The rat squinted at Gibbons's I.D. again, snickering the whole time. “Just a street agent, huh? Whatta I gotta talk to you for?”
Gibbons's immediate impulse was to kick the little shit's
teeth down his throat, but he wanted something from him, so he put a lid on it and just smiled. Nicely. “Well, actually, Moscowitz, you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to.”
“You're damn straight I don't have to talk to you if I don't want to.” The rat bounced on his seat, working his rump into the cushion to get comfortable. His spine must've been a chiropractor's nightmare. “Listen to me, pal. I don't talk to little guys like you. I got access. I got contacts. I could call your boss right now and get him on the line. Ivers, right? Brad Ivers.”
“Go ahead. Call him. Tell âBrad' I said hi.” Gibbons imagined pistol-whipping this little prick with his own gun.
“I got connections with law-enforcement people so high up you never even heard of 'em. Guys a lot higher up than you.” A smog bank of cigarette smoke hung over Moscowitz's greasy head. He was like a miniature Los Angeles.
“C'mon, Moscowitz. Who could you know? I've been reading your coverage of Figaro. I'm not impressed. It's all bits and pieces, leftovers. You must not have any big-time sources on
that
end of Foley Square.”
“
Au contraire, mon
flatfoot. I happen to be
very
tight with Tom Augustine.”
“The Assistant U.S. Attorney? Get outta here.”
The rat scratched his scrawny, concave chest. “Lemme tell you something. When Augustine wants to leak a story, he comes to
me
. When he's got something to say,
I
get the exclusive. We have a relationship.”
“Get outta here.”
“Hey, I don't have to impress you. I know what I know, and I know that when a story is about to break down at the trial, my man Tom gets the word to me first.”
“You're telling me Augustine tips you off ahead of time? Get outta here.” Gibbons kept an incredulous grin plastered on his face.
“Hey, all you have to do is watch me down at the trial. You don't see me jumping all over Augustine out in the hallway, yelling questions at him the way the other reporters do. I don't have to scramble with those losers. D'ja ever see where I always sit? Down front, right by the prosecution table. Reserved seating, thanks to my buddy Tom. He lets me stay close so I can listen. Very discreet. That's my style.”
Yeah, very discreet. Like the Visigoths
.
Gibbons tried to recall where Moscowitz did sit in court. He'd never noticed, so he couldn't tell how much of this bullshit really was bullshit.
“Augustine even proofs some of my stories before I turn them in.” A smug smile squiggled up the rat's muzzle.
“Why would he do that?”
Gibbons stuck his hands in his coat pockets.
What's he do? Check your spelling?
“Hey, in case you haven't figured it out, pal, this guy's running for mayor next year. He wants to make sure he gets written up just right.”
“And you don't have a problem with him reading your stuff before you hand it in? You know, journalistic ethics and all that baloney.”
“Fuck ethics. The man's gonna be the next mayor. I want him to remember me when he's in City Hall.” The rat blew a plume of smoke into the smog bank.
“Well, I gotta hand it to you, Moscowitz. You're a pretty clever guy. But Augustine must be pretty upset these days. Figaro's bogged down in all these mistrial motions. Nothing much has happened in court since Giordano was whacked. Pretty boring stuff. Guess he doesn't have to bother proofing your stories now.”
The rat shook his head. “If it concerns him, he wants to see it first. No matter what it is.”
“Get outta here. Now I know you're full of shit.”
“I'm telling you, he has gone over every single word I've
written about Figaro. If a story's got my byline, it's truth because it comes straight from the source. I told you, me and Augustine have a relationship.”
Gibbons remained skeptical. “He's seen
every
piece you've written about Figaro before it was printed?”
“Every one.”
Gibbons stared at the computer terminal. Every one, huh? Which would include the one with the incriminating quote attributed to Tozzi. So if Augustine saw it, why didn't he stop it?
The rat pointed with his cigarette. “You a betting man, Gibbons? Put your money on Augustine for mayor. Take it from me.”
“What are you, for real? You don't have to be a genius to figure that one out, Moscowitz. The way it's lining up now, the blacks and Hispanics will split the liberal vote between Washington and Ortega. Augustine'll veer just a little to the right and that way he'll pick up all the whites. Augustine's got the right image and he's certainly got the money to spend on a campaign. The mayor's office is his for the taking if he decides to run.”
The rat sat forward and slumped over his desk. “Listen to me now. This comes straight from the mouth of Moscowitz.”
Yuk. Gibbons's stomach went sour. “Go 'head. I'm listening.”
“All this coy flirting Augustine is doing with the party? It's all part of his strategy. He's gonna run. That isn't even a question. He just doesn't want to declare himself and peak too soon. He wants the voters to want him, so he's playing hard to get.”
Gibbons shrugged. “So what else is new?”
“Now you're absolutely right about the image thing. He's the urban crusader, Mr. Clean, a big-city crime buster, the white man's candidate. But you're all wrong about the money thing.”
“What're you talking about? Augustine is old money. His old man is loaded.”
“
Was
loaded. The old man took a bath on the market in â87. Just about wiped him out.”
“Yeah, sure. Next you're gonna be telling me Augustine's on welfare.”
“Not quite. The old man must've kept some money squirreled away, but the dynasty ends with him. There won't be any big payday for Augustine when good ol' Dad croaks.”
“Hey, Augustine works. He must have investments of his own. He's not poor.”
“How much do you think an Assistant U.S. Attorney makes? Not that much. Definitely not enough to bankroll a major political campaign. He must've been ripped when the old man lost his shirt, though. That's why he lost to Rodriguez in the primary for Congress. Not enough cash for the TV spots. Why do you think he went to work for the government in the first place? He didn't need the money when he first took the job. Dad still had the fortune. What Augustine needed was the prestige, the exposure. He needed a public record. Dad had just sold the family business then, and everybody figured he'd go on making good, conservative investments with the dough the way he had been. But I guess he wasn't conservative enough. Hey, who woulda thought? Anyway, as far as Augustine is concerned, the mayor's office is the only place an ambitious, upwardly mobile type of guy like him can go now because his boss made it pretty clear that he isn't ready to move over for anybody. So either Augustine shoots for mayor or he resigns himself to lowering his standard of living more than he already has.”
“Tom Augustine doesn't look like he goes wanting. Not from what I've seen.”
The rat skulked so far forward his chest was flat on the desktop. “Sure, Augustine's got the family town house in the East Sixties and he belongs to all the right clubs, but I'm
willing to bet his bankbook is no blockbuster. He's just like the rest of them, one of these old-money WASPs who has real Chippendale chairs in the dining room and eats Campbell's soup for dinner when they don't have company.”
“Get outta here.”
“Hey, man, I know. I checked his trash.”
Gibbons could believe that. So if Augustine is strapped for cash and he does intend to run for mayor, he needs the free publicity of Figaro. Yeah, but this didn't make sense. Why set up Tozzi for the fall? Indict an FBI agent, and the mistrial becomes a sure betâgovernment conspiracy and all thatâand there goes all Augustine's free publicity. Unless there's something else going on here. Unless Augustine's getting
paid
to trash Figaro. Maybe Tozzi's big mouth gave him a golden opportunity. He gets to prosecute Tozzi, which keeps him in the news, while getting paid for wrecking the Figaro trial. It's not impossible.
“You know, Moscowitz, you're a regular Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
“Hey, the city is my beat. If it's happening here, I know about it.”
Gibbons just nodded. Asshole.
“So what was it you wanted to know, Gibbons?”
“Never mind. It's not important.”
Gibbons smiled with his teeth. You've already told me more than I ever expected, Rat Boy.
Before he left, Gibbons paused and stared down at the reporter.
“Whattaya looking at?”
“That thing under your arm.”
Moscowitz lifted his elbow and peeked under like a chicken. “What? This?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Hey, I thought you FBI guys knew all about guns. It's a Beretta, 25 ACP.”
“Oh.” Gibbons nodded. “I thought it was one of those cigarette lighters.” He smiled like a crocodile and headed out the door. “Take it slow, Moscowitz.”
“Yeah, fuck you too. Asshole.”
Tozzi stopped walking and stared down at the sample headstone in front of him. It was a glassy, polished granite, the top rough and scalloped. In one corner there was a carving of a sad-looking little angel holding a cross. The angel was looking at the blank spot where the dead person's name would be carved. “Hey, Gib, what do you think of this one?”
Gibbons shrugged and blew into his hands to get them warm. “I have no opinion.” It was freezing and the wind was beginning to kick up.
“Where is he now?” Tozzi said under his voice, keeping his eyes on the headstone.
“He just went into the hut with the old man.”
Tozzi looked down the gravel path lined with sample headstones to the little shingled hut where the old guy who sold these things had his office. McCleery's face was in the window, staring at them.
Gibbons rubbed his hands. “McCleery been on your tail all morning?”
“Yup. Doesn't try to hide the fact that he's there either. Just hangs around and waves and smiles once in a while. I don't know what he thinks he's gonna see if I know he's watching.”
“I always said he was brain-damaged.”
“Did I tell you? I put the rug on the bathroom scale before I stashed it. This must be the forty-kilo shipment we heard about.”
“I figured.” Gibbons was chewing his upper lip, looking off at the cemetery on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. There were patches of crusty snow between the graves that had partially melted, then frozen again. Vapor filtered out of his nose and trailed off in the cold air. He looked like that old Indian in the TV commercials, the guy staring at the beautiful land that the white man had ruined.
“McCleery still in the hut?” Gibbons was still staring out at the cemetery.
“He hasn't moved. Too cold out here for him. So what do you think? Is Augustine dirty or what?” It was the first time he'd had a chance to really talk to Gibbons since the attack at Uncle Pete's that morning.
Gibbons let out a long breath. It flew up over his head like an idea, then vanished. “I hate to admit it, but I'm beginning to think you were right about Tom Augustine. Remember what I told you about âthe patron saint of lawyers'? I think that could be him.”
“Really?” Tozzi's pulse jumped. He couldn't believe Gibbons was saying this. He thought Gibbons liked Augustine. “You really think he's dirty?”
“I don't know that he is. Not for sure.”
“But if the Sicilians are calling him their patron saint, what else could it mean?”
Gibbons shrugged. “I don't know. I don't even know for sure that it's him they're talking about. Maybe the Zips tried to bribe him, and he wouldn't take it. Maybe he did take it,
and then he didn't deliver for them. Maybe it's not him at all. I don't know. I'm just speculating right now.”
“That's some pretty heavy speculating. You tell anyone else about this?”
Gibbons shook his head. Tozzi could tell from his face that he wasn't comfortable with the idea of Augustine being crooked and he was trying to figure out what he was going to do. Tozzi knew what
he'd
like to do, though. Get back in the car, drive into Manhattan, grab that shit Augustine by the lapels, pin him against a wall, stick the barrel of a .357 in the bastard's mouth, and give him to the count of three to come clean. But he knew what Gibbons would think of that.
“You have any hard evidence we can go to Ivers with?” he asked.
Gibbons shook his head.
“Nada.”