Free Bad Business by Anthony Bruno

this.”
    The overhead lights in the hallway were blinding, and Giordano had to squint as they brought him in. It felt colder inside than out, but a different kind of cold. A dead cold. They quickly hustled him out of the doorway and over to the staircase.
    â€œStay away from the windows,” Cooney said to him.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSnipers.”
    Oh, Jesus. I gotta get outta here. First chance I get, I’m fucking gone .
    He felt a little faint, a little nauseous back in the corners of his jaw. He closed his eyes and let his head sink into his overcoat. A deep shiver gripped his chest and shook him hard.
    â€œGiordano? You all right?”
    He nodded and gulped, sucked in a breath.
    â€œAre you sure?” It was Ivers, the big cheese, standing in front of him.
    â€œYeah . . . I’m okay.”
    He opened his eyes then, and that’s when he got a good look at the place. Holy shit.
    Giordano couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The place was a fucking indoor junkyard. There was a room on each side of the hallway, but you couldn’t tell one from the other, there was so much shit piled up everywhere. Bundles of magazines on the floor. Chairs draped with yellowed curtains. Two toaster ovens stacked on a little table in the hallway with an old-fashioned chrome toaster on top. A musty old couch with a heap of shoes on one side, old newspapers on the other. The rug on the staircase was worn through in places, and dishes, plates, cups, and glasses cluttered each step on the bannister side. There were a few bureaus in both rooms, and each bureau held a stack of cardboard boxes that went up to the ceiling. The room that might’ve been the dining room was jammed with broken-down bicycles. The other room must have been the living room, because there were three TV sets in there stacked up like a totem pole—console on the bottom, twenty-inch in the middle, thirteen-inch on top.
    â€œThis is unbelievable,” the Puerto Rican guy said. “And they say my people live like pigs?”
    Cooney just kept shaking his head. “Great accommodations. How long do we have to stay here?”
    Gibbons kicked a deflated football out of the way. “What the hell was your uncle, Tozzi? One of the Collyer brothers?”
    Tozzi was coming down the steps, holstering his gun. “Who?”
    â€œYou know, the Collyer brothers. The two old guys they found dead in their house in Harlem, buried alive in their own junk. Back in the forties. You never heard of the Collyer brothers?”
    â€œSorry, I don’t remember, Gib.”
    Gibbons’s face turned ugly. “Neither do I.”
    The two rifles came up from the basement. “Don’t have to worry about the cellar,” one of them said. “Every exit is blocked solid with . . . stuff. There’s a path to the boiler with just enough room to turn around and come back. And that’s it.”
    â€œJesus, Tozzi, didn’t your uncle ever throw anything out?” the Puerto Rican guy asked.
    â€œWhat do you think, Santiago?”
    â€œDo you have a specific complaint, Santiago?” The big cheese stepped between the boxes on the floor. He had that ass-pain school-principal kind of voice. Do you have a hall pass, Santiago?
    â€œNo, sir. No complaint. But I am concerned about security here. I’m wondering if all this clutter will impede our ability to protect the witness.”
    Ivers shrugged. “You make do, Santiago, and you do the job. We’re lucky Tozzi offered to let us use this place. We weren’t prepared for witness protection. For last-minute arrangements, I’d say this is more than acceptable.”
    Giordano noticed Tozzi staring at the tangle of bicycles in the dining room. He had a faraway look on his face, a look like he wished he were someplace else. Exactly the way Giordano felt.
    â€œSomething wrong, Tozzi?” Ivers asked.
    â€œNo, nothing. I was just thinking that I gotta