coming from. A little yellow Volkswagen Bug was on their ass, a Puerto Rican guy behind the wheel leaning on his horn. The car reminded him of the orange VW and Mashiro’s big screwup. D’Urso scowled. If he could just get rid of the two of them, Mish-mosh and his boss, oh, how happy his life would be. Damn them.

  The Puerto Rican guy leaned on his horn again. “Hey, shut up, okay?” Farinelli’s kid yelled.

  “Pay the kid and let’s get out of here,” D’Urso said, taking an envelope out of his inside pocket and handing it to Bobby.

  “Here.” Bobby passed the envelope to the kid, took the bag, and laid it on the seat between them. “I’m telling you now, Cheese, this better be right.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the kid whined. “It’s right, it’s right.”

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Bobby’s window glided up as the Mercedes started to pull away. D’Urso turned around and looked at the Bug again. “Go uptown and park where the factories are. We’ll eat there.”

  Bobby glanced over at him again as he drove, as if he were checking to see if he was all right. He’d been doing that off and on all morning, and D’Urso wished the hell he’d stop. “What’s on your mind, Bobby? Just say it.”

  Bobby drove through the next intersection and cruised up the next block of renovated tenements. “What’s on my mind? I’m worried about what’s on your mind. That’s what’s on my mind.”

  “Yeah? And what am I worried about?”

  “That the Jap knows. Christ, he could be telling Antonelli right now. Except you don’t look too worried about it, John. That’s what I don’t like.”

  D’Urso smoothed his tie, running his fingers along the silver-gray silk. “Don’t worry about Nagai. I don’t think he’ll do anything.” He was struggling to stay ca
lm. You panic and you’re sunk. There was still a way to pull this off. Just be like the fucking Japs—stay calm.

  “I dunno about that, John. I’m not so sure about him. Nagai’s a rat. He won’t just sit on what he knows for nothing.”

  “I think he will.”

  “The hell he will.”

  “Listen to me, Bobby. The Japs don’t play that way. If he ratted on us, it would be very dishonorable. And that’s one thing these Japs are cuckoo about. The worse thing a Jap can do is lose his honor, you know, lose face. You saw Mish-mosh cut the end of his own finger off. That’s what that was all about.” He kept stroking his tie, staring straight ahead out the windshield. He hoped the hell he was right.

  Bobby kept driving. The next block had regular poor-people tenements. The one after that started the factory district. Not so many cars up here.

  “Go to the next block and park over there, on the right,” D’Urso said.

  As Bobby parked the car, D’Urso reached under his seat for the towel. Before he even saw it, he could feel that it wasn’t one of the good ones. He pulled it out and unfolded it. Some stupid-looking, cock-eyed blue thing was printed on it.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Cookie Monster,” Bobby said as he cut the engine.

  “Who?”

  “Cookie Monster. Sorry, it’s Amanda’s. It was the only clean towel I could find this morning.”

  D’Urso smiled as he thought about his daughter. “Cookie Monster, huh?” He laughed sarcastically through his nose. “Think he’s related to Mish-mosh?”

  “This isn’t funny, John.” Bobby was twisting that piece of hair in front of his face around his finger. He wasn’t being calm.

  D’Urso spread the towel over his silver-blue pants, then reached for the bag. He looked in, then took out the sandwiches and the sodas. Unwrapping one of the sandwiches on the seat, he picked up a half of the twelve-inch sub, leaned forward over his knees, and took a bite. He nodded as he chewed. “Good.”

  Bobby took the bottle of Orangina off the dash, twisted the cap off, and took a swig. “How can you eat, John? My stomach’s all in knots. These guys’re gonna get us killed and you’re eating.”

  D’Urso chewed. He popped the tab on the Diet Coke and took a sip. “Don’t get nervous, Bobby. I talked to the Filipinos last night.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “I talked to the new big man over there in Manila. Quirino. He used to work for President Marcos. He says we don’t need Nagai to get new slaves over here. He told me he’s got a solid connection in Taiwan for shipping them, and it can all go through him. He’ll be our man in the East. He says the yakuza mean shit in the countries where the new slaves will come from. So fuck Nagai. We don’t need him.”

  “Hey, great!” Bobby tore the paper off his sandwich and bit into it. He ate like he thought someone was going to take it away from him. “This is great, right? Now we can just whack him and get it over with.”

  “Yeah, except you’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “Mish-mosh. You want to go try to whack Nagai with Mish-mosh around?”

  “No thanks.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We get rid of Mish-mosh first.”

  Bobby stopped chewing. He looked a little pale all of a sudden.

  “Take it easy. I don’t want you to go after him.”

  “No disrespect, John, but I’d have to refuse that one. Mish-mosh is one dangerous motherfucker.”

  “Right. That’s why we’re gonna let the feds do it.”

  “Wha’?”

  D’Urso nodded. “You heard right, the feds. After I talked to Quirino, I sent an anonymous letter to the FBI in the city. Gave then a lot of juicy info about Mish-mosh. Told them it was him who did the two stiffs in the Volkswagen.”

  “Jesus, John, isn’t that a little risky? What if they take him and he starts talking? If he’s gonna rat on anybody, it’ll be us, not the yaks.”

  “Do you think Mish-mosh is the kind of guy who’s gonna sit still to plea-bargain with them? Of course not. When they corner him, he’s gonna try to fight it out. And when those guys make an arrest, they always come in packs like they’re going to war or something. Shotguns, M16s, all that shit.” Again, he hoped he was right.

  Bobby took another quick swig of his soda. “Yeah, okay. So Mish-mosh becomes a memory. What about Nagai?”

  D’Urso bit off another chunk of his sandwich. “While we’re waiting for the feds to find Mish-mosh, we’re gonna put a little pressure on Nagai to give him something to think about.” He took a drink, then swallowed. “There’s a shipment from Japan due in today. I’m fixing it with the union boys to go out on strike right after the boat docks and the captain transfers the car keys to the dock boss. That ship will have to stay put right where it is with Nagai’s merchandise locked up tight in their trunks.”

  “What if the captain just tells his men to break the locks and let ’em out?”

  “I told Fat Joe to send some guys on board with a message for the captain. They start popping trunks, we start popping heads. They won’t try it.” D’Urso took another sip of his soda. “I can see the strike going on for a few days. The kids’ll be trapped where they are. They’ll start going nuts . . . then they’ll start dying. If the goods perish on board, I know Nagai will have to answer to Hamabuchi for it, and that’s a lot of damaged goods to answer for. Nagai won’t want that to happen so when he hears about the strike, he’ll think twice before he starts sticking his nose in my business.” D’Urso ripped off another hunk and smiled as he chewed.

  “Won’t the old man suspect something when he hears you called a strike?”

  D’Urso frowned. “When has Antonelli been so concerned about what the crews do? He doesn’t care about anything anymore. That’s his whole problem, right?”

  “Yeah . . . right.”

  D’Urso reached into the paper bag again and pulled out a gun.

  Bobby started to choke. “What the hell?”

  “The ‘marinated mushrooms.’ That Cheese is a good boy. He got it right.”

  D’Urso handed the gun to Bobby who beamed at it like a kid with a new toy. It was a gawky-looking thing, but Cheese’s old man assured him it was as good as an Uzi or an M-10. It was a Wilkinson “Linda” 9mm autopistol with a thirty-one round clip. Good as an Uzi, he said. Some guns look sharp, but this wasn’t one of those. A heavy son of a bitch, a foot long, gawky-looking. But so what if it was clunky? It’ll do the job. Only, who the hell ever heard of a gun named “Linda”?

  Bobby was grinning, staring down at “Linda,” working her safety back and forth.

  “Get ready, Bobby. Very soon.”

  “Yeah. Very soon. And Nagai can go fuck himself.” Bobby pointed the gun at the floor. “Bada-bing, bada-bing, bada-bing!!! Carmine Antonelli . . . sleeps with the fishes.”

  D’Urso laughed and squeezed his sandwich as he ripped off another hunk. Yeah . . . sleeping with the fishes . . . very soon . . . if it all works out.

  TWENTY-TWO

  TOZZI SAT ON his knees in his new living room, trying to get used to sitting seiza. Neil Sensei had told him that sitting seiza properly would center the body, coordinate it with his mind, and bring on a state of calm alertness. But for Tozzi, sitting seiza only brought on a state of pain. His thighs and ankles were killing him, but he tried to stick it out, willing to accept Neil’s promise that this would pass with time and practice. There was one nice thing about the torture of sitting seiza, though. That pain distracted him from the other pain in his lower back that he got from sleeping on the couch. Thank God they were delivering the bed today.

  He sighed, staring straight ahead at the blank beige wall between the two front windows. He wished to hell sitting seiza would bring him a little calm. He’d been up half the night, tossing and turning, hoping those faces in the shadows would go away for a while so he could get some sleep, but he
just couldn’t get those Japanese guys locked up in the trailer out of his mind. He hadn’t told anyone about it, and that was bothering him. If Ivers knew he was sitting on this information, he’d go ape. It was just the kind of thing Ivers had warned him not to do. He really wanted to tell Gibbons first, but the guy was still in the hospital, for chrissake. It didn’t seem right to aggravate him while he was still recuperating. Anyway, last night Lorraine told him that Gib was supposed to be released today. He’d tell Gibbons all about the slaves when he picked him up at the hospital later today. Gibbons will hit the ceiling when he tells him that he hasn’t told Ivers, but deep down Gibbons knows how Ivers always fucks things up. What they should do is figure out how to handle this on their own first, at least present Ivers with a definite strategy in order to keep him from coming up with one of his own. Tozzi breathed a little more relaxed now. They would tell Ivers—soon but not now.

  Tozzi was starting to relax, staring at the blank wall, when the doorbell suddenly rang and he jumped. Roxanne. Tozzi got up off his sore legs and hobbled over to the intercom.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Princess Di.”

  Tozzi frowned. It took him a moment to realize she was referring to British royalty. His first thought was Princess Die. Wonderful frame of mind he was in today. He shook his head and buzzed her in.

  He opened the door and looked down the stairwell, listening to her steps. “How’s it going, Your Majesty?”

  She didn’t answer until she could see him from the landing below. “Elevators are wonderful inventions,” she said sarcastically. “So are parking spaces. Too bad this neighborhood has neither. I must like you to put up with this.”

  He watched her climb the last flight. “Hi. How ya doin’?” he said as she walked up to him.

  “Honey, I’ve missed you.” She threw herself into his arms and kissed him just the way he’d wanted to kiss her when he took her home after dinner the other night. He wished he could forget about the slaves for a little while, but thinking that made him feel guilty.