Bad Blood by Anthony Bruno Page B

focused down on the nosy old guy in the awful-looking, single-breastedblack raincoat, the guy who just shoved a hose and a soda can into his pockets.
    He glanced over at the skinny yak in the horrible madras sports jacket leaning against the wall. He was staring up at the monitor, too. He already had his gun out.
    â€œTake it easy there, brother,” he said to the young yakuza hitter, waving his hand in front of the man’s gaze and motioning for him to stay where he was. The yak narrowed his eyes to imperceptible slits and stared at him, clutching his gun in both hands. “It’s okay. Put your piece away.” D’Urso mimed putting an imaginary gun under his jacket. Reluctantly the kid put his gun away. The yaks didn’t like taking orders from him.
    â€œMr. D’Urso, this guy says he’s FBI. Jesus Christ, what’re we gonna do, Mr. D’Urso?” Joe was still panting, sweat running down his face.
    â€œYou calm down, too, okay?” D’Urso reached for the control panel and turned a knob. The camera zoomed in fast, and the monitor went gray and out of focus, the picture lost in Gibbons’s coat. D’Urso pulled back and focused on Gibbons’s head. Just then Gibbons looked straight up and stared into the camera. “Thank you very much,” D’Urso said with a smile. He looked down at the Panasonic VCR on a shelf under the monitors, adjusting his tie as he watched the blue numbers mounting steadily on the counter.
    â€œHe gave me this, Mr. D’Urso.” Joe showed him the business card. “He said I should call his office to see that he’s okay. What should I do, Mr. D’Urso?”
    The yak was moving toward the door. He had that goddamn gun out again.
    â€œHey, you, sit down, I said.” D’Urso shook his head and muttered to Joe, “Christ, you gotta put these goddamn people on leashes.”
    The yak resumed his position against the wall, staring up at the monitor with his arms folded over his chest, the muzzle of his piece poking out of his armpit.
    â€œTake it easy before you have another heart attack, Joe.” Joe was sweating like a pig, his face like a ripe tomato. D’Urso ran a fingernail between his teeth as he thought this through. FBI, huh? So what does he know? Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. This could be good though, if he’s on to the slaves. Maybe we can finagle it so that Antonelli andHamabuchi take the rap for this. Get rid of the competition and clear the way for me. Depends on what this guy’s here for. Gotta wait it out a little and see.
    â€œJoe, listen to me. Get on the phone and call that number, just like he told you to.” D’Urso pointed to Gibbons on the monitor. “If this guy finds out you didn’t make the call, he’ll know something’s up and he’ll just come back. Call ’em and get mad, be real indignant. Think like he’s stepping on your rights. You understand me? After you make the call, go back out and cooperate with him. Be real nice. If he wants to look inside any cars, though, you tell him you don’t have the keys and you can’t get them today. Be polite about it and just tell him to come back tomorrow. Tell him he can see anything he wants tomorrow. Okay? Now make the call.”
    Joe wiped his face with his sleeve and picked up the phone. As he dialed the number, D’Urso took the card and read the name on it. “Mr. C. Gibbons, huh?” He glanced at the monitor and saw the old guy rotating his head on his shoulders. “What do you want, Mr. Gibbons? What is it you want?”
    Joe was on the line now, complaining to someone about being hassled by some guy who said he was an FBI agent. He demanded to know if this guy “Gibson” was for real and what the hell this was all about anyway. D’Urso grinned and nodded encouragingly. Joe was pretty convincing.
    D’Urso glanced down at the VCR again, then looked at the