Bad Guys Read Online Free Page B

piss—“I want that dough, man,” he said. A terrifying image flashed through his mind—the empty eye sockets of three heads on a silver platter—and panic filled his gut.
    The Clam swatted furiously at the reeds, his throat constricting, thepain like a crowbar being bent around his chest. Suddenly a sharp pain spiked his lower back. It wasn’t until he was down on the ground that he realized he’d been kicked from behind.
    â€œIt’s all over, fat man.”
    Fucking wiseass, Vinnie Clams thought as he rolled over, ready to blow the fucker’s head off, but suddenly a lightning bolt went through the Clam’s chest and his hands went numb. His eyes shot open, and a purple-blue tongue was trying to jump out of his mouth. His vision blurred. He didn’t recognize the black hole of the muzzle right in front of his face.
    â€œOh, no, Clams. You can’t have a heart attack on me now,” Tozzi said. He hauled Vinnie Clams to his feet by the lapels as if he were a featherweight. “No, that’s much too kind for a slime like you.”
    The Clam made a noise like a balloon with a slow leak.
    â€œNo, Clams, no. It’s got to really hurt when you die. It’s got to hurt you the way you hurt those kids, man, those kids you turned into junkies. You know what I’m talking about, Clams, I know you do. I’ve been wise to you for a long, long time. You thought you were beyond the law, but no one is immune forever. Your time has come, pal.”
    Vinnie Clams’s face was like a Jersey tomato—red, ripe, and about to burst. Then his vision cleared enough to recognize the pig-snout muzzle of a .44 Bulldog. He felt the barrel sinking into his waterbed belly.
    Tozzi breathed in his face. “I hope this hurts.”
    The Clam gasped for breath. There was some feeling coming back into his hand, and he realized he was still holding his gun. “Hold on a minute, Mikey,” he slurred. “Just hold on—” He jerked his hand up as far as he could, squeezed the trigger, and blew a hole in the mud next to Tozzi’s foot.
    Tozzi acted instinctively, firing the .44 point-blank. The explosion ripped through fat and flesh.
    â€œThat’s for the Gonsalves kids,” he whispered. “This is for the Patterson boy.”
    A second blast shattered bone.
    â€œAnd this is for the Torres kids.”
    The final slug penetrated bloody mush, nicked the spinal column, and passed out the other side.
    The bloated corpse dropped to its knees, then toppled sideways.Tozzi, his eyes wide and wild, pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, crumpled it up into a ball, and forced it into the Clam’s open mouth, ramming it in tight with the barrel of his gun.
    Breathing hard, he stared down at the obese drug dealer’s gray-blue face, replaying the last thirty seconds in his mind.
    â€œHow the fuck did you know my name, you bastard?” he asked out loud. Then he turned and disappeared into the reeds.

THREE
    Gibbons waited as Brant Ivers, Special Agent in Charge of the Manhattan FBI field office, finished paring his fingernails. Most people just clipped or cut their nails; Ivers pared his.
    Gibbons didn’t say a word—didn’t ask why he’d been called in, didn’t initiate any kind of conversation. Ivers would get around to it eventually, and anyway Gibbons had plenty of time. He was retired.
    Inappropriate furnishings for an FBI field office, Gibbons thought, looking around the room. He’d always thought so. Eleven-by-thirteen Bokhara rug. Oversized mahogany desk. Swiss mantel clock next to the IBM pc. Color picture of the president on the wall over Ivers’s head. Strange yellow-beige color on the walls, the color of eggnog. Gibbons looked around for a picture of J. Edgar, but he couldn’t find one. J. Edgar wouldn’t have approved of eggnog-colored walls. He wouldn’t have approved of yellow walls. Just