The bell rang then and the fighters went to their corners. Tozzi looked back at the doorway, but he couldn’t see the big silhouette anymore and that made him a little nervous. He wanted to know where the big guy had gone, wanted to know if it was really Sal.
The crowd started grumbling a little louder now, the reporters and photographers griping to each other, trading nasty opinions, looking over at the buffet table with hungry eyes, wondering when the hell this would get over with so they could eat. Nashe was smiling hard, scrutinizing the press, trying to read their collective feelings about the challenger. He’d invited them down here to Epps’s training camp to build up some excitement for the fight, to prove to them that Epps wasn’t the “shot” fighter they’d all been calling him, but this group didn’t exactly seem thrilled to have made the trip out here to the middle of nowhere in the Jersey Pine Barrens.
Tozzi studied Nashe sitting on a folding chair next to the governor of New Jersey. Nashe was ignoring the reporters now. He wasn’t going to let them bother him. He was smiling and yakking away now, having a grand old time with the gov. It was his party, after all. The governor didn’t look very happy, though. He seldom did. The man always looked gray and constipated. Even the governor’s bodyguards looked constipated. They were the usual Secret Service types—neat single-breasted suits, solid-color ties, Ray-Bans, little earplug receivers in their ears. One of these guys clearly thought Tozzi was an iffy character because he kept looking at him as if he expected Tozzi to suddenly erupt and do something crazy. This was almost funny. If the guy only knew. Tozzi suddenly looked over his shoulder and scanned the crowd. But does Sal know?
“Damn,” Nashe said to the governor, loud enough for the whole gym to hear, “I hope we look as good as Charles when we get that old.”
A few of the reporters snickered, but the governor didn’t seem to get it. Epps did, though, and he glared down at Nashe from his corner. He was not amused.
The bell rang then, and Epps thundered out to the middle of the ring. Either Nashe’s comment had gotten him riled or he’d decided to give the yawning scribes something to write about. Whatever the reason, Epps came out swinging. His sparring partner didn’t like the look of this sudden burst of youthful energy, and after that last near miss he wasn’t going to take any chances. He moved in close and hung on Epps’s arms. The guy wasn’t stupid. He knew he was supposed to be the sacrificial goat. He just didn’t want to have to take the full wrath of that right just so Epps could get a little extra space in the papers. The guy must’ve figured he could take whatever the big man was throwing in close like this—long arms at short range get cramped, can’t do as much damage. Theoretically at least.
Tozzi took a quick look around the room, then went back to watching the fighters. He put himself in the sparring partner’s place, imagining what he’d do if he was in there with Epps. He certainly wouldn’t box him, no way. Aikido, that was his thing. Never box a boxer, as his sensei always said. But as he watched these guys fight, the prospect of facing a boxer intrigued him. Offhand, he could think of a few techniques that might work nicely against a boxer’s punch. A boxer might actually be great to practice with, since all aikido techniques are purely self-defensive, based on responding to an attack, never initiating one. In fact, the more aggressive the attacker is, the more the aikidoist can do. Since the boxer has to attack to score points, he might make the perfect uke, the perfect partner for aikido practice. Theoretically.
Watching the two fighters butting heads, trading sloppy uppercuts, Tozzi got a tremendous urge to go work out at his dojo again. He hadn’t been to a class in over two months, not since he started this undercover assignment. Obviously, while he was Mike Tomasso, he couldn’t do anything that might connect him to his real identity. He thought about trying to find a dojo around Atlantic City, but he usually put in long days guarding Nashe, and his work schedule was so unpredictable, he hadn’t even bothered looking in the Yellow Pages. But watching these guys go at it now made him want to get back on the mat, do some big throws, get thrown, work on his falls, his ukemi, work on the techniques used against various kinds of attacks, put himself back into a martial frame of mind.
Yeah, but what do you do against a bullet?
Pray.
Tozzi sighed and scanned the room. Oh, where, oh, where is my little lost Sal?
The round continued without much excitement. Epps was working hard and getting nowhere. He was also doing a lot of grunting behind his mouthpiece—probably warning his sparring partner to wise up and take a good shot for the crowd if he wanted to get his paycheck this week. But the guy seemed reluctant to go along with this—maybe it was the way Epps was snorting like a bull—so he stayed where he was, in close, right in the man’s face.
But then Epps managed to settle himself down and started making those uppercuts count, throwing them with rhythm, swinging down low and coming up with real force. Tozzi could hear that lung hiss with each blow and now it sounded like power, not age. These shots were landing, twisting the sparring partner’s head violently with each punch. It didn’t take more than a half dozen of these uppercuts before Epps had pried the man loose. The reporters were paying attention now, and Nashe was on the edge of his seat, overriding the hubbub, cheering Epps on.
Epps was putting on a real show now, jabbing effectively with his left while keeping the crowd in suspense by cocking his right and faking with it. The other guy had his hands up, but he wasn’t doing much more than protecting his head. From where Tozzi was standing he couldn’t tell if the guy was in a daze or just resigned to his fate. Epps was in full control now and he was playing it to the hilt, hanging back with the right, using it only to block, keeping it cocked for the knockout everybody wanted to see, making the crowd wonder when the hell he was going to let it fly. Finally someone from Epps’s corner yelled out the time left in the round, and Epps nodded to himself. It was time to bring down the house. He kept jabbing and jabbing with the left until he had the man set up nice, right where he wanted him, then he paused half a second and launched it, let it fly like an ICBM straight to the chin. The punch hit so hard, the sparring partner fell back into the ropes, catapulted forward, and flopped back into the ring like a rag doll, hitting the canvas flat on his face.
Cameras flashed as Epps sauntered back to his corner, slow and deliberate. People rushed into the ring and surrounded him, thrusting microphones and small cassette recorders in his face. He ignored them all as his people wiped him down and untied his gloves.
Peering through the jungle of legs crowding the ring, Tozzi got a quick look at the sparring partner’s face pressed against the canvas. The whites of his eyes stood out against the dark face trapped in leather headgear. Not pretty. Sal Immordino used to do worse to his opponents in the ring. He’d killed a fighter once. Tozzi turned around quick and looked for a big man towering over the crowd. There were butterflies in his stomach. Float like a butterfly . . . sting like a slug.
Epps climbed down out of the ring, and Nashe made a big deal out of introducing him to the governor. Barechested, skin shimmering with sweat, he stood between the two men, smiling his big gap-toothed smile for the cameras. Nashe, an old pro at smiling for the cameras, held up the fighter’s taped hand like a referee declaring the victor. This was the picture Nashe wanted the papers to run—the big man sandwiched between a multibillionaire and a sitting governor, three winners all in a row. To get people to pay to see this fight, Nashe had to get the message across that Epps was a credible contender, that he actually could beat “Pain” Walker. If the papers ran this photo, Nashe didn’t give a shit what the writers said about Epps. The photo always carries more punch that the print, Tozzi had once overheard Nashe saying. Your average fight fan just reads the box scores and looks at the pictures, according to Nashe.
The cameramen had all jammed in together to get that shot of the “three winners.” They were like a single giant organism, flashing and squirming and yelling and muttering. Tozzi didn’t like this
setup—the reporters were too close, too disorganized. It was bad, security-wise. In that chaotic mass of cameras and bodies, a gunman could get off a good shot or two before he was even noticed. Tozzi squinted against the camera flashes, getting spots in front of his eyes, his heart beating fast, waiting for the first gunshot, ready to hit the floor and go for his weapon.
Why the hell did I take this undercover? he thought. This is crazy. I’m gonna die!
The camera flashes kept firing and firing, then they trailed off and Epps put his arm down, the “three winners” dropping their pose. Nothing had happened. No hitman in the crowd. As the cameramen dispersed, Tozzi was left with nothing but the sound of his own heart pounding.
He took a deep breath and hoped he didn’t look as rattled as he felt. Nashe and the governor were at the edge of the ring now, discussing something privately. Epps and his entourage were moving toward the locker room. The reporters and cameramen were stampeding the buffet table, getting what they had really come here for. Nashe had brought along a gang of people from the casino to serve free food and drink for the press. More than anything else, an open bar will win you a writer’s good will—another Nashe-ism. Between the spots in front of his eyes, Tozzi thought he saw a gray hat behind the bar. He blinked and squinted, then smiled. It was her—white shirt, black vest, gray fedora and all. He didn’t know she was supposed to be here. Val—
Oooww! Something stung the middle of his back. Instantly he dropped to a crouch and went for the gun in his ankle holster. Shit!
“Hey, Tomasso! What the hell you doin’?”
Tozzi looked up at the black suit standing over him. His heart was slamming. It was Lenny Mokowski. Tozzi rolled down his pant leg and stood up. “Don’t do that, Lenny.” He’d only slapped Tozzi on the back.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Tomasso? Who you s’posed to be guarding over here? A ghost? Mr. Nashe is way over there, behind you.” Lenny’s greasy pompadour was pointed right up in Tozzi’s face.
“Yeah, I know. I’m watching him.”
“The eff you are, Tomasso. You know, you’re something else, I’m telling you. You woulda never made it as a cop. Never.”
“Get off my case, will ya, Lenny?”
“No, I won’t get off your case. Not until you shape up.”
“I’m working on it, I’m working on it.” Go away. I just want to go talk to Val. Before I have a heart attack.
“Listen to me now. We got a change in plans.” Lenny took out a set of keys and dangled them between his stubby fingers. “Mr. Nashe is gonna ride up to Trenton with the governor in the governor’s car now so they can talk. The ’copter’s gonna pick him up there. Frank and me are staying with Mr. Nashe, Johnny the chauffeur’s gonna drive the Rolls back, and I want you to drive our car back.”
“Right.” Tozzi took the keys and nodded, trying to look bored. He didn’t want Lenny to pick up on the fact that he was overjoyed to be getting out of there sooner than he’d expected.
“Go ahead, go now. With the governor’s men here, we’re more than covered. I’ll catch up with you later at the Plaza.” Lenny turned and walked away.
Tozzi gave him a salute good-bye. It was amazing. From behind, in that black suit, the man looked even more like a bowling ball than he normally did.
Breathing easier, Tozzi pocketed the keys and pushed his way through the crush at the bar. Valerie saw him coming and she just looked at him with that sly half grin of hers.
She tipped her hat back and leaned on the bar. “What can I do you for, stranger?”
Tozzi grinned. About a week in bed.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” A reporter elbowed his way in front of Tozzi, a tall, gangly preppy type with googly tortoise-shell glasses and suede patches on the elbows of his jacket. “I’d like a vodka on the rocks. Do you have Stolie back there? I’ll take the Stolie.”
“In a minute, pal,” Tozzi said. “I got business here.” He turned back to Valerie. “I’m driving our car back to the casino. Alone. You want a ride?”
Her smirk widened. “My mother warned me about boys like you.”
“What’m I gonna do to you? I’ll be driving.”
“As if I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Finlandia. Have you got Finlandia? I’ll take Finlandia.”
Tozzi glared at the pushy asshole. He only looked like a mild-mannered academic. “She’ll be with you in a minute. Just take it easy. You’re not paying for it, for chrissake.”
“When you leaving?” she asked.
“Whenever you’re ready. No rush.” God, she looked good.
She picked up a rock glass and flipped it from hand to hand. “This’ll die down in a half hour, maybe less. I can take off then.”
“Absolut. How about Absolut? Vodka? I’ll take Absolut.”
Tozzi grabbed the guy by his tweedy lapels. “Listen, my friend. Can’t you see that I’m trying to put the moves on this lady? Can’t you see that this is a critical juncture in our relationship and that you and your fucking drinking problem are putting my future happiness in jeopardy? Have any of these things occurred to you?”
The preppy rotated his head like a turtle trying to get back into his shell. “Let go of me.”
“Has it occurred to you that I outweigh you by about fifty pounds? That I have markedly violent tendencies and that it’s entirely possible that I’m carrying double-Y chromosomes? That people like me are just plain bad and should simply be avoided?”
“I said let go of me.” He started bending and curving in the weirdest way, like he was going to change into something else. Val reached over and stroked Tozzi’s cheek then. “What a man. How can a woman resist such masculine charm?”
“Let go of me!” The preppy was melting. He was made out of wax.
Tozzi tightened his grip and looked at Valerie. “I’ll wait for you out in the parking lot. It’s the black Mercury parked under the trees.”
“I said let go of me!”
“And get this guy a vodka, will ya? Smirnoff’s will do.” He let go of the preppy’s lapels, and Valerie fluttered her eyelashes, clutched her heart, and let out a deep sigh. My hero. Tozzi shook his head and laughed as he worked his way out of the crunch. She was something else.
He jingled the keys in his pocket as he walked through the noisy gym. He felt good, hopeful. He was getting out of that madhouse, but better than that he was finally going to be able to spend some time with Valerie without having to worry about Sydney showing up. Sydney had taken the lavender yacht up to Manhattan to throw a cocktail party or something. She wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night. So if he and Valerie decided to take their friendship to—how would you put it? the next plateau? a higher plane? whatever—at least the night was all theirs. Tozzi couldn’t help grinning to himself. As he passed the heavy bag on his way out, he balled his fists and gave it a few quick shots. Pow-pow, pow! He felt good.
Stepping out into the red-dirt parking lot, he shaded his eyes from the sun. It was hot for April and the birds were making a racket up in the pines. They seemed to be confused by the unseasonably warm weather. Why start building your nest early when it could snow again? Jersey weather was like that. Tozzi squinted up into the tree and spotted a couple of cardinals flittering around on a branch.
Oh, what the hell, go on, do it. Have a little faith.
He walked across the dusty lot, heading for the shade of the big pines over by the lodge where the Mercury was parked. The sun was glinting off the car hoods, and suddenly it felt more like mid-June than early April. Tozzi loosened his tie. Maybe they could get out to the beach this afternoon. As he approached the black Mercury he noticed that Nashe’s white Rolls was already gone. Johnny the chauffeur had already left.
Under the shade of the trees there was a blond guy huddled over a camera, cursing to himself. He was wearing jeans, a tan corduroy sport jacket, and running shoes—photographer chic. “Excuse me,” he said as Tozzi approached the Mercury. “Could you give me a hand over here
? Film’s jammed and I need an extra finger.”
“Sure.” Tozzi walked into the shade to see what he could do for the guy. “What do you need?”
The blond guy showed him the open back of a 35mm with an elaborate flash attachment. “Here. See right here?” He suddenly whipped the camera up and bashed Tozzi over the nose with it.
Instinctively Tozzi grabbed his face. Blind anger told him to rip the guy’s throat out, but before he could make a move he felt something in his back. Hard and small, dead center on his spine. A hand from behind grabbed the material on his shoulder and yanked him back, digging the gun barrel deeper into his flesh. Tozzi glanced over his shoulder and saw the gunman. He was wearing a cheap herringbone-tweed jacket, still crisp and new from the store, and the kind of designer jeans that aren’t quite the right color. The hand on his shoulder had a heavy gold bracelet and a big gaudy ring with two rows of diamonds on it. Tozzi caught the guy’s reflection in the window of the car parked in front of him. The gunman’s dark hair was slicked straight back. A greaser in sheep’s clothing.
The blond guy’s hair was shaved close around his ears, long and wavy on top. He kept scratching behind his ear, like a dog, as he paced back and forth in front of Tozzi. He kept clenching his jaw and showing his teeth. Must’ve had a nervous tic or something. Maybe rabies.
Tozzi glanced at him as the pain of the blow to his nose gathered around his eyes. His head and his heart started pounding in competition. The gunman must’ve felt the vibrations. Tozzi was waiting for Blondie to say it: You’re a fucking fed, and we’re gonna blow your fucking head off. That’s what he’s gonna say. Immordino did know. Oh, shit . . .
Blondie kept walking back and forth, back and forth, clenching his jaw and making all kinds of faces. Tozzi couldn’t stand it anymore. “What do you want with me?”
Bad Luck Page 10
