Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  “So what Russ does then is he gets this baker feeling real good about himself, thinking he’s real smart. That’s when Russ moves in and makes ‘the promise.’ He confides in the man, tells him about his plans for the Paradise, his big dream, the biggest hotel casino in the world, two and half times bigger than the Taj. He throws figures around like he’s talking to the Secretary of the Treasury, complains about the high cost of labor and construction, then tells the guy he must have the same kinds of problems in the bakery business, puts the guy on his level, which of course makes the guy feel even more important.

  “Then he tells the poor schmuck about the temporary cash-flow problem he’s having because of the Paradise construction and that this is why he hasn’t been paying his bills for the croissants these past few months. But if the baker will be gracious enough to float him just a little while longer, he’ll have Russ’s solemn promise on his mother’s grave that every croissant that is ever served in the Paradise will come from this bakery and no other. Scout’s honor. Then Russ gives the man the bullshit grin, like he may be full of shit or he may not. But by now the guy feels that he and Russ are equals, fellow entrepreneurs. The guy feels that he can deal with Russ, that his business is gonna triple, that he’s gonna be the Famous Amos of croissants if he just hangs in there with Russ. And so he goes along with it because a contract like that you can take to the bank. Right? The guy’s dreaming about custom-built houses, a big black Mercedes, sending his kids to Harvard, a boat, European vacations, all that stuff, and in the meantime Russ is getting a million croissants on time at no interest.” Holman shook his head. “I’ve seen him do this to I don’t know how many people. Works every time. He’s incredible.”

  Gibbons nodded. “That’s very interesting.”

  Tozzi picked up his mug, then frowned down into it. He forgot he’d already finished the coffee. So Gib thinks this is “interesting.” Interesting but not indictable. Bullshitting people is not a crime. We’re wasting our time here, Gib. This is stupid.

  Gibbons stopped nodding and stared Holman in the eye. “So why were you fired?”

  Holman sipped his coffee, eyes sparkling behind the glasses. “You know, after all this time, I’m still not sure.” He shrugged. “Maybe he couldn’t afford me anymore. I had been with him for almost four years. Maybe he figured he could hire a younger guy, a little less experienced, save twenty, thirty thousand in salary.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a savings for a billionaire.” Gibbons sipped from his mug.

  Tozzi rubbed his chin. The guy’s dodging the question, Gib. Can’t you see that?

  Holman narrowed his eyes as he wagged his finger at Gibbons. “That’s the thing about Russ. He’s a billionaire, yes. But on paper. A very very small portion of those assets are liquid.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Russell Nashe is a deal junkie. Each deal has to be bigger and more complicated than the last. I told you, it’s pathological with him. He can’t control himself. He owes everybody money and he’s leveraged to the eyeballs. At this point he has to keep making deals to keep his debts from catching up with him.”

  Gibbons squinted at him. “Doesn’t make any sense. Sooner or later creditors get pissed, and they sue.”

  “Except that he’s promised everybody in the world a piece of the Paradise. You see, it all rides on the Paradise now. It’s been the source of all Russ’s promises since he first dreamed it up. I’m glad he fired me. Once that monstrosity is finally built and all his buddies start calling in their markers, the shit’s gonna hit . . . the . . . fan.” Holman enunciated each word.

  But as far as Tozzi was concerned it was bullshit that was hitting the fan. Holman’s bullshit because he still hadn’t said why he’d been fired, and Gibbons wasn’t doing much to get it out of him, except looking soulfully into his gleeful little blues.

  Tozzi was about to ask the question himself when Gibbons beat him to the punch. “When you worked for Nashe, did he have you keep two sets of books?”

  Holman laughed out loud, too loud. “Two! Try fifty-two. I’m not kidding. I had people on my staff who just cooked the books based on these wild scenarios Russ would come up with. I mean totally off-the-wall stuff, like the hotel being booked eighty percent on all five weekdays, like the big room selling out without a big act, that kind of stuff. Insane. I asked him once why he wanted us to cook up books that showed more profit than we actually made. I always thought you were supposed to do it the other way, in case the IRS calls for an audit. He told me these books weren’t for the IRS. He said he just wanted to see what it would look like on paper.” Holman shook his head, eyes sparkling. “That’s what he said, I swear. I think Russ really loved it, going over these totally outrageous books that made him look like—I don’t know—like Donald Trump. No, better than Trump. He actually told me once that he loved to curl up with these stupid books in bed, said it was like reading a really good thriller that had him as the hero.” Holman shrugged, eyes still twinkling.

  Tozzi was getting sick of this shit. Fuck Gibbons. He’d put it to Twinkle Eyes himself. “But why did—?”

  “Excuse me,” Gibbons said, giving Tozzi the hairy eyeball. “I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

  Eat your fucking train of thought.

  “This business about creating bogus records, not paying creditors, and so on—who else had knowledge of these practices?”

  “Well, there were the people on my staff . . . I can’t think of anyone else, though.”

  “Any partners?”

  Holman shook his head. “Russ is the sole owner of the Plaza.”

  “How about his wife? She know anything about all this?”

  Holman paused. His eyes weren’t so bright. “Sydney.” He pounded his chin with his fist a few times. “Sydney.” Another pause. “If you think he’s weird, you ought to meet Sydney.”

  I have. Tozzi watched his eyes.

  “Weird in what way?” Gibbons asked.

  “Theirs is the most fucked-up relationship I’ve ever seen.”

  “How so?”

  Holman paused again, staring into the space. “Well,” he finally started, “it’s not based on love, that’s for sure. They can barely stand the sight of each other.”

  “So why don’t they get divorced?”

  Holman shrugged. “They’re very weird. See, they play this strange game where he doesn’t tell her a thing about his business, nothing, and she plays spy, trying to figure out what he’s up to. When she finds out something good—you know, the kind of stuff that could embarrass him—she blackmails him with it. Basically she blackmails him into staying married. It’s all a very elaborate game they play. Very sick.”

  “And how does she get her information?”

  Another pause, then a weak grin. The eyes weren’t even remotely gleeful now. “She sleeps around. She must be pretty good at worming things out of men in bed. Very sexy woman—if you’ve ever met her.”

  “How do you know that she—”

  “You know, another thing about her.” Holman cut Gibbons off. “I heard a rumor once that when she gets a really good piece of information—something she can’t blackmail Russ with but something she knows he’d love to know—she sells it to him. You know that lavender yacht she has? A payoff from Russ for some really good piece of information.” Holman shook his head again. “She must be a real Mata Hari in bed.”

  Tozzi felt the blood draining out of his face. That bitch. He didn’t want to believe it. All this time he thinks he’s getting info out of her, she’s running back to Nashe, telling him about their afternoon delights, probably telling him what kind of nosy questions he’s been asking. Shit. Nashe must’ve figured out a long time ago that he’s some kind of agent working undercover. And if Nashe suspected him, he’d keep him at arm’s length, make sure he didn’t go anyplace where he might hear anything . . .

  And what had he heard in the last eight weeks?

  Shit . . .

 
Tozzi’s stomach rumbled. But how did Sal know he was a fed? Did Nashe tell him? Why? Is whatever they’re doing together that big that they’d risk killing a fed? It would have to be pretty big for that. But what was it? Tozzi felt itchy. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He was also pissed as hell at Sydney, that bitch. He didn’t like being manipulated.

  “Gentlemen, I’d love to help you any way I can, but I am pretty busy and if there aren’t any more questions . . .”

  Tozzi’s face was hot. “Just one thing, Mr. Holman, and I’d like a straight answer this time. You’ve been avoiding this since we got here. Why did Russell Nashe fire you?”

  Holman wouldn’t look at him. He was pounding his chin with his fist.

  “Well?”

  “Before I answer, I want to know if I can be forced to testify to anything I say here. I don’t want my wife to know anything about this.” He looked more like a nervous little accountant now.

  Gibbons assured him, “Mr. Holman, I told you. You’re not the target—”

  “Just answer the question, please.” Jesus Christ, Gib.

  Holman stared at Tozzi, looking helpless. “He fired me because . . . because I was . . . carrying on with his wife. I told her a few things about how the hotel was doing that I suppose Russ didn’t want her to know, and she must’ve thrown it up in his face.” Holman was quiet for a few seconds. “He said I was disloyal, that I couldn’t be trusted . . . Look, my wife was pregnant at the time and . . . and Sydney is a very attractive woman. Not the kind of woman the average guy gets the opportunity to be with. If you know what I mean.”

  Tozzi could feel Gibbons grinning at him. Smug fucking asshole. Tozzi didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Hey, this was Holman’s version of things. He knew Sydney. She wouldn’t go down for an accountant, for chrissake. This guy was dreaming. A squeeze in the elevator maybe, a kiss in the broom closet, something like that. Christ, he’s making like they were Antony and Cleopatra.

  Holman muttered into his fist then, “Car 54, Where Are You?”

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up at Tozzi. “I was just remembering. Sydney used to sing these songs from old TV sitcoms when we were in bed. Car 54 was the one she sang most often.” Holman exhaled a bittersweet laugh. “Toody and Muldoon.” He shook his head. “Weird lady.”

  Tozzi wanted to break something. He wanted to get up and move. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t even eleven yet. There was still time. They could still dig up something to bring down the whole fucking bunch of them: Nashe, Immordino, Sydney—

  “We finished here?”

  “Huh?”

  Gibbons with the hairy eyeball again. “You got anything else you want to ask Mr. Holman?”

  “No.”

  Gibbons turned to the accountant. “Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we need you.”

  “My wife won’t find out about this, will she?” The little shit was pathetic.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Tozzi said, “We won’t tell your wife you were porking some other bitch while she was in labor. Come on, Gib. Let’s go.” He got up to leave but Gibbons just sat there, looking at him as if he were from the moon.

  “You have to excuse my partner,” he said to Holman. “He’s Italian.”

  Tozzi shoved the chair out of his way and walked out. Asshole.

  ozzi lay on his back in bed, his arm crooked behind his head, staring out the big triangular picture window at the gulls soaring through a solid blue sky. He’d been up since six, tried to go back to sleep, but there was too much on his mind now. He looked over at Valerie sleeping next to him, the sheet pulled up over her face, tousled blond hair all over the pillow. Tozzi sighed. She was nice—too nice to lose.

  He reached over her and took her fedora off the brass bedpost, put it on his chest and ran his finger along the silky band. It’s a good thing he’d found her last night, a good thing Lenny Mokowski had let him have the keys to this place. No telling what he might’ve done when he’d gotten back from White Plains yesterday afternoon.

  He and Gibbons had started arguing as soon as they got into the car. He’d wanted to get back to the Plaza right away, see if he could chat up one of the accountants who used to work with Holman, see if he could pick up anything substantial enough to justify keeping the undercover going. Gibbons, of course, gave him his usual rap about being cautious, taking it slow, being methodical, all the old Bureau platitudes. Gibbons told him he was gonna get his ass shot off if he went back there like a mad dog. If Nashe and Immordino know who he is, Gibbons had reasoned, he should just lay low, stay away until he was scheduled to go to work, and worry about protecting his ass because nobody was gonna break this case in the next thirty-six hours. Just be a good Do-Bee and wait it out. Yeah, bullshit.

  Gibbons had left him off at his apartment in Hoboken, thinking he’d spend the night there, but he had no intention of doing that. As soon as Gibbons was gone he called Avis and rented a car, took a cab out to Newark Airport where he picked it up, and headed straight down the Garden State Parkway for Atlantic City. Even if he couldn’t get what he wanted on Nashe and Immordino, he was determined to have a little talk with Sydney, the bitch.

  But Sydney hadn’t been around when he got to Nashe Plaza, and it just so happened that when he stepped out of the elevator coming down from her private suite, he ran into Lenny Mokowski who yelled at him for hanging around here on his day off. What the eff you doing here, Tomasso? he says. Get outta here, go rest. Here. And he pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and tells him he can use Nashe’s beach house tonight, his place on Long Beach Island that favored employees get to use when they’re good.

  Tozzi settled back into his pillow and scanned the row of picture windows that overlooked the ocean. Some beach house. Eight big bedrooms, two Jacuzzis—one inside, one out on the deck—sauna, gym, private screening room . . .

  He ran his finger up and down the satin band on Valerie’s hat, staring out the triangular window. He wished she’d wake up.

  It was almost seven o’clock when Lenny had given him the keys and told him to get lost. The accounting people were gone by then. He’d considered talking to Nashe directly, but that seemed like a stupid idea—Nashe wasn’t going to admit to anything—and Sal Immordino he could do without. He really wanted to do something, but there was nothing he could do, so he wandered over to the bar by the escalators to see Valerie. She poured him a Saint James on the rocks with a wedge of lime, just the way he liked it, and told him he didn’t look happy, saying it with this sly smile, like she knew what would make him happy if he wanted to. It was good seeing her—sad but good. He knew he had to be with her at least one more time before the clock struck twelve and he turned back into a pumpkin. He told her he had the keys to the beach house for the night. She told him to pick her up when she got off at eleven-thirty.

  Valerie sighed in her sleep then and Tozzi suddenly felt empty inside. She was really beautiful, the first woman he’d ever known who could make love and wisecracks at the same time. They’re both coming and she’s making him laugh so much he keeps slipping out of her and she’s yelling for him to stick it back in, quick, making more jokes so that he’s practically paralyzed, he’s laughing so hard. He looked at her now, eyes closed, sheet pulled up to her chin. She was great. They were great together. He sighed and thought of Brant Ivers peering over his half glasses. This was his last day as Mike Tomasso. He tried to be hopeful, and a part of him was. He and Valerie could keep it going, depending on how she took it when he told her he wasn’t really Mike Tomasso. It was possible. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, though.

  He sat up a little, bunching the pillow behind him, and put her hat on, pulling the brim down over one eye like Michael Jackson. He wished the hell she’d get up. He was getting antsy, he wanted to do something. Maybe they should just spend the whole day in bed, forget about going to work today, wind down the undercov
er right here, under the covers. It wasn’t such a bad idea. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything for the government today. Might as well just fuck off and have a good time with Valerie. Enjoy her company—while he still had it.

  He looked down at her, sleeping so nice, lips parted a little, eyelids so relaxed, and he peeled the sheet away. He stroked the end of her nose with his finger, very lightly. She frowned and turned her face to the pillow. He moved the hair away from her ear and started playing with her earlobe.

  “Sto-op,” she moaned.

  He kept it up, circling around the whole ear.

  She hunched her shoulders. “Nooo.”

  He grinned. “This is your wake-up call, Ms. Raynor.”

  She opened one eye. “What time is it? It’s too early.”

  “It’s quarter after seven.”

  She pulled the covers over her shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep. I’ve got too much energy.”

  She grunted. “You’re not one of those, are you? You like to get up early?”

  Tozzi shrugged. “If there’s something to get up for.”

  “Nothing’s worth getting up for at seven o’clock.” She burrowed into the pillows.

  “Come on, let’s go take a walk on the beach.”

  “Get bent.”

  “Come on, we’ll do it on the beach, in the dunes.”

  She turned over. “You go start. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Tozzi threw off the sheet and stood up in bed, naked. He straddled her, standing over her with her hat on his head. “Come on.” He started bouncing on the bed, wagging his dong at her. “Let’s go for a dip. Cold water is very purifying. Japanese monks do it all the time.”

  She opened her eyes a little and looked up at his swinging dick. She couldn’t hold back the grin. “Screw the Japanese monks.”

  “I don’t think they screw. You have to make do with me.” He stepped down off the bed and sat on the edge on her side.