Bad Guys by Anthony Bruno Page A

Giovinazzo.”
    â€œRichie Varga?”
    â€œYou got it. He was their golden boy before he ratted on them. They loved him. I’ve got a feeling Varga may know something.”
    Gibbons laughed out loud. “Boy, are you whistling Dixie! You ever try to question someone under witness protection? To do it legit, you’ve got to put your business in writing, then submit it to the Justice Department. Then, when and if they get around to it—”
    â€œFuck the Justice Department,” Tozzi said, grinning. “I’ve got my own channels.”
    Gibbons shook his head and smiled slyly. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

EIGHT
    Joanne Collesano Varga stuck her tongue in Tozzi’s ear. “Wake up, Mr. Thompson,” she purred. “I’ve got to get to work.”
    Tozzi stretched under the sheets, then rubbed his nose. The clock-radio on her side of the bed was tuned to a classical station. The volume was low—a string quartet playing something modern and atonal—just loud enough to be annoying.
    â€œTurn that shit off,” he groaned.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re the type who listens to rock first thing in the morning.” She seemed mildly disappointed.
    â€œNo.” He was lying. He could really go for some Springsteen or maybe Dire Straits right now. That and another go-round with Joanne.
    He turned toward her, pulled her close, and kissed her, and again he was surprised by the tobacco taste in her mouth. He didn’t smoke himself, but he could live with the taste. Considering what came with it, who wouldn’t?
    He palmed the back of her head, felt the glory of her thick dark tousled hair, and grinned under that kiss. She was the first really Italian-looking woman he’d ever slept with.
    She pulled away from him slowly. “I’ve got to go to work,” she whispered.
    â€œYou’re a vice president. They won’t can you if you’re late. Call in sick and we’ll spend the day in bed.”
    She shook her head and grinned. A stray lock of raven hair curled up salaciously under her eye and gave him another hard-on.
    â€œIt’s a tempting offer, Mr. Thompson, but . . .”
    â€œBut what? You never had it so good. Admit it.”
    Under the sheets she ran her fingernail up the length of his dick. “Not with Richie, that’s for sure.”
    â€œPoor bastard,” Tozzi said. “Married to you and out of commission. Tragic.”
    â€œUnfortunately, he didn’t exactly see it that way.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œHope always sprang eternal, even if he didn’t. We’d try it, he’d fall down on the job as usual, then he’d slap me around to work off his frustrations. It didn’t happen often . . . but often enough.”
    â€œDid he hurt you?”
    â€œOnly once.”
    Tozzi shook his head. Those violins were driving him nuts. “I can’t believe your father would let him get away with that. I’d have thought ole Jules’d make him live to regret the day he laid a hand on his little girl.”
    â€œRichie was the golden boy, the heir apparent. Jules Collesano just told his little girl to go back home and try harder, that it would all work out, don’t worry. My father took for the bastard.” She turned on her back and looked at the ceiling. “Richie was like a little dog, always eager, always loyal, ready whenever my father wanted him. That’s why he loved Richie, because he never disappointed him. Until the shit double-crossed him, that is. But before that my father considered Richie the ultimate ‘nice boy.’ Christ, he’d known Richie since he was a little kid.”
    â€œYeah?”
    She pushed the curl out of her eye. Tozzi wished she’d left it.
    â€œRichie’s half-Cuban,” she said. “Did you know that? His father worked in a casino my father owned down in Havana before Castro took over. When Batista was in