“Lemme go, mothahfuckah,” Walker growled at Tozzi, swinging his shoulders to get free. “Lemme go!”
Tozzi tightened his bear hug on the champ, and Walker glared at him out of the corner of his eye like a wild horse. Tozzi strained to keep his grip on those massive arms, but it was like trying to hold down Lon Chaney as the full moon came out. Walker started ramming his head back, trying to butt Tozzi in the face. Tozzi arched his head back out of the way, but Walker still caught him on the chin. The shaved scalp scraped Tozzi’s skin like heavy-duty sandpaper. Tozzi made a face. Sharkskin is supposed to feel like that.
“Let the chump go,” Epps bellowed. “He ain’t gonna do nothin’.” He came around the podium and stuck his face in Walker’s.
Tozzi frowned. Thanks a lot, Charles. I need this aggravation.
Walker was going crazy, hopping up and down, trying to shake Tozzi off. Tozzi didn’t dare let him go now, afraid of what this mental case might do. He glanced over his shoulder. Why the hell wasn’t anybody helping him? Where the hell was Frank? Where was Lenny?
“Let him go!” Lenny was suddenly yanking on his arm, trying to break his grip. “Let him go, Tomasso.”
“What’re you, crazy, Lenny?”
But Lenny wasn’t about to discuss it. He slapped his hand over Tozzi’s face, thumb under the earlobe, fingers pressed over the nose. Tozzi knew what was coming, an old police move for subduing uncooperative suspects. Shit. Before Tozzi could react Lenny dug his thumb into the pressure point where the jawbone met the ear. The pain zinged through Tozzi’s molars and he was instantly nauseated. Unconsciously he loosened his grip and the werewolf broke free. Lenny grabbed Tozzi’s elbow and pulled him away.
“Tomasso! What the hell did I tell you? I told you not to do nothin’ unless you absolutely had to. Isn’t that what I said? What the eff is wrong with you?”
Tozzi was rubbing his jawbone. “What’re you, blind? Walker took a swing at Mr. Nashe.”
“I don’t want to hear about it. I told you these guys know what they’re doing.” Lenny pointed with his greasy pompadour at the fighters standing toe-to-toe. They were barking at each other, but they weren’t throwing punches. Gonsalves was shouldering his way in front of Walker, and Epps’s manager was trying to do the same. It definitely wasn’t enough interference to keep them from slugging it out if they really wanted to. Lenny was right. This was all for the cameras.
“You know, Tomasso, you’re more trouble than you’re worth. I’m gonna have to have a little talk with Mr. Nashe—”
“About what, Lenny?” Russell Nashe was suddenly standing over Lenny’s shoulder, grinning around his big buckteeth at Tozzi. Sydney was standing next to him, a head shorter, even in heels. She was grinning at him too.
“He messed up, Mr. Nashe. I’m sorry. I told him to stay put and let the fighters do their thing for the press, but no, he had to jump right in there. This guy’s got a hard head, Mr. Nashe.”
Nashe nodded, still grinning. “Hard head or not, I have to thank this man. Dwayne wasn’t supposed to throw any punches—he knew that. Christ, my face would’ve had a big hole in it if he’d had a chance to follow up on that right with a left hook. You did the right thing, Mike. Good work.”
Tozzi looked down at the tough little bowling ball who just stood there steaming, saying nothing. He was the gutter ball now.
“Of course, if he had hit you,” Sydney said, “the story would’ve moved out of the sports section and onto the front page. That’s the kind of publicity money can’t buy. Too bad.”
Nashe stopped grinning for a moment. “You’ve got a point. A punch in the nose could’ve increased the pay-per-view subscriptions by at least ten percent. Jesus, Mike, you just lost me a couple of mil.” Nashe stared at him as if he were serious. Then the stupid grin came back. “Just kidding, Mike, just kidding.”
“I’ll bet.” Sydney rolled her eyes and laughed that high-pitched titter of hers. There was just a hint of sarcasm in her laugh, just enough to let her husband know that she might’ve enjoyed seeing “Pain” Walker knock his famous front teeth down his throat.
The confrontation at the podium was degenerating into jeers and catcalls from the supporting players. Walker and Epps had been separated, and now they were just glaring at each other as their managers leaned into the microphones set up on their respective tables and shouted at each other. Each time Epps’s manager made a typically outlandish claim concerning his man’s physical superiority and divine calling, Walker’s manager overrode him with the champ’s signature line: “When ‘Pain’ Walker talk, people better be list’nin’.”
When Tozzi turned back, Sydney was whispering something into her husband’s ear.
“Okay,” Nashe said, “no problem. Lenny and Frank can take care of things here. Mike, you go with my wife. She’s got an appointment upstairs with some new decorator or something.”
Tozzi nodded. Sydney was grinning at him like a cat. He suddenly became very aware of the condom in his pants pocket, sort of radiating in there like uranium.
She looked up at her husband. “I’ll see you later?”
“I don’t know. I’ll give you a call.” His attention was on the crowd of reporters now. They weren’t asking questions. They were getting bored with the show. Nashe couldn’t afford to let them get bored and lose interest.
Sydney caught Tozzi’s eye and shrugged, then turned to leave. Tozzi followed her off the stage, staying just far enough behind to watch her shoulders work under that sheer silk blouse. Now and then, as they walked backstage to the long corridor that led to the lobby, Sydney would delicately draw back the curtain of her perfect blond hair ever so slightly so she could take a sly look at her bodyguard out of the corner of her eye. By the time Tozzi pushed the crash bar on the door that opened onto the plush, green-carpeted lobby, he had an incredible hard-on.
As they passed through the lobby Tozzi’s eye automatically went to the bar tucked under the grand escalator. Valerie usually worked this bar, but she wasn’t on right now. Tozzi was glad. It wasn’t that Valerie suspected anything—it would just make him feel awkward if she saw him walking alone with Sydney like this. Even though Sydney had the tight little bod and the perfect face and all, she was basically a lightweight, a grown-up cocktease, and her main interest seemed to be playing mind games. Valerie had substance and she didn’t play games. She was real. Seeing the place where Valerie tended bar, where he liked to hang out when she was on duty, he suddenly felt a little guilty. But he still had a hard-on.
Sydney stepped across the green carpeting, her legs moving in a sublime calypso rhythm that only Tozzi could hear. As they passed the reservations desk the clerks nodded and greeted the boss’s wife. She smiled and waved with her tapered, plum-colored nails. She walked on to the bank of elevators and stopped in front of one of the private cars, the ones that go straight to the VIP suites on the upper floors. Tozzi pressed the Up button and nodded to the doughy-looking security guard whose only job was to make sure only VIPs used the VIP elevators. The guard nodded to Tozzi, no expression on his face, his eyes hidden behind thick, dark glasses. Roy Orbison in a green uniform blazer and tie.
As they waited for the elevator Tozzi scanned the soaring lobby. It was done in gold and two shades of green. Sydney had picked the colors. They weren’t the color of money, but the difference between the shades was the same as that of the two greens on a dollar bill, she said. These greens were more aesthetic, she said, but psychologically it had the same effect. It made you feel like you were swimming in money. That’s what she said.
The elevator arrived and he followed her in. The interior was wood paneled with polished brass railings. Mr. Orbison, the security guard, made sure no one else got on with the boss’s wife. Tozzi hit the button for the top floor where the Nashes’ suite was. As the doors started to close Sydney reached over and pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. That’s where Sydney kept a private suite for her own use. Tozzi suppressed a grin. Oh, pretty woman.
The elevator started to ascend. Sydney faced Tozzi and slid her hands under his jacket, scratching his back with the tops of her plum-colored nails. When she got to his shoulder blades, she pulled him down to her level and kissed him, mouth open, making little hungry noises. Tozzi linked his fingers around the small of her back. She was a lot easier to hold than “Pain” Walker. He lifted her up a bit and brought her closer to his level. She ground her lips into his with no sign of wanting to come up for air. Tozzi grinned through the kiss. She was like that one unattainable girl from everybody’s high school—the one with the looks and the personality and the friends and the boyfriend away at college. And for the moment she was all his.
A moment later she disengaged reluctantly, pecking for more as they parted. Then she paused and just looked into his eyes. “So, Mr. Tomasso, what’s new?”
He lowered her back down. “Nothing much.” He couldn’t hold back the smile as he wiped her lipstick off his mouth with his fingers. Here we go.
“Nothing?” she said.
He shrugged.
She shrugged back.
Tozzi raised his eyebrows.
She did the same.
It always started this way, the little game she liked to play with him, the Information Game, her version of Trivial Pursuit. Or better yet, What’s Russell Up To? She claimed that her husband kept her in the dark about everything he was doing, but Sydney wasn’t the type to be left out of anything, so apparently she’d cultivated her own little network of informers among the employees. Tozzi didn’t actually know of any others—he just assumed he wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t clear why Nashe didn’t tell her anything about his business, but Sydney certainly seemed to enjoy the intrigue of finding out for herself. Tozzi had asked her once why she bothered to spy on her husband. Did it really matter to her how he made his money? She said she did it to keep Russell on his toes—whatever that meant.
As he looked into those sly green eyes of hers, Tozzi wondered just how extensive her network of informers was. He hoped he was the only one of her operatives whose method of remuneration was goods for services. Tozzi gave her the goods on Nashe and she allowed him to service her. Not a bad deal. But his main interest in Sydney, he kept telling himself, was the tidbits he picked up at their little meetings. In the past couple weeks since he’d joined the spy trade, she’d given him some good insights into the billionaire tycoon’s life-style. Nothing earth-shattering, but he had high hopes that sooner or later some hard information might slip out between the sheets.
“So there’s nothing new?” she purred in his ear.
“Nothing much.” He smoothed the material of her skirt over her ass as he decided how he should offer the bait. “Just a couple of bigshot visitors who’ve been hanging around lately.”
“A couple. Hmmm . . . George and Barbara? Ron and Nancy maybe?”
“Not that big. Two brothers.”
“Really.” Her voice was bored, but her eyes were sparkling, eager to know. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Tozzi grinned. “Maybe.”
Sydney lowered her lashes and looked away, then she started to scat sing, the theme song from The Patty Duke Show. “Daaa, dum, da-dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum. Da-dum, dum, dum, to Berkeley Square . . .” Sydney always seemed to have a theme song from some old TV show on her mind. Tozzi still found it hard to believe that a classy bitch like Sydney would be so into old television shows. Maybe her husband owned them all.
She stopped singing and looked up at him again. “Well, Mike, if you want to keep secrets . . .” She pulled him down for another grinding kiss.
Jesus. He was horny as hell now. No wonder Mata Hari was so effective. He kneaded her ass, pulling her up, wanting more. Christ, whatever you want to know, Syd. Anything you want—
The elevator pulled to an abrupt stop and Tozzi felt the rush in his gut. He glanced up at the lighted numbers over the doors and saw that they were on seventeen. The bell dinged and the doors started to open. Immediately she disengaged and put a discreet distance between them, the cool, aristocratic expression returning to her face. The doors parted and Tozzi noticed her face suddenly change again—a not-so-pleasantly-surprised face. A large, looming figure was waiting outside the elevator. Instinctively Tozzi stepped in front of her. It was Sal Immordino. What the hell was he doing up here?
Sal looked at Tozzi, then looked at Sydney. “Gotta talk to you,” he said to her.
She didn’t say a word, just held that look of mildly annoyed surprise, lips flat, brows raised. Sal didn’t ask again. He reached past Tozzi and grabbed her wrist.
Tozzi grabbed the big man’s arm. “Hold on there, Mr. Immordino.”
Sal shot him an evil look, worse than “Pain” Walker’s when he had the champ in a bear hug.
“Mrs. Nashe, do you want me to—?”
Immordino’s open palm shot into Tozzi’s Adam’s apple like a piece of flying shrapnel and drove him back into the elevator until his head slammed against the paneled wall. It took a moment for the pain of the impact to register, then it started to hurt, first at the back of the head, then at the temples, blurring his vision for a few seconds.
Immordino kept his hand on Tozzi’s throat, leaning on it with all his weight. Two hundred and seventy-odd pounds of wiseguy scum right on his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. Tozzi kept blinking his eyes to make them focus. He had to get this ape off him, fast. Slap the sides of his head like cymbals. Force air into his ears so hard and fast it’ll burst his eardrums. Break his grip. Get him off—
“It’s okay, Mike.” Sydney’s cool, officious voice. The white-blond head came into Tozzi’s view. She had her finger on the open button. “There’s no problem. You can go now.”
“But—”
“You can go now,” she repeated. The boss’s wife. The pretty, unattainable bitch with the boyfriend in college.
Sal dropped his hand. Sydney took him by the arm and led him out into the hallway. The bell dinged again and the doors started to close, but before they did, Sal turned and stared Tozzi in the eye.
Catching his breath, Tozzi loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The elevator started to descend. He leaned against the brass rail and rotated his neck. Jesus Christ. Why the hell is Immordino so anxious to see Sydney? They seemed to know each other—better than they should. Tozzi rubbed the back of his head and remembered the way Immordino had looked at him that day in the trailer on the construction site. Immordino seemed to recognize him just now. Maybe he knows who all of Nashe’s bodyguards are, all ten of us. Maybe not though. Why would a mob boss worry about somebody’s stupid piddly bodyguards? Maybe he just knows me, Tozzi thought. He seems to. Then Tozzi felt his gut sink and a bad taste crept into his mouth.
Maybe Sal Immordino knows me because he knows I’m a fed.
Jesus, no. . . .
ibbons stood there with his shoes untied, pant legs bunched up around his ankles, wondering what the hell he was doing here in a Maey’s in a goddamn suburban mall on a Saturday morning, trying on suits. What is it, a law? You have to have a new suit to get married? Shit.
He glanced over at his intended, Lorraine Bernstein, formerly a wonderful person, currently a matrimonial yo-yo. She was looking him up and down, squeezing her chin, inspecting him as if he were a horse on the auction block. Gibbons frowned. She had that school-marm look he hated. They’d been together sixteen years and in all that time she’d never, ever, looked like a Princeton professor of medieval history, not on the weekends. Not until now. He hated her hair tied back like that. He liked it loose, dark, silver-threaded, hanging below her shoulders. He liked her in jeans and sweaters too. But now she was beginning to look like all the other married women in this goddamn mall. Frumpy blouse, clodhopper shoes . . . shit. This isn’t the Lorraine he’s been with all these years, this isn’t the woman he thought he was marrying. He should never have agreed to this. Too late to back out now, though. She’s too hopped up on this whole wedding thing. If he suggested that t
hey forget about it and just keep things the way they are, that would be it, finito, the end. And he didn’t want that. He loved her, for chrissake. When she wasn’t acting like a nut case, that is.
“I like this one,” she said. “It looks good on you.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why?”
He held the sleeve out. “The color. It’s too light.”
“All your suits are dark. You don’t have anything like this. I think it looks very good on you.”
“I don’t.” He started to take the jacket off. “I don’t need a new suit. I can wear my blue suit.”
She motioned for him to be still. “Leave it on. Button the jacket.”
He could feel the muscles in his jaw contracting. “I never button my jacket. I always wear it open.”
“Just button it.”
She reached out to do it herself. Like a bossy mother buying her kid a Communion suit. He buttoned it himself before she could. Christ Almighty!
She smiled and nodded, satisfied with what she saw. “It’s a very good cut. It looks good on you.”
He blew air out his nose. “But I don’t like the color. It’s too light.”
“It’s a June wedding. You can’t wear navy-blue in June. It’s too somber. We have to look more . . . more spring-y.”
Spring-y? A Ph.D. with twenty-plus years of teaching experience at an Ivy League university, author of three scholarly books and God knows how many articles, and she wants to look spring-y? She’s snapped. She’s a fucking wack. She should be committed.
Lorraine sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked disgusted. “All right, all right, take it off. You didn’t want to come here in the first place. Wear what you want.”
She turned away and put on the pout. Gibbons looked at the ceiling. Here we go. This was getting to be an old routine. It started with the pout. The unspoken, married-people’s compromise.
Bad Luck Page 4
