Bad Business by Anthony Bruno Page A

digging through her pocketbook, looking for something.
    Tozzi, of course, wasn’t helping matters, looking broody and suspicious. He was still confused. He didn’t trust Ms. Halloran, but he had this big nostalgic hard-on for her. What a piece of work. Someday he’ll stop thinking with his dick. Maybe when he turns ninety.
    Gibbons waited for everybody to sit down, then he took a seat next to the window and immediately tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf in the basket and unwrapped a packet of butter. The bread was warm, but the butter was nearly frozen and hard as a rock. Lorraine was sitting across from him, sipping from her water glass, her eyelashes lying on her cheeks. She wasn’t going to look at him. Jesus. Honeydew with raspberry accents. Is that anything to fight about?
    As he tried to butter his bread with the frozen chunk, he checked the place out. It was your basic checkered-table-cloth, family-style Italian restaurant, just a few blocks from the courthouse, in Little Italy. What was a little suspicious, though, was the restaurant directly across the street from this place.
    He bit off a piece of bread and looked out the front window at that restaurant across the street. It was on the ground floor of a tenement building. The heavy red-velvet curtains covering the front window made that place seem a little more formal than this place. There was an open menu propped up on the sill, just like in this place. A big painted sign ran from one end of the building to the other: LA BELL’ ISOLA RISTORANTE—FINE ITALIAN FOOD AND WINES. A map of Sicily was on the far left, showing just the toe of the boot kicking the island like it was a misshapen soccer ball. La Bell’ Isola, the beautiful island. That was Salamandra’s restaurant. He kept an apartment upstairs. Gibbons glanced at Ms. Halloran and chewed. Was it just a coincidence that shepicked a restaurant across the street from Salamandra’s place? Maybe Tozzi was right to be suspicious of her.
    Ms. Halloran finally found what she was looking for in her purse. “This is my daughter Patricia,” she said. She put a photograph on the table for whoever wanted to see.
    Oh, Christ. Is this the best she can do?
    Lorraine picked up the picture. “She’s adorable, Lesley.” There wasn’t much feeling in Lorraine’s words because she was sulking, but she knew what she was supposed to say. “How old?”
    â€œShe just turned five last week.”
    Gibbons glanced at the picture. “Too bad.”
    Lorraine glared at him.
    He glared back. “I mean, it’s too bad having your birthday in December, so close to Christmas. You never get as many presents, unless your parents are loaded. I know. My birthday’s in December.”
    Lorraine gave him a withering look and took another sip of water. Lesley licked her lips and smiled nervously. She was trying to get the ball rolling here, but she had miscalculated with this move. Most people with young kids figure that’s a safe topic, a good ice-breaker. But that only works with other people who have young kids and old geezers who’re cuckoo for their grandchildren.
    Tozzi picked up the photo and glanced at it. “Cute.” Tozzi looked like one of those stone heads on Easter Island. The kid actually was cute, but he wasn’t gonna gush, not for Lesley Halloran. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
    Lesley braved the frost and flashed one of those dopey parent smiles, thinking she could muscle this party into some sort of conviviality. “Patricia’s very excited about Christmas. She still believes in Santa Claus, which is pretty unusual for a city kid.”
    Tozzi nodded. Lorraine nodded. Gibbons nodded. Santa Claus. Not much you could say about Santa Claus.
    Lesley forged on. “So, Michael, I hear your office is supervisingVincent Giordano. That’s usually the marshals’ job, isn’t it?”
    Gibbons puckered