Bad Business

By Anthony Bruno

A fast, funny crime thriller featuring “the best fictional cop duo around” (People).
 
FBI Special Agents Cuthbert Gibbons and Mike Tozzi get into hot water when the turncoat mobster they were assigned to protect is found murdered—and Tozzi is the prime suspect.
 
At the center of the crime is a dirty assistant US attorney who’s been ordered to throw a major drug case to pay off a debt to a Sicilian gangster. But Gibbons and Tozzi are determined to bring order to the court . . .
 
“Fast, intricate and funny . . . The plot careens terrifically, like a combination of Elmore Leonard and Donald Westlake, and the characters are vivid.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626812314

Anthony Bruno

Anthony served in the US Army, during the Viet Nam era, and is currently retired from the New York City police dept. Married and the proud father of two, he was born in Brooklyn, and now resides in Middle Village, New York.

Book preview

Prologue

Sicily, 1989

"Are you sure this is the right road? Tom Augustine leaned forward in the back seat and peered out the windshield at the hot, dusty road ahead. We’ve been driving an awfully long time."

Vincent Giordano leaned over the steering wheel as if putting his face to the glass would reveal something. Yeah, Nemo, I didn’t think it was this far.

Nemo rolled down his window and flicked out his cigarette butt. Hey, just chill out and drive, will ya, Vin? You know, I never knew you were such nervous guys, both of yous. You’re both gonna end up having heart attacks the way you’re going.

Nemo draped his arm over the seat and grinned at Augustine. Tell the truth, Augustine. You are nervous. A little bit.

Augustine stared at the obnoxious little man and that awful shirt he was wearing—clusters of yellow boomerang crescents on a solid black background, very fifties. The black T-shirt he wore underneath was from some health club in Brooklyn called Jimbo’s. No, Augustine said. I’m not nervous.

The engine whined as Giordano downshifted to make it up the hill.

Nemo’s grin widened. He stuck another cigarette in his mouth and lit it with that neon-green plastic lighter. "Can’t be nervous when you meet big shots, Augustine. You look nervous in front of these people, they think you’re bullshit, tell you to go fuck yourself. I figured you knew that, though. You deal with big shots all the time, don’cha? Or is that why you lost the primary last year to that spic, Rodriguez? All the big shots came out for him. Guess he knew how to act in front of those people. Now he’s the congressman and you’re still working for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Must be a real bitch, huh?"

Augustine didn’t answer. Rodriguez won because he was Hispanic. It was a three-way race, two whites, both moderate to conservative, and a liberal Hispanic. The conservative vote was split and the minority candidate won. That’s how it happened. The greasy little bastard got lucky, that’s all. That’s how it happened.

He looked out the window of the old Mercedes across the dry brown hills to Mt. Etna smoldering quietly in the distance. The car took each pothole as a personal offense, groaning pitifully with each jolt. Nemo seemed unaffected by the bumpy ride, sitting there, enjoying his cigarettes. He was a smug little dwarf, five foot even in his Cuban heels—maybe—just shy of being a genuine midget. Tremendous biceps, though. A fanatic bodybuilder and proud of it. Typical pursuit for a little man. And so smug now that he’s been made, an official, card-carrying member of La Cosa Nostra. A big man now. According to Mafia protocol, he holds rank here. He’s their entrée. Well, good for him. Let him be happy. Augustine knew who the real prize was. In fact, Nemo and Giordano both knew who the linchpin of this deal was. Him. He just wished his headache would go away. What he definitely didn’t need now was one of his cluster headaches.

Augustine watched as Nemo slowly brought the cigarette to his thick lips, wondering why the little man kept his sleeves rolled down and buttoned in this oppressive heat. Wiseguys had their own skewed sense of style, but Augustine didn’t think that was the reason. He wondered if the midget was taking steroids intravenously and he was hiding the track marks. Or maybe it wasn’t steroids. Maybe he was taking something else. Nemo did wipe his nose an awful lot. And he did have that sort of warm, self-satisfied presence Augustine had seen before. Nemo could be a heroin user. It was a definite possibility. But if what he knew of the Mafia was true, taking drugs was strictly verboten. What if they found out? How would this affect things? How would this affect him? Oh, Lord.

Giordano, on the other hand, looked like he could use a stiff shot of something right now to calm him down. The sweat was pouring off him, and that terrible suit of his fit like an iron maiden. Did he really think that dressing up as if he were going to his high school graduation would help his cause any? He was so terribly serious. A petty functionary out of his depth, an accountant with big ideas but no gumption. And that cologne—it was sickening. The man was pathetic. What was he—thirty-five, thirty-six?—and he groveled like a first-year law student on a summer clerkship. My God, this whole thing was Giordano’s brainchild. He should be a little more take-charge about it. If he acts like this at the meeting, they may just dismiss the whole plan out of hand. Good God, how could he have hitched his wagon to these two? Why hadn’t he gone directly to the top on his own? They might have listened. These two were going to bungle the whole thing.

So what do you think, Augustine? Nemo was grinning at him over the seat again.

Hmmm? About what?

Nemo laughed—or hissed, to be precise. That’s what I like about guys like you. Always so cool, no matter what.

Augustine raised an eyebrow. And what exactly is a guy like me?

Nemo sucked on his cigarette and hissed some more. "Hey, come on. You know what I’m talking about. You’re not a mutt, not like me and Vin here. You’re old money. I bet your family came over on the Mayflower."

Not quite.

All right, but I bet you went to some fancy prep school. And Harvard, too, I bet. Am I right?

Yale, actually. Harvard Law.

See? Wha’d I tell you? I can tell just from the way you dress. The polo shirt and the khaki pants. Brooks Brothers, right? See, I wear khaki pants I look like I’m gonna go dig a ditch. Guys like you wear khaki pants and you look like you’re off to play polo or something.

Nemo suddenly pointed out the window. Yo, Vin, slow down. This is it.

The accountant jammed on the brakes, and Augustine lurched forward. There was a dirt road to the left, where Nemo was pointing. The crude split-rail gate was open.

Turn in here, Nemo said.

Giordano stepped on the gas again, and the old car jerked forward.

Go all the way in.

A cloud of dust rose up to the windows as Giordano guided the car through the narrow gate. The road ahead was rocky and steep, and he had to downshift twice to manage the incline, the old Mercedes complaining the whole way. The fields on both sides of the road were striped with rows of grapevines twining around iron-pipe trellises.

The Mercedes’s muffler hit bottom as they took a second hill, and Giordano cursed under his breath. Fifty yards ahead the road came to a dead end in a quaint farmyard with a small fieldstone house to the right, a modern structure with drab-green prefabricated metal walls off to the left, and a weather-beaten wood-plank barn straight ahead. The diminutive three-wheeled Italian version of a pickup truck was parked in the shade of the barn. A silver Mercedes 420 sat by the farmhouse, maybe a year or two old, Augustine guessed. His own personal car back in New York was a 420. It was new.

Nemo pointed toward the truck. Pull up over there. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Giordano brought the car to a stop, took it out of gear, and cut the engine. Nemo took the key out of the ignition and put it in his pants pocket. Now, you two stay right here. I’ll tell you when you can come out.

I’d like to stretch my legs, Augustine said.

Too bad. Nemo opened his door and got out. Little bastard.

Giordano turned sideways in his seat, keeping his eye on Nemo. You think they’ll go for it?

Augustine ignored him. His headache was getting worse.

Nemo was halfway across the farmyard when the front door of the fieldstone house opened. A young man with woolly black hair poked his head out, then stepped out onto the porch. He had a gun in his hand. An oversized blue-finish automatic of some kind, the kind that holds a big clip. Your basic penis gun.

A second man came out of the house then. Short and squat, bald with a few long strands plastered across his shiny pate, tiny eyes buried in fat cheeks, an infectious smile. He was wearing a white shirt open at the neck with suit pants, conspicuously inappropriate for the setting.

That’s Nemo’s boss, Giordano whispered with great reverence. Ugo Salamandra. He was chewing his fingernails again and they were already down to the quick.

Augustine flexed his knee and said nothing as he studied the face of the man he’d heard so much about. He looked like Porky Pig, for God’s sake.

Nemo conferred with his boss for a few moments, then he turned and waved to them.

Giordano tapped Augustine on the shoulder. C’mon. They want us.

Giordano bolted out of the car, straightening his tie as he strode toward the other two. Augustine forced himself to take his time, stretching his back and rolling his head on his shoulders, before he approached the others. As Nemo said, you do have to be cool with these people.

You already know Vin, Nemo was saying to Salamandra as Augustine joined the group. You met before at that place in Queens. You remember. And this is Tom Augustine, the lawyer from the government.

Augustine made eye contact with Salamandra so that the boss could see his dissatisfaction with Nemo’s introduction. Assistant United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York in charge of Narcotics. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Salamandra. Augustine extended his hand.

Salamandra didn’t even look at it. He just smiled and nodded to himself.

Nemo lowered Augustine’s hand. This ain’t the country club, Augustine.

Augustine raised an eyebrow and looked down at him. He was very aware of the spot on his forearm where Nemo had just touched him.

Salamandra folded his arms over his chest, still smiling like an idiot. He had an exceptionally jovial face, like a happy gorilla, which Augustine found very disconcerting in a mobster. "How you like Sicilia, Meester Augustine? Salamandra asked. Is nice, huh?" His accent was almost too comic to be true.

I’m finding it very pleasant, Mr. Salamandra. An ideal climate.

Ideal for what? Salamandra’s smile turned wicked.

Augustine laughed a little so as not to put the man off. These people were easily offended, he suspected.

Nemo was looking fidgety. Look, he said, maybe we should—

But at that moment someone emerged from the vineyards, and Nemo stopped talking. It was a little old man in work clothes, carrying a bunch of grapes, cradling them as if they were a very small kitten in his palm. He was brown from the sun, and his face was severely wrinkled. The old man didn’t look up as he ambled toward them, concentrating instead on the grapes in his hand as he plucked them off one by one, eating them with great deliberation. Augustine glanced toward the porch. The woolly-headed young man with the gun was standing at attention now.

The old man approached the group, but stopped about ten feet away. He spit out a grape skin into the dirt, then looked at Salamandra. His eyes were intense, set deep in his skull, almost black in color. Salamandra went over to him and spoke softly in that unfathomable Sicilian dialect. The old man nodded slowly as Salamandra whispered into his ear. Augustine was puzzled. He couldn’t believe it. This was Emilio Zucchetti? This was the notorious Sicilian capo di capi, the man who brokered heroin by the truckload, the drug baron who had frustrated authorities on three continents for almost ten years now? Good God.

Salamandra summoned Nemo then, and the dwarf hopped to it. Augustine wondered what they were talking about. He was afraid even to venture a guess.

When Nemo finished making what seemed to be a brief presentation, the old man spit out another skin, glanced at Giordano, then looked at Salamandra. He frowned deeply and shook his head.

Salamandra looked at Nemo, shrugged, and shook his head.

"Ma perchè? But why? I don’t understand. This is a good deal."

He say no, Salamandra said firmly. No is no.

Augustine felt his stomach tighten. A slow drill was boring through his skull under his left eye, another damn cluster headache. The dwarf was right, dammit. It was a good deal. And it would make a lot of money. Money he needed.

Ask him why it isn’t a good deal, Augustine said. Ask him how we can fix it. Tell him we can be flexible.

The others stared at him as if he’d just arrived from Mars. He wasn’t supposed to talk directly to the boss of bosses—Mafia protocol. Well, to hell with that.

Zucchetti put another grape in his mouth, rolled it on his tongue, crushed it, spit out the skin. Can no fix, he said to the bunch of grapes in his hand. He pointed to Salamandra. I trust Ugo. He pointed to Nemo. Ugo trust Nemo. He pointed to Giordano. Nemo trust accountant. He looked up and stared Augustine in the eye. But nobody can trust lawyer. Very bad plan.

"You’re wrong, Mr. Zucchetti. It’s a very good plan."

Nemo cut in abruptly. Shut up, Augustine. This ain’t the debating society.

Zucchetti spit out another skin. Au-goos-teen, he pronounced slowly. Maybe like Saint Augustine? Very smart man, Saint Augustine. I think you very smart man too.

Well … yes, actually.

"Then you understand chain, Saint Augustine. One bad link, whole chain no good. You tell me chain good, but I see two bad link. Zucchetti pointed to Giordano and Augustine. Two bad link, accountant and Saint Augustine."

Why? Why are we the weak links?

Nemo was livid now. I said shut the fuck up, Augustine. You’re outta line.

Zucchetti raised his hand and waved the dwarf off. I tell you why chain is no good, Saint Augustine. Accountant? No experienz’. My business no in ledger book, no in office. On the street, my business. Accountant have no experienz’ on the street. No good for my business.

Giordano looked like a guttering candle, sickly white and melting down in the oppressive heat.

Augustine took a deep breath and screwed up his courage. And what’s wrong with me?

A crooked smile snaked across the old man’s face. "You no Sicilian. You no in my family. Policeman catch you, you tell everything. You know omerta?"

"Yes, I know what omerta is."

"What is omerta?"

It’s—Augustine hesitated, unsure about using the word Mafia in front of these men—it’s your organization’s code of secrecy.

"Yes, my code, no you code. You have no obligation to me. That is why I can no trust you." The old man turned and started to walk away.

I can assure you, Mr. Zucchetti, Augustine called out quickly, that I have told no one of this enterprise. Not my closest advisers, not even my wife. I have always believed that it’s best to act alone in matters that matter—he raised his voice—for today’s confidant can become tomorrow’s tattletale.

The old man stopped and looked back at him. Bravo, Saint Augustine. You speak beautiful, like Shake-a-speare. Beautiful words … but all bullshit. Just make-believe story.

Nemo and Salamandra were staring hard at him, as if this impertinence were unforgivable.

Hear me out, Mr. Zucchetti. Please.

Zucchetti tilted his head back and flashed the crooked smile. Speak, Saint Augustine. I hear you. Tell me good story.

I realize, sir, that you are far more experienced in this business than I am. I do know from the drug cases I’ve tried in New York that the basics of our plan are not particularly extraordinary. Giordano has lined up a solid connection in Colombia who will sell him cocaine which Nemo will bring here to you. Nemo takes your heroin in exchange for the cocaine and smuggles the heroin back to the United States. Nothing new about that. The specially designed Oriental rugs with the hidden plastic inner layers is new to me, but to be perfectly honest, it’s not a revolutionary advancement in smuggling technology. Nemo delivers the heroin to Mr. Salamandra, who distributes it to his network of barbershops and beauty parlors, where it will be retailed. The proceeds will be siphoned back to Giordano, who will launder the money and get it into Swiss bank accounts. There’s really nothing new about any of this. It’s all pretty standard for your business. Isn’t that so, Mr. Zucchetti?

Nemo bristled. Hey, Augustine, who the fuck you think you’re talking to?

Aspett’! Zucchetti glared at the little man. Go on, Saint Augustine.

Augustine sucked in a breath. The drill kept grinding into his face. "What isn’t standard about this plan is my participation. I am the guarantee, the insurance policy. The major transactions will take place in New York, which is my jurisdiction. If it so happens that one of our people is apprehended by the police or any of the federal law-enforcement agencies, the case will have to come to my desk, and I can manage to dismiss it for lack of sufficient evidence. Even if arrests are made, I can make sure these people never see the inside of a penitentiary. In this way, I can guarantee you virtually uninterrupted business."

Zucchetti nodded in thought. "And what happen if the police catch Nemo with fifty kilos of heroina? You can make this many drugs ‘insufficient evidenz’? How? By magic?"

I would hope that Nemo would be more careful than to be caught with that kind of quantity. But for argument’s sake, let’s suppose he was. In that case, we would have to go to trial, and I would have to lose the case.

You can do that, Saint Augustine?

It can be done. There are many pitfalls in the American judicial system. It’s very easy to make a small technical mistake that can be disastrous to a case. And it’s even easier when you’re trying to.

And what does it cost to have a saint work in my business?

Augustine squared his shoulders and tilted his head back. However much money it takes to get me elected mayor of New York City. Fourteen million or so, I’d say. Not an unreasonable price to have a friend in City Hall, when you think about it.

The old man stared at him. The crooked smile was gone. He looked at Salamandra and gestured with his head for the fat man to follow him. They walked back toward the vineyard together. The old man threw the bunch of grapes away and clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the volcano as his corpulent lieutenant whispered into his ear again.

The drill bit was smoldering as it ground on and on and on.

Nemo was in a state. I told you to shut the fuck up, Augustine. You shoulda listened. You can forget about it now. Just forget about it.

Giordano was in shock. His eyes were bulging and his bottom lip hung slack. He looked like Lou Costello trapped in a haunted house. He was totally perplexed. Like all accountants, he knew numbers, not people, and people were never as predictable as numbers. If only they were.

Salamandra pointed to Nemo then and summoned him over to the huddle. The old man wasn’t talking, but the other two were in hot negotiation. Augustine guessed that Salamandra was looking for assurances and Nemo was frantically making promises. The dwarf and the fat man ended their powwow with a lot of solemn head nodding. The deal was then formally presented to Zucchetti, who studied them both in cold silence. Augustine clenched his hands. Then Zucchetti nodded once.

Nemo turned on his heels and headed for the barn. C’mon. Follow me. The both of you.

Augustine frowned but obliged, following Nemo into the barn with Giordano clinging to his coattails, Salamandra and Zucchetti bringing up the rear. It was cool inside the barn, with shafts of light piercing the dim, hay-strewn interior, but the place stunk to high heaven.

Which way? Nemo asked. Over here?

Over there, Salamandra said. In that one.

Nemo found the stall Salamandra had indicated and threw back the coarse blanket that covered the opening. The only light in there came from the sun beaming in through chinks and seams in the plankboard wall. When Augustine’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, he was suddenly startled by an unexpected figure seated against the wall. It was a man tied to a straightback chair, hands bound behind him, legs bound to the chair, his clothing soaked through with sweat. His head was covered with a black cloth hood taped securely around his neck. Sensing that visitors had arrived, the man started murmuring frantically, thrashing his head. He was obviously gagged under the hood.

Salamandra moved behind the prisoner. He had a grimy length of rope in one hand. "Mr. Zucchetti he reconsider your idea. He think maybe it can be done. If you can prove to him that he can trust you. He must know that your loyalty is like steel, can never be broken. Also, he must know that you have the guts to work in our business." Salamandra tossed the rope to Augustine, who caught it as if it were a rattlesnake.

I don’t understand, Augustine said. He turned to Nemo. What’s going on?

You ever hear of the Italian Rope Trick? Well, you’re gonna learn it now. You too, Vin. Nemo took the rope from Augustine’s hand and looped it twice around the prisoner’s neck. The man started thrashing his head like a fish on a hook. Here. You take one end, and you take the other. Now, when I say go, all you have to do is pull.

Giordano didn’t move. Neither did Augustine.

From the stall entrance, the old man coughed up a bitter laugh. See? I tell you. No guts.

Augustine looked at Zucchetti. Who is this man?

Salamandra answered. He is magistrate from Palermo. A stupid young man who think he can be big shot, persecute the Mafia. Like you, Augustine.

Augustine stared at the black hood for a moment and imagined the face underneath. They were asking him to commit murder to prove himself. It was the standard Mafia ordeal, the test that all their members had to pass before they’re admitted. He’d read about it, but he never thought he’d … He suddenly remembered the mayor’s race then, and the fact that running for public office was his only viable option since his boss had made it clear that he wasn’t looking to move on and make room for him. There was the possibility of private practice, but the only firms he’d consider were headed by founding partners who ruled like mandarins. The only career move left for him was in politics. But he needed money to climb that ladder, a great deal of money. He looked Zucchetti in the eye. My price—do you have a problem with that?

Again Salamandra answered for the big boss. We have no problem. Is cheap.

Augustine held his breath. The drill was suddenly whirring fast, bearing down hard. Augustine took one end of the rope and wrapped it around his hand. Okay. Fine. He looked at Giordano. I’m ready.

Giordano was still doing his Lou Costello impression, looking lost and scared. He was holding on to his end of the rope, but just barely.

Augustine blinked against the pain in his head. Wrap it around your right hand, he ordered under his breath. As if this were a tug-of-war, one on one. You did play tug-of-war when you were a little boy, didn’t you, Giordano?

Yeah … sure. His voice was a vague murmur.

All right, then do it.

Huh?

Augustine’s face was drenched. You do want this, don’t you? I think they’ve made their conditions pretty clear, Giordano. They want us to prove ourselves before they’ll sanction us.

Yeah, yeah … I know…

The drill was spinning fast, the pain becoming unbearable. Now, you listen to me, Giordano. Just hold on to your end and don’t let go. I’ll take care of the rest.

Fighting the pain, Augustine gripped the rope and took up the slack, bending his