The attendant reappeared at his window and he paid for the gas with a twenty. As the man counted out his change, it suddenly came to Tozzi. Not a plan or a strategy, just something he could do right now that would send Kinney a message. He wanted Kinney to know that he may be running, but he wasn’t hiding.
It had appeared in his mind full-blown, as if he were seeing it in a movie; then he just followed through and repeated what he saw, not really thinking about it. He guided the Buick around the back of the gas station, crossed over a mound of burnt-out grass into the motel’s back lot, pulled up behind the building, put it in reverse, and backed into the narrow drive nice and easy until he was about twenty-five feet from the two gabbing torpedoes. Then he floored it and rammed the T-bird. He kept his foot on the gas, pushing their car out into highway traffic. He heard the torpedoes yelling, the bumpers crunching, their tires screeching, then felt the tremendous crash vibrate his wheel as a U-Haul van plowed into the T-bird and dragged it all the way to the motel sign at the other end of the lot. Tozzi spun the steering wheel, turned around, and tore out into the highway, veering around the wreckage of the demolished T-bird pinned between the van and the steel uprights of the neon EZ Rest sign.
Driving away, Tozzi couldn’t believe he did that. It was crazy. Innocent people could’ve been hurt in that crash. It was a stupid thing to do. He’d heard on the radio later that no one had been seriously hurt. The radio announcer made a joke of the torpedoes’ claim that they were deliberately pushed out into the middle of Route 3. The police reported that a quantity of an unidentified white powder was found in their car. Tozzi hoped the radio announcer’s skepticism reflected the police’s feelings about their story and that no one was looking for a 1977 copper-brown Buick LeSabre with a mangled rear bumper.
After the motel incident, Tozzi just drove. He drove so he could think, sort things out, put together some kind of plan. First thing, he knew he needed a place to stay, at least for the night, and Joanne seemed to be the logical solution, but as he drove out to her place, he began to have doubts about her. It was possible that she wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up, he’d thought. She’d been married to Varga, and despite all that she’d said about him, they were never formally divorced. Maybe she was cooperating with Varga, maybe she was just keeping him busy that first night they spent together so that Varga’s people could put the bomb in his cousin’s car. It was possible. He changed his mind and decided not to go to Joanne’s. He ended up spending the night in the Buick parked at the Vince Lombardi Service Exit off the Turnpike. But before he dozed off in the front seat, he changed his mind about her again. He was just being paranoid again, he’d decided. He’d seen her plenty of times in the past few weeks. There were more than enough opportunities for Varga to take him out when he was with her. She was really all right after all. He was just being paranoid about her, that’s all. And as it was, he was paranoid enough about everything else.
He stood there in the shadows behind the hemlocks now, watching Kinney with the phone to his face. Kinney was burning the midnight oil, and Tozzi knew it wasn’t for the FBI. If only he had a tap on that phone, he thought. If only. Tozzi moved quietly behind the hemlocks, walking along the perimeter of the yard through the neglected vegetable garden. So who needs a tap? he thought.
He got to the edge of the driveway and slipped between the Volvo sedan and the family van, mounting the three steps that led to the side door. The kitchen was dark inside. He remembered that there was a wall phone next to the refrigerator, a red wall phone. Tozzi carefully opened the screen door and tried the inside door. It was unlocked. Locking up was probably Kinney’s duty. Last one to bed locks up, and Dad usually worked late in his study.
Light from the den shone into the otherwise dark kitchen and reflected off the sparkling appliances. He could hear the television, some shitty rock song he’d heard before but couldn’t identify. Chrissie was probably watching MTV. He went to the doorway and peered into the den. He could see the image on the screen of a long-haired blond guy in tights and a raggy top leaping all over the stage, mugging into the camera, and generally making an ass out of himself. He could see Chrissie’s knees behind the arm of the couch. He hoped she wouldn’t decide to get up and fix herself a midnight snack.
The phone was just to the right of the doorway. Hanging on the wall next to it was a plastic organizer with compartments for coupons, memos, and bills and a shopping-list pad on the bottom. The top sheet of the pad had a few items scribbled down, not nearly enough for a full shopping. Tozzi pulled out the pack of envelopes from the bill compartment and flipped through it. There was nothing unusual: gas and electric, Visa, the local pharmacy, and the phone bill. He thought about taking the phone bill, but then rejected the idea. Tracing the long-distance calls could be useful, but he didn’t have the time and he didn’t have the resources to have that done anymore. Real agents can do that, not him. Real agents like Kinney. He put the bills back in their slot.
He reached for the phone then, carefully lifting the receiver, covering the mouthpiece with his hand, and putting it to his ear. Kinney was still on the phone.
“. . . goes into your account when the job’s completed. That’s the way we’ve done it all along,” Kinney was saying.
“Yeah, yeah, direct deposit, I know, man. But I got a little problem with a shylock, you know? All I need is two grand to get him off my back for a while. That’s all I need, two grand in advance. Is that a big thing I’m asking for?”
The whiny voice on the other end sounded a lot like Paulie Tortorella.
“That’s not the way we set it up,” Kinney said coldly.
“Fuck the way we set it up! Have I ever let you down? No. Now I’m asking for one favor and you’re giving me fucking grief. How the hell am I supposed to operate for you when I got this shylock’s legbreaker following me around? You tell me that?”
There was a pause. Kinney was considering it. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ve got to get the keys for the place in the Bronx to you anyway. You know where Kill Van Kull Park is in Bayonne?”
“Where?”
“The park under the Bayonne Bridge.”
“You mean where all the tugboats go by?”
“That’s it. Meet me there tomorrow at noon, by the basketball courts. I’ll have the money for you.”
“Great. Thanks, man.”
“And let’s not make a habit out of this, Paulie. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Never again. See you tomorrow.”
“Right.”
They hung up and Tozzi quickly remembered to press the hook so Kinney would get a dial tone. He waited for Kinney to make his next call. After a minute he released the hook, but all he heard was Kinney’s breathing. Kinney was probably looking up a number, he assumed.
“Chrissie?” Kinney’s voice simultaneously came through the receiver and echoed down the hallway.
“What?”
“I’m trying to work, Chrissie. I thought we had an understanding about the phone when I’m working.”
“I’m watching TV, Dad. I didn’t touch the stupid phone.”
Oh, shit. Kinney must’ve heard a difference in the dial tone or something. He must have good ears. Tozzi quickly hung up the phone and moved toward the door.
But just as he reached for the knob, the overhead lights flickered on. He turned and saw Kinney in the doorway with a claw hammer in his hand.
“Tozzi,” he said in a hiss. There was evil in his eyes. His face was at war with itself, twitching, battling between sadistic glee and mad fury.
Tozzi dropped to one knee, went for the .38 in his ankle holster, but Kinney leapt across the kitchen, wielding the hammer like a savage with a tomahawk. Tozzi moved to get out of the way, but the hammer blow intended for his head smashed down on the top of his shoulder and sent a shooting pain down his arm and up the back of his neck. He bolted up in reaction to the pain and in the process flipped Kinney on his back. Seeing the opportunity for retaliation, Tozzi del
ivered a sharp knuckle punch under Kinney’s armpit, knocking the wind out of him. Kinney tried to swing the hammer, but Tozzi was kneeling on his chest, twisting his wrist until he released the hammer. Tozzi felt the heft of the hammer in his hand, another opportunity. He lifted it over his head, intent on beating Kinney’s brains out. He wanted to see that deceitful Ivy League face smashed to bloody pulp. He wanted fucking revenge for everything.
“Daddy!” Chrissie screamed from the doorway. Her hand was poised over her mouth in horror.
Tozzi froze. The son-of-a-bitch. He was making him play his game. Tozzi’s grip went slack. He’d be goddamned if he was going to stoop to Kinney’s level and play the psychopath. No, he was better than Kinney, goddamn it. No matter what they said, he was better than that. Gibbons knew. Gibbons. It didn’t make sense right now, but he kept telling himself that Kinney had to live so that Gibbons wouldn’t die.
Tozzi’s hand was shaking. His brain couldn’t analyze everything his gut was throwing at him. He wanted to hurt this bastard, but his brain kept saying no, spitting out reasons he couldn’t deal with right now.
The girl screamed again. He could hear people scrambling out of bed upstairs. Kinney was struggling. Finally his gut took over and he pinned Kinney’s hand against the floor and hammered it—once, twice—into the shining linoleum.
Kinney grunted and rolled over on his wound. Tozzi ran for the door as the two boys rushed into the kitchen.
He sprinted across the back lawn and hopped the fence. If Kinney did have torpedoes watching out front, he hoped they were slow and stupid.
THIRTY-TWO
Slumped down behind the wheel of the Buick, Tozzi could see the street, the park, the basketball court, and the shimmering water of Kill Van Kull, the narrow straits that separate Staten Island from New Jersey. He could see Paulie Tortorella in a black and pink Hawaiian shirt sitting up high on the back of a bench, drinking a can of soda, watching the tugs go by. He’d been there about twenty minutes. Tozzi had spent the night there.
At noon on the dot, the silver Volvo arrived. A gold Chevy Caprice that had been hogging two spaces at the curb moved back to make room for the Volvo. Tozzi had noticed the three guys sitting in the Chevy a long time ago. They’d been there since eleven.
When Kinney got out of his car, Tozzi saw that his hand was bandaged, the pinky and ring finger set with curved metal splints that made his hand look like a claw. Tozzi thought back to last night in Kinney’s kitchen. He’d swung the hammer with his right hand and smashed Kinney’s left hand. He regretted that he hadn’t thought about that at the time and ruined Kinney’s right.
Kinney had come alone in the Volvo. The three guys from the Caprice fanned out around him as he walked toward the basketball court. He spoke briefly to only one of the torpedoes, who immediately fell back behind Kinney after they’d finished. They seemed to know better than to get too close to the Hun. Surprisingly these guys weren’t the usual Nicky Newark types. These three wore dark suits and shades, top buttons buttoned, ties up. They looked like pallbearers—or FBI agents.
Kinney was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, and he seemed unaffected by the blistering noonday sun. The merciless rays beamed off every piece of chrome and glass in Tozzi’s line of vision, and he had to keep moving his head to get a clear view of Kinney and his entourage. The park was packed with kids running around like nuts. A bunch of them had set up a plywood ramp on the basketball court and they were playing Evel Knievel on their skateboards. It would be a hell of a place for a gun battle. But Tozzi had a feeling Kinney didn’t give a shit about that.
Last night Tozzi had expected Kinney to change the location of his meet with Tortorella, figuring that Kinney would assume that he’d overheard the details of his telephone conversation. Then he thought about it. Kinney wants him dead because he knows too much about Kinney’s relationship with Varga. Obviously the three torpedoes weren’t there to protect Kinney from Tortorella. Kinney was hoping this meet would lure Tozzi out again.
Tozzi was beginning to think like Kinney. That’s how they told you how to do it at Quantico. But was Kinney beginning to think like Tozzi? Tozzi frowned at the thought.
Kinney strolled over to Tortorella’s bench. He put his foot up on the bench, leaned on his knee, and gazed out at the water. Another tug sailed by, a red one with a big white M painted on the stack.
Tozzi saw Tortorella shaking his head no. Kinney must’ve asked him if he’d been followed. A stupid question. If someone had followed Paulie, obviously he wouldn’t have stuck around. On the other hand, maybe he would’ve. He needed that money.
Kinney went into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He tapped the seatback with it as he explained something to Tortorella, who kept his eye on the envelope. Tozzi imagined Kinney lecturing the little man, making sure he understood that this was a big favor and a one-time deal and that he shouldn’t ask for anything like this ever again. Kinney had to put Paulie in his place before he let him have the cash. Kinney was really into power, that was clear.
When Kinney finally deigned to give Tortorella the envelope, the little man hopped down off the bench, said thanks a lot, and made an abrupt exit. Tortorella wasn’t into groveling, that was clear too. Kinney stayed and watched another tug pass by, then went back to his car, escorted by the three pallbearers. They got into the Caprice and waited for the Volvo to pull out. When the Volvo was almost out of sight, they pulled out of their space and followed.
Tozzi held the key in the ignition, forcing himself to wait. When the Caprice was nearly out of sight, he started his engine and drove after them, hoping Kinney hadn’t thought of doubling back to see who was following the pallbearers. That’s the way he would do it.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the way Kinney did it. Tozzi followed the gold Caprice north to the causeway that led to Liberty State Park, just a stone’s throw from the statue. Tozzi always thought it was significant that even though Lady Liberty was just off shore, the bitch kept her back to Jersey. When they first put her up, they could’ve turned her a little bit so it wouldn’t have been such a blatant snub.
This causeway also led to an entrance to the Turnpike, so luckily there was enough traffic here to keep the Buick from looking suspicious. But when the Caprice turned left instead of going straight into the park, Tozzi had to slow down. There wasn’t much traffic down that road. He slowed down and waited for a sixteen-wheeler to turn left, then tailgated the truck for cover until it turned off at a paper factory. Tozzi kept driving, hoping the pallbearers didn’t realize that the brown Buick was following them. He couldn’t slow down; it would look too suspicious on this road. There was nothing out here, just an empty field on the river side, and a junkyard where hopeless wrecks were stacked six high on the other. Tozzi glanced at the sprung trunks on some of those ruined cars and thought about compactors and Gibbons. He was relieved when the Caprice didn’t turn into the junkyard.
The road curved around the waterfront. The Caprice was out of sight now, hidden behind tall grass and high ragweed on the bend. Tozzi stayed on the main road when he came out of the bend instead of taking the one that forked to the right. He knew the area. That road ended at the old railway station where the immigrants from Ellis Island were dumped. He remembered his grandpa telling him that once they got past the physical exam at Ellis Island, the new arrivals were asked if they wanted to go to the city or the country. If you said the city, they shipped you to the Lower East Side. If you said the country, they sent you to Jersey City. Grandpa opted for the country, but he only had enough money to get him as far as Newark. In two generations, the Tozzis hadn’t made it any farther west.
Suddenly the main road went from blacktop to cobblestones, rattling the old Buick. Tozzi saw the trestle bridge up ahead and a few abandoned factories and warehouses tucked under the gloom of the black steel structure. The gold Caprice and the silver Volvo caught his eye right away. They were parked next to a line of abandoned trailers in the rutted dirt lot of an ol
d two-story brick warehouse. Tozzi drove on in case someone was watching. There were more factories and warehouses on the other side of the bridge, a few of these still in operation. Tozzi parked on the first side street he came to, then got out and doubled back on foot.
Tozzi circled around the warehouse, crouching through the tall grass. He could see the loading dock and the fronts of the two cars. There was a third car, a black Firebird Trans Am, tucked away in the tall grass behind the trailers. Two of the pallbearers were leaning on the hood of the Caprice. Three scruffy-looking punks sat on the edge of the loading dock, pawing through two white take-out bags, stuffing their faces with whatever they found. The big Irish kid looked like he was going to eat the bags. The short Latino punk was trying to make conversation with the two pallbearers, but they were ignoring him. The pallbearers apparently considered themselves a higher order of torpedo and didn’t want to associate with the punks. Tozzi watched this scene until the punks finished eating and went back inside. Tozzi could hear the warning bell of the freight elevator coming down to get them. He saw the Latino give the pallbearers the finger as he backstepped into the elevator.
When the elevator came down again a few minutes later, Kinney and the third pallbearer stepped out. They joined the other two pallbearers, got into their respective cars, and left, bouncing over the deep ruts in the dirt lot. Tozzi grinned. If Gibbons was up there, he was still alive. Corpses don’t need guards.
Tozzi went directly to the loading dock and looked into the empty elevator. He was going to have to improvise. He had to get their attention first. He stuck the .38 in his waistband, cupped his hands around his mouth, and started to sing the first thing that came into his head. “O-o say can you see . . .” He was thinking of Smokey Robinson’s version. “. . . by the dawn’s early light . . .” He started singing louder just in case they couldn’t hear him.
A moment later he heard the elevator starting its slow ascent. Tozzi grinned. He leapt off the loading dock and rushed over to the row of rusty trailers with their doors hanging open like old whores, still singing.
Bad Guys Page 24