Bad Guys by Anthony Bruno Page B

Mistretta, Luccarelli, and Giovinazzo. Finally when New York’s hold on Atlantic City was strong enough, Richie made his true allegiance known, in effect spitting in his father-in-law’s face.
    The file didn’t have anything about Varga’s wife except to say that their marriage had never been a paradise. Gibbons simply assumed that when Richie betrayed his father-in-law, that was it for the marriage.
    Gibbons kept scrolling. Jesus, this was a long file. He stopped for a moment and glanced out the tinted window at the blazing orange sunset beaming off the hard surfaces of the World Trade Center. It looked hot and hazy out there, in sharp contrast to the cool, dimly lit File Room.
    He looked over at Hayes the librarian, who was poring over a stack of printouts. Gibbons stared at him, glassy-eyed. How the hell does a guy who looks like a pro linebacker and can’t put three words together in the same sentence end up a librarian for the FBI? Gibbons stretched his back and cracked his knuckles, then finally went back to the screen.
    He skimmed through Richie’s involvement with the New York bosses, how he was instrumental in getting them to work together so they could all get what they wanted in Atlantic City. Mistretta, Luccarelli, and Giovinazzo were in love with the little asshole. Whatever Richie wanted, they got for him. They actually tried to outdo each other with expensive gifts. Nothing was too good for Richie. How fucking stupid. If he did it to Collesano, why didn’t they think he’d do it to them?
    It was odd, though, how his turnaround seemed to just come out ofthe blue. One day Richie’s their prince, and the next day he’s spilling his guts out to the federal prosecutors. Very strange. By all indications, his conversion was totally unmotivated. He was sitting pretty under the protection of three of the biggest Mafia bosses in the country. Why give all that up? What happened? Did he suddenly get scared? Of what? Maybe he found religion, who knows?
    Gibbons rubbed his mouth and looked at the two thick volumes sitting in front of him on the desk, Varga’s grand jury testimony. Not today. He decided to take it home and look at it over the weekend.
    He rolled his head on his shoulders and listened to his neckbones creak, then he hit the scroll key again, stopping it at random to skim the rest of the file. He passed over the parts about Richie’s testimony and the resulting convictions—he knew all about that. Dozens of mobsters were sent to jail, including Luccarelli and Mistretta. Giovinazzo’s trial was still pending as he was recovering from an alleged stroke reportedly triggered by the news of Richie’s betrayal. The file ended with an abrupt paragraph after the litany of Richie’s victims.
    Richie Varga is presently living under the auspices of the Justice Department’s Witness Security Program. His identity has been changed for his own protection. Inquiries of Varga, which pertain to ongoing investigations, must be submitted in writing and sponsored by a Special Agent in Charge. Appropriate written inquiries should be forwarded to the Assistant Attorney General in charge of the Witness Security Program.
    Tight as a clam’s ass, Gibbons thought.
    But just when he thought he was finished, Gibbons was annoyed to see that there was a short addendum to the file, miscellaneous information about Varga that had been collected after he entered the program, mostly inconsequential personal stuff. One item did catch Gibbons’s attention: “Varga diagnosed for testicular cancer, 1979. Surgical removal of affected testis; St. Jude’s Hospital, Upper Darby, Pennsylvania; March 1980. Eighteen-month course of radiation and chemotherapy followed thereafter.”
    Gibbons shut off the terminal and leaned back in his chair, staring at the black screen. Cancer of the nuts. “Surgical removal.” He shuddered and rubbed his crotch.
    He quickly