Gibbons leaned over the table. “How’s about I put you on a train tonight, then I can start missing you right away?”
She flashed her saccharine smile again.
He bared his teeth.
“Hey, Tozzi!”
They all looked toward the bar. Roy, the muscle-bound bartender, was waving Tozzi over.
Tozzi scanned the room for Stacy before he got out of the booth, but he didn’t see her. “Excuse me for a minute.”
He walked over to the bar. Roy was the one who’d set up the prank with Stacy that first night. He knew her. Maybe she’d called. “What’s up, Roy?”
Roy leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “Someone wants to see you. Alone.”
“What?” Tozzi looked back at Gibbons in the booth. He was suspicious. What did these two come up with this time? A belly dancer in the back room? Maybe a stripper? He wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to see Stacy. “No more birthday surprises, okay, Roy?” He started to head back to the booth.
“No, wait. It’s not what you think, Toz. It’s Stacy. She wants to talk to you alone. No joke.” Roy rolled his eyes toward the door next to the juke box. “She’s out back in the storeroom. She called and asked me to let her in through the alley.”
Tozzi stared at the door across the room. There were people drinking and eating at all the tables between the bar and that door, but he didn’t see any of them. All he saw was the door. His stomach clenched. Why didn’t she come in the front? Why was she acting like a spy?
“Go ’head,” Roy said. “It’s not locked.”
Tozzi nodded and faced the door, wondering what she was thinking. He knew she was mad at him, but he was pretty sure he could fix that. He could explain why he’d acted so bizarre with her. The morning of the funeral he had no choice, he had to leave. And before that, well … he could tell her about his little problem now. He’d make her understand.
He wandered across the room, then stopped in front of the door. The neon pink-and-blue lights on the jukebox tinted his hand on the doorknob. The jukebox was playing some Madonna song he didn’t know the name of. It was the one where she’s got short bleached-out hair in the video, the one where she’s wearing the dog collar and the torpedo bra, dancing in a peepshow, all these horny guys in glass booths drooling on their shoes and pulling their puds for her. He thought about his own pud. Thank God, he didn’t have that problem anymore.
He opened the door. She was standing next to a stack of Budweiser cases. It was dim in there, just one low-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. Her hair didn’t sparkle in this light they way it usually did. Her eyes were moist, but they weren’t sparkling either. She was wearing a blue jeans jacket over black jeans and a white cowboy shirt.
“Hi. How ya doin’?”
“Shut the door,” she said.
“I called your machine—”
“I know.” She stared into his eyes.
He couldn’t read her. Her expression was intense, but he wasn’t sure if she was angry or hurt or what. “Stacy, I—”
“No. Don’t talk.” She shook her head. “Let me talk. I know what I want to say.”
He swallowed hard. He didn’t like the sound of that.
“You saved my life, Tozzi, and I guess I should be grateful … Well, I am grateful. For saving my life, that is. But what I’m feeling is something else.”
She looked down at the floor, and Tozzi stayed still. She was just getting warmed up.
“I feel like a real fool, Tozzi. I feel stupid. I came on pretty strong to you at the apartment that morning when you were trying to get dressed. I wanted you so bad. I thought you were trying to put me off when you told me you had to get to a funeral. I thought you were just making it up to get rid of me.” She stopped for a moment. “I didn’t realize you were on duty—or whatever you call it. That’s why I followed you out there. I thought you were making it all up. I guess I was pretty selfish.”
“No, Stacy, I wasn’t trying to get rid of you. I wanted you, too, but—”
“Don’t talk. Let me finish what I want to say.”
Tozzi nodded. “Okay.”
“In church, when you told Sal Immordino that you loved me and that you wanted to marry me so that he’d let me go, I really believed it. I mean, I knew you were just saying it to fool him, but I wanted to believe it. I felt really stupid afterward, and it’s been bothering me. Why was I so anxious to believe something I knew was a lie?”
“Well—”
“Please. Let me finish.” She wiped under her eye with one finger and sniffed. “For the past two days I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to be with you, to be married to you. It’s a weird thought.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “Now I’m sort of glad we didn’t sleep together. It would never have worked out between us.”
“Whattaya mean? Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re too macho for me, Tozzi. I don’t know why, but whenever I’m with you, I end up feeling like I’m the little girl and you’re the big daddy there to protect me.”
Great. Tozzi stared up at the light bulb.
“You’re very male, Tozzi. Maybe a little too male for me. I have a feeling you’re very dominating when you make love.”
If you only knew.
She let out a long sigh. “I guess, deep down, I always knew it wouldn’t work. I mean, you’re a pretty straight guy, being an FBI agent and all. And then there’s the age difference, which does kinda bother me. It’s just that after I saw you get shot and I got to know you, I began to fantasize about you. You’re really a very romantic character on a certain level. You know, guns and chasing bad guys and doing undercover work and all that. You just don’t get to meet people like you every day.” She forced a smile and shrugged. “But that’s not real. Not for me. Your life is like a roller coaster, Tozzi, and I don’t want to just go along for the ride. I want to pick my own rides.”
Tozzi looked at the floor and nodded. “Yeah … I hear what you’re saying.” He sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he was gonna be a lonesome scrotum—again.
They stood there under the dim light bulb, neither one knowing what to say next. She’d pretty much said it all.
He jerked his thumb at the door. “We’ve all been waiting for you, Stacy. There’s still plenty of cake left. You wanna—”
“No. I don’t think I could handle that right now. Apologize for me.”
Tozzi nodded. “Okay.”
She moved forward tentatively, then put her arms around him and hugged him, resting the side of her face against his shoulder. The long bronze corkscrew curls covered his arm like a blanket. “I’ll be in touch, Tozzi. Not right away. But I will call you sometime.” She pulled away, looked him in the eye, and pressed her lips into a smile. “We’re still gonna be friends, right?”
“Yeah … of course.” He stared at the light bulb, blinking back a tear.
She pulled away from him and walked backward toward the other door. When she opened it, the clash and clatter, bright lights, and steamy smells of the kitchen invaded the dim peace of the storeroom.
“See you around, Tozzi.”
“Yeah … See you around.”
She went into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. It was dim and quiet again. Tozzi was all alone in a roomful of cardboard boxes with her smell on his shoulder.
Shit.
When he went back out, Gibbons was sitting by himself at the bar, staring up at the ball game on TV. Tozzi went over and took the stool next to him. “I just talked to—”
“I know,” Gibbons said. “Roy told me. Whatsa matter? Can’t afford a motel?”
Tozzi didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the mood for snappy repartee.
Gibbons nodded back toward the booth. “Lorraine and her buddy are yakking about college again. I couldn’t take any more.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Listen, I wanna buy you a drink for your birthday. Something special. From m
e to you.” He waved to the bartender. “Hey, Roy, you got any of those nice single-malt Scotches? You know the ones I mean? The names all start with ‘Glen.’”
“I’ve got Glenfiddich and Glenlivet.”
“Whichever one is better. For both of us. Straight up.”
“You got it.” Roy flipped two rock glasses onto the bar, grabbed a bottle from the rows lined up against the mirror, and poured. Normally Tozzi would’ve preferred his on the rocks, but the way he was feeling right now, straight up sounded properly medicinal.
Gibbons picked up his glass and looked at his partner. “I don’t believe in bullshit toasts, Tozzi. You know, long life and happiness and all that fortune-cookie crap. It’s all wishful thinking and false hopes as far as I’m concerned. But this one’s just for us, Toz, for no particular reason at all. For us and all the Joe Blows in the world who get up every morning, put on their pants, and do what has to be done. To hell with worrying about what the future brings and to hell with getting older. Don’t even bother thinking about it. The secret to life is simple: You just gotta keep moving, Toz. Keep your hands on the wheel, your eye on the road, and just keep going.” He clinked Tozzi’s glass.
Tozzi nodded and sipped his drink. It went down smooth with a warm afterburn. He held up his glass to the light and stared into the amber liquid.
“Tell me something, Gib. You think Stacy and I could’ve made something together? Something more permanent, I mean.”
“I’m not following you.”
Tozzi nodded toward the back room. “She just gave me my walking papers.”
“Oh … Sorry to hear that.”
“What I’m wondering is, could a guy really have a serious relationship with a woman half his age? I mean, it’s not like I would’ve been the first guy in the world to try it.”
Gibbons savored his second sip as he considered the question. “Nope. Not the first guy, and not the last.”
“So you really think it could’ve worked out?”
“Hey, I was rooting for you. It was those two”—he nodded back toward the booth—“who thought it was so awful. And not because of her age. They just think you’re a pig, that’s all.”
Tozzi nodded and glanced up at the TV. Some guy was taking a shower, smiling like he’d just won the lottery. A soap commercial. “Well, no use crying over spilled milk. I mean, she still wants to be friends, so something could happen later on down the line. But I sorta doubt it.” He took another sip of his Scotch as he stared up at the TV. “Stacy Viera. She’s a good person. If the circumstances had been different, I bet we coulda made a go of it. But anyway…” He looked down into his drink. “I have a feeling her face is gonna be in the back of my mind for a long, long time.”
“Her face? That’s the part you’re gonna remember?”
Tozzi scowled at his partner. “Shut up, you dirty old man, you.”
The commercial changed then, and the familiar bass line started thumping out of the TV. They both looked up at the same time. On the screen, the camera panned that gleaming gym until it found Stacy in her metallic purple tights, curling that barbell up and down, up and down, smiling seductively into the camera as her boobs jiggled like Jell-O.
Tozzi shook his head. He didn’t need this now.
Roy rushed over and reached up to change the channel. Tozzi stopped him. “It’s okay. Leave it, Roy.” The bartender lowered his arm and shrugged, then went back to what he was doing.
Tozzi watched the rest of the commercial, staring at Stacy’s face, wondering … just wondering.
“At Knickerbocker Spas, we want you to come on in and PUMP IT UP!”
Stacy kept curling the barbell, smiling into the camera as the music faded and the commercial ended. The next image was a live shot of the grounds keepers at Shea Stadium picking up the trash that the fans had thrown into the outfield.
Gibbons was humming to himself. It took Tozzi a minute to recognize that the tune was “My Way.”
Tozzi stared at him. In all the years they’d been partners, he didn’t think he’d ever heard Gibbons hum, sing, or whistle. But what was more surprising was the song he’d picked. “I thought you hated Sinatra.”
“I do. This is the Elvis version.” He continued humming.
Tozzi recalled the lyrics then, the stuff about the guy looking back over his life and all the regrets he doesn’t have. “You’re not funny, Gib. Not funny at all.”
Gibbons stopped humming. He crinkled his eyes, shook his head, and clapped Tozzi on the shoulder. “Welcome to middle age, goombah.” He knocked back the rest of his Scotch and banged the empty glass on the bar. “Now you can buy me a drink.”
Tozzi just shook his head, went into his pocket, and laid a twenty on the bar. Gibbons had his thumb and index finger over his eyes, his shoulders bouncing as he laughed like a set of squeaky, worn-out brakes.
Tozzi was just about to take his twenty back and tell Gibbons he could buy his own goddamn drink when something caught his eye in the mirror behind the bar. She was blond, straight hair, older than Stacy, a more mature look—
“Thinking with your dick again, Toz?”
Tozzi shot him a dirty look in the mirror. “Mind your own business.”
Gibbons shook his head, showing his teeth. “Face it, Tozzi. You’re never gonna grow up.”
Tozzi killed his drink, then waved to Roy, pointing at their empty glasses. “I hope you’re right, Gib. Who wants to end up like you?”
“Go scratch, will ya?”
Tozzi looked at his partner sideways, then glanced up at the ball game on TV. He was smiling like a crocodile.
More from Anthony Bruno
Bad Guys: A Gibbons and Tozzi Novel (Book 1)
Bad Guys, the first book in the Gibbons and Tozzi thriller series, introduces FBI agents Mike Tozzi and Cuthbert Gibbons, odd-couple partners and dedicated mob-busters. Hot-headed Tozzi goes renegade, and Gibbons is pulled out of retirement to stop him. Together they uncover a secret crime family headed by Richie Varga, a convicted mobster pulling the strings from the safety of the witness protection program. When Tozzi gets involved with Varga’s sexy ex, the fur really starts to fly.
Bad Blood: A Gibbons and Tozzi Novel (Book 2)
In Bad Blood, the second book in the Gibbons and Tozzi thriller series, FBI agents Mike Tozzi and Cuthbert Gibbons get into deep trouble when they investigate a deadly partnership between the Mafia and the Japanese yakuza. Gibbons takes a severe beating from a deranged assassin who believes he’s the reincarnation of an ancient samurai, and Tozzi vows revenge. But the sword-wielding madman is itching to sink his blade into Tozzi. The Godfather meets The Seven Samurai spiced with a healthy dose of humor.
Bad Luck : A Gibbons and Tozzi Novel (Book 3)
Bad Luck, the third book in the Gibbons and Tozzi thriller series, takes FBI agents Mike Tozzi and Cuthbert Gibbons to Atlantic City to investigate shady dealings between the mob and a celebrity real-estate mogul. Add an oversexed trophy wife, a Mafia boss who pretends to be a mental patient, his sister (the nun), a championship prizefight, and Gibbons’ reluctant wedding preparations, and Bad Luck serves up a hilarious killer cocktail.
Bad Business: A Gibbons and Tozzi Novel (Book 4)
In Bad Business, the fourth book in the Gibbons and Tozzi thriller series, FBI Special Agents Cuthbert Gibbons and Mike Tozzi get into hot water when the turncoat mobster they were assigned to protect is found murdered and Tozzi is the prime suspect. A dirty Assistant United States Attorney has been ordered to throw a major drug case to pay off a debt to a Sicilian gangster, but Gibbons and Tozzi are determined to bring order to the court. Enough lethally wacky characters to fill a courtroom.
Bad Apple: A Gibbons and Tozzi Novel (Book 6)
FBI agents Cuthbert Gibbons and Mike Tozzi are on the case in Bad Apple, the sixth book in the Gibbons and Tozzi thriller series. When an undercover FBI agent is murdered, the mob and the bureau race to nab the triggerman. The prime sus
pect takes Tozzi hostage and handcuffs him to the Mafia princess they both desire. The big boss captures Gibbons, intent on seeing justice served his way. A wild gut-wrenching ride that just doesn’t let up.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Bad Moon
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
More from Anthony Bruno
Connect with Diversion Books
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