“This is where the real money is,” Nashe said, giving him a wink. “Merchandising.”
Tozzi rotated his head, carefully. “Oh, yeah?”
“That’s right. The fight itself—forget about it. Too many hands out afterward for anyone to make a real profit, too many people waiting for their piece of the pie. But the merchandising is another story because I control that.” Nashe pointed a finger into his own chest. “It’s all mine, minus a nominal royalty to each of the fighters. Now I can see from your face that you think this stuff is all crap. Who the hell wants it, right? But come tomorrow night, people get all worked up waiting for the fight to start—they get crazy—and then this crap doesn’t look so cheesy. Not just here on-site, no, everywhere, everywhere they’re showing the fight, all the closed-circuit outlets, eight hundred sixty-three of them across the country.
“See, fans want to take part in an event like this, hold on to it for a while, bring it home to the kids, and buying a T-shirt or a coffee mug or a doll does that for them, makes them part of the event. If it’s a good fight—and I’m certainly expecting that it will be—more people will buy even more of this stuff on their way out so that they can remember the fight, prolong it in their minds, keep it with them. You see what I’m saying? It sounds ridiculous, I know, but that’s how it happens.” Nashe shook his head and picked up the T-shirt again. “Twenty bucks for a two-dollar T-shirt. It’s almost robbery. Don’t you think?”
Tozzi frowned. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” Nashe picked up the bright red kiddie boxing gloves and started to squeeze his hands into them. “You know, people like you, people living on a fixed salary, you don’t understand how money works. You have no idea how to make money. Real money, I mean.”
“Apparently not.” Tozzi was looking at the oil painting, Sydney’s lavish gown.
“Money has to keep moving to be useful. It’s like a shell game.” Nashe pushed imaginary shells around with the boxing gloves. “I move it here, I move it there, but the important thing is that I’m the guy doing the moving. That way I’m always the one who knows where it is, and in the end I always win. Except with me, it’s not a matter of cheating. It’s simply a matter of control.”
Tozzi touched his nose. It was tender, crusty blood around the nostrils, maybe broken. “What’re you telling me all this for?”
Nashe laughed. “Why am I telling you all this? You know why. Because I know who you are, Mike.”
“So who am I?” So who told you, your lovely wife?
Nashe rolled his chair over to the inflatable punching bag and started jabbing at it. “Your real name I don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. What I do know is that you’re somebody’s little spy. An IRS agent, I assume. Maybe the SEC. Possibly Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. I mean, but don’t feel bad about it, Mike. It’s not like you’re the first one. There’s always some brand-new eager beaver in some office down in Washington who gets the bright idea that he can sneak a man into my organization and get the goods on me.” Nashe shook his head, smiling. “Sending a guy to be my bodyguard—now that’s a new one. Usually they send accountants so they can get into my books.”
Tozzi just stared at him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” It was Sydney. Sydney told you I was asking too many questions.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mike. Come on, I know.” He punched the punching bag a few times, making the head dip down and hit the rug. “You guys, so goddamn loyal. I wish I could find people like you to work for me. All right, fine. You wanna be Mike Tomasso, be Mike Tomasso. I don’t care. Whatever dirt you think you’ve got on me, my lawyers will take care of it.”
Tozzi didn’t say anything. Haven’t got shit on you, Russ. That’s the problem.
“You look skeptical, Mike. Trust me. If I’m in trouble, my lawyers will get me off the hook. And do you know why they’ll get me off the hook? Not because they’re the best lawyers money can buy—even though they are. No, it’s because every so often the government has to be reminded just how much goddamn cash I fork over to them every year.” The punching bag took it on the chin. “So what if I cut corners and find loopholes and bend the rules sometimes? So what? I’m worth more to them in the taxes I do pay than just about anybody else they’ve got on their books. Even if you say I’m a crook—even if you can prove it—I’m a very valuable crook. When you come right down to it, the government would rather collect whatever taxes I decide to give them than not have me at all. The big guys in the government, the guys who really count, they know that if they knock me out of the box, they stand to lose a good chunk of income. They’ll also create a hell of a lot of unemployment. And maybe worst of all, they’ll be losing the best fucking cheerleader this country ever had for free enterprise and the good old capitalist way.” Nashe kicked the punching bag and sent the thing flying across the room.
Tozzi’s gut was burning. He wished to hell he could bust this arrogant son of a bitch right now. But he didn’t have the evidence, and now that Nashe was on to him, it wasn’t very likely that he was going to get it. There had to be a way, though, there had to be. He tried to make connections, find angles, a thread of a legitimate excuse for making an arrest here and now, but there was nothing. Just Sydney’s inadmissible pillowtalk, the opinions of a disgruntled ex-employee, which any good defense lawyer could tear to shreads, and the highly questionable mumblings of an incoherent Henry Gonsalves. It was bullshit. It was nothing.
Nashe rolled his chair back behind his desk and pulled off the boxing gloves. “So what do you know, Mike? What’re you after? Why not just ask me directly? Maybe we can work something out.” He tossed the gloves down on the desk. “You ever been to the Cayman Islands, Mike? Beautiful place. I’ve got a resort down there. You know, we’ve been looking for a good security consultant for that place. If you’re interested in something like that, I could help you set up your own business. I have a lawyer in Panama who can set you up. It’d be nice for you. You bill the resort, they pay your company direct deposit, you don’t even have to be there to sign the checks. No one has to know what you make. You do whatever you want with it. But, ah”—Nashe smiled and wagged his finger at Tozzi—“don’t forget to pay your taxes on it.”
Tozzi wished he were wearing a wire. Panama. There must be a hundred sleaze-bag lawyers down there who just set up dummy companies for the purpose of receiving hot money. The Cayman Islands. Nice place to do your banking if you don’t want any questions asked. Then Tozzi thought about Nashe’s high-priced lawyers here in the U.S. Even if he had Nashe’s bribe offer down on tape, it could be construed as a job offer, career advancement, a leg up for a good employee. Goddammit, he’s a clever bastard. Just play stupid, Tozzi told himself. Maybe he’ll say something to hang himself. Maybe.
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Nashe.”
Nashe just smiled and shrugged. He had a big mouth, but he knew when to stop talking. “You know, you look awful, Mike. Go look in the mirror. Your face is all swollen on one side. Your nose too. You got blood all over your shirt, and that suit—you might as well just throw it out. God, you’re a mess. You ought to take care of yourself. Why don’t you take some time off, give yourself a good rest, walk along the beach and be alone with your thoughts. When you’re feeling better, come back and see me if you still want to work for me. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Walk along the beach. Like when Valerie got shot? “Yeah, sure, Mr. Nashe. I’ll let you know.” Bastard.
Tozzi hauled himself to his feet. He tottered there for a moment, afraid that his knees would give way. He moved his feet a little and the knees seemed to firm up. If only his head would stop reeling.
Tozzi looked up at the oil painting—Sydney’s demure smile, the perfect hair, the plunging neckline on the gown. Did she really tell Nashe that he was a fed? Saw that he was nosy and made a lucky guess? Maybe she sleeps with all the agents they send over to check up on Russ. FBI, IRS, SEC, AFT . . . all those guys. Mayb
e by now she can smell ’em.
Tozzi moved toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Nashe. He had to know. He nodded toward the painting. “She the one who told you I was an undercover agent?”
Nashe shook his head. “She must’ve liked having you around. Didn’t tell me a thing. You must be something, Mike. I guess it’s true what they say about you Italian guys, huh?”
“Yeah . . . we’re something. So who told you?” Sal told you.
Nashe smiled like a bunny and shrugged. “Somebody.”
Sal Immordino told you. Had to be. Sal got suspicious and made a good guess. That’s why Lenny just happened to be there with the keys to the beach house. It was a fucking setup. Russ and Sal. The bastards. Tozzi’s head was throbbing. He turned toward the door.
“Oh, Mike, by the way, I meant to tell you. I’m very sorry about your girlfriend. Valerie? Is that her name? Look, whatever her insurance doesn’t pay for, I’ll take care of it. You let her know, okay?”
Tozzi glared at him sitting there with that big stupid smile on his face and all his merchandising crap all over the desk. He was about to tell the bastard to drop dead, but he didn’t. Why bother? He just turned away to leave.
A big grandfather clock stood by the door—he’d just noticed it. It had a decisive tock, like the pounding in his head. Tozzi stared at the face, the classy roman numerals. It was twenty-five after noon. The fight was nine and a half hours away, and basically he didn’t know much more than he knew ten weeks ago when he started this goddamn assignment. Crap . . .
ozzi lifted the dark glasses off his sore nose and scanned the room until he spotted Gibbons sitting at one of those little Formica fast-food tables where the seat is attached to the table and the whole thing is bolted to the floor. He’d told Gibbons to meet him here at the huge food gallery on the third floor of Ocean One, the mall they’d built on the old Million Dollar Pier, which he thought was the one where people used to come to see the horse jump off the end and land in the water. It was either this one or the Steel Pier, he couldn’t remember. He winced and rubbed his sore shoulder. He felt like a goddamn horse had landed on him.
The place was jammed, every table taken. This was where the slot players came to eat because it was cheaper here than in the casinos. As he made his way through the crowd, Tozzi noticed that Gibbons had a big greasy Philly cheesesteak and a cup of coffee in front of him. Gibbons was ripping a big bite out of the sandwich just as Tozzi sat down across from him.
“Lorraine’d take a shit if she saw you eating this. Pure cholesterol.”
Gibbons looked up at him and chewed. “Mind your own business.”
Tozzi shrugged. “Hey, I’m not gonna tell her.”
Gibbons sipped his coffee. “I don’t give a shit if you do or not. I’m hungry.”
“So eat.” Tozzi tugged on the brim of the Yankees cap he was wearing.
Gibbons looked him over then. “What’s with the outfit? You look like a jerk.”
Tozzi gave him the finger. He had gone back to his apartment and changed his clothes after he left Nashe’s office. Now he was wearing khakis, a black T-shirt, and a blue satin baseball jacket with “Mets” embroidered in orange on the back. The Yankees cap was part of the disguise so he could blend in with the boardwalk crowd. The sunglasses were meant to cover the shiner.
Gibbons ripped off another hunk of cheesesteak. “So what’s the deal? Why aren’t you with Nashe?”
Tozzi scratched some melted cheese off Gibbons’s paper plate. “They made me.”
Gibbons chewed and thought it over. “Sal was on to you a long time ago. He must’ve told Nashe.”
“Yup.” Tozzi pictured the oil painting in Nashe’s office. Sydney as Scarlett O’Hara.
“So where do we stand?”
“Nowhere.” Tozzi touched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t hurt so much now, but it felt swollen. “They’re right on course, and we’re sitting here with our dicks in our hands.”
“You wanna call Ivers, see if he can get a judge to issue a restraining order to stop the fight?”
Tozzi shook his head in disgust. “Even if we could convince Ivers to do it—which is a longshot to begin with—no judge is gonna fuck around with a guy like Russell Nashe, not without a very, very good reason.”
Gibbons took another bite and nodded. “You’re right.”
“Maybe we ought to go straight to Walker and tell him we’re on to their scam. Tell him point-blank—you throw the fight, you’re in deep shit.”
“Great idea, genius. Then he can hit us with a harassment suit, get our asses booted out of the Bureau for good. Even if you could bring him up on charges after the fact, how do you prove that a guy threw a fight? All he’s gonna say is he had a bad night and he lost. Talking to Walker now won’t do anything. Whatever his take is, he’s already got it spent. Anyway, from what I hear, he doesn’t relate to white people very well.”
Tozzi sighed and spun the plastic saltshaker on the table. “You’re right.” Goddammit.
They didn’t talk for a while. Gibbons ate and Tozzi thought about Valerie. He’d called the hospital when he went to change his clothes. They said her condition was stable. He asked if he could talk to her, but they said no, she was in no condition to accept calls. He felt awful. He wanted to talk to her, make her understand that he wanted to make it up to her, do something to show her that he really cared about her. He kept spinning the saltshaker around and around. What he really wanted to do was put a hollow-point bullet through Sal Immordino’s eye so that he could watch the back of his head blow open and make modern art on the wall. That’s what he really wanted to do.
Tozzi broke the silence. “You got another gun with you?”
Gibbons shook his head and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Just Excalibur. Why? Where’s yours?”
Tozzi sneered. “My fellow workers relieved me of it.”
Gibbons stopped eating and looked at him for a moment. “Your face looks a little puffy. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. They just wanted to scare me.” He was sore all over, but it was his nose that was worrying him. “Lemme have the other half. I didn’t have breakfast this morning.” He started to reach over for the other half of Gibbons’s cheesesteak, but Gibbons pushed his hand away.
“Get your own.”
“Come on. Give me half. Won’t be so much cholesterol for you.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Gibbons moved the paper plate out of his reach.
“My partner, real nice guy. Thanks a lot.” I just got my ass kicked, and you won’t even give me half of your cheesesteak.
“The place is right over there.” Gibbons pointed to the Philly Cheesesteak concession. “Get your own.”
“No, I don’t want it now.” He went back to playing with the saltshaker.
Gibbons raised the coffee to his lips. “You gonna sulk now? Big fucking baby. Here. Take it.” He pushed the paper plate in front of Tozzi.
“I don’t want it.”
“Go ’head, take it now. You wanted it.”
“No, you eat it.”
“No, I don’t want it. You’re gonna tell Lorraine, and I’m gonna end up getting the cholesterol lecture again from Miss Mazola Margarine, the goodness of corn and all that shit.”
Tozzi looked down at the melted cheese oozing over the mess of meat and fried onions. Wasn’t really good for him either. But they did taste good. He picked up the sandwich. Just one bite. “You know what the problem is, Gib?” He took a bite, chewed a little, then wiped his mouth. “Everything’s going their way. It’s working like clockwork for them. At this point they can’t go wrong. We gotta make something happen. That’s what we have to do. Fuck up their plans a little so somebody slips up and gives us a chance.”
Gibbons put down his coffee and scowled. “Here we go. So how should we disregard the Bill of Rights this time, goombah?”
“No, seriously. Nashe and Immordino think they’re home free. We gotta shake them up, make them thi
nk—”
Gibbons was shaking his head no when Tozzi suddenly spotted them over Gibbons’s shoulder. They were leaning on one of those stand-up counters, coffees steaming in front of them, both of them trying not to be obvious about it, but they were looking right at him. It took a minute for Tozzi to be sure, but he remembered the blond guy’s hair, how it was shaved around the ears and wavy on top like a Hitler Jugend. And the other guy, the greaser, he was still wearing that herringbone jacket, the sleeves too long. That was them, the two torpedoes Immordino had sent to ambush him in the parking lot at the Epps camp. They were hunched over, talking, taking turns looking at him. Tozzi rubbed his ankles together, wishing he had his weapon. Shit. Crowded room, lots of confusion. They were here to make a hit. Finish the job they’d screwed up two weeks ago, the job Immordino fucked up the other day. Shit.
Tozzi kept his eye on the torpedoes. “Come on, Gib. Let’s go.”
“I haven’t finished my lunch—”
“Fuck lunch. Let’s go. Now!”
Gibbons wiped his fingers, serious now. “Who is it?”
“Two of them. A blond German-looking guy in a tan suit, and a greaser—herringbone sport jacket, designer jeans, black dress shoes—you know the look, guinea collegiate. Immordino’s guys.”
“Too many people here. Take it outside.” Gibbons stood up, picked up what was left of his lunch, and carried it to the trash, nice and easy.
Tozzi walked ahead, wondering whether they should take the escalator or the stairs. Either way was bad. Too many people. He turned to face Gibbons, glanced back at the torpedoes. They were taking their last sips and dumping their coffees. “They’re coming.”
“Take the escalator down,” Gibbons said. “Turn left when we get out on the boardwalk. Go to the first stairway down to the beach. Take it there.”
Bad Luck Page 22