Bad Business by Anthony Bruno Page B

rolled his eyes. Don’t even say it .
    He was reaching into the tin, searching for one of those plain cookies with the walnuts, when the doorbell rang.
    Lorraine looked at the door. “That must be Gibbons. I told him to meet us here.” Tozzi started to get up, but she motioned for him to stay put. “I’ll let him in,” she said, and went into the hallway to buzz Gibbons in.
    Tozzi wrapped his fingers around the warm coffee cup and stared out into space. Fucking Uncle Pete. Had to stick it to me one more time, even after he croaked. Good ol’ Uncle Pete. Ought to bury him in one of those old refrigerators.
    Tozzi looked up when he heard the knock. He could see the door from where he sat. He glanced down at the cookie tin and spotted another one of those walnut cookies. He was just about to grab it when Lorraine opened the door.
    â€œOh . . . hello.” Lorraine’s voice was too pleasantly polite.
    â€œHello. This is Michael Tozzi’s apartment, isn’t it?”
    Tozzi looked toward the doorway, and his gut bottomed out. What the . . .? It was Lesley Halloran. What the hell did she want?
    Tozzi got up and went over to them. How the hell . . .?
    â€œMichael,” she said, flashing a warm, cordial smile like a sunny day in May. “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but we haven’t had a chance to talk in court.”
    She took her hand out of the pocket of her black wool overcoat and extended it to him. Tozzi just stared at it. The overcoat had a velvet collar. She’d had a gray one with a velvet collar in ninth grade. Like Elizabeth Taylor in one of her riding outfits in National Velvet . Little priss.
    He took her hand, very wary of her. Her fingers were cold.
    What the hell does she want? She gonna offer me a paper bag full of cash to come down with some selective amnesia on the stand? Or does she think I can give her the inside track on the prosecution’s strategy against her boy Salamandra? Unbelievable. Yeah, well, I got two good words for her .
    Putting on a deadly serious face, he coughed and went into his fed mode. It was the only way he could deal with her without feeling totally goofy. “How did you get my home address, Ms. Halloran? You know that approaching me like this is highly improper. Let me warn you that I may have to inform the court if this meeting goes any further.”
    He was doing his best big bad fed act, but the bitch wasn’t even paying attention to him. She was staring at Lorraine.
    â€œExcuse me, but aren’t you Lorraine Tozzi?”
    â€œWell . . . yes, I am . . . or I was.” Lorraine looked puzzled.
    â€œI’m sure you don’t remember me, but you used to be my baby-sitter. Lesley Halloran? The police chief’s daughter?”
    Lorraine’s mouth fell open. “Oh, my God . . .” Lorraine stared at her, biting her bottom lip. “Little Lesley . . . my God, it is you.”
    The two women embraced, then did that thing where they linked fingers and pushed away to look each other up and down, one of those Julie Andrews moves. Tozzi frowned. They weren’t paying any attention to him.
    Tozzi coughed into his fist and overrode their little squeals of delight. “I asked you how you got ray address, Ms. Halloran.”
    The blue eyes shot open, startled at his stern formality. She did look good—better than in high school, he thought—but she should’ve done her hair in banana curls for this act. She wasn’t fooling anyone. She was no Shirley Temple. Little Lesley Halloran was a man-eating defense attorney representing a major Mafia heroin importer, a cunning cutthroat on the Good Ship Lollipop.
    â€œWell, I . . . I got your address from your cousin Sal, the insurance agent. On South Orange Avenue?”
    Lorraine shook her head. “That’s Sal. Mr. Big Mouth. But frankly, even though he shouldn’t have told you, I’m glad he gave you Michael’s