“Percodan.”
“Makes you dopey, huh?”
“I didn’t take any this morning.” Tozzi looked at him. “I drove in.”
“Ah . . .” Gibbons pressed his lips together and nodded. Depressed. Valerie must have given him his walking papers. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Poor bastard.
“So where the hell is he?” Tozzi said. “I figured Ivers’d have his guns loaded for me, ready to chew my ass out.”
“For what?”
“Whattaya mean, for what? For screwing up the undercover.” Tozzi’s eyes were wet and shimmering under the discolored flesh. “Nine weeks with Nashe and I didn’t get a thing. We just got lucky at the end, that’s all. Which is just what he’s gonna say. He’s gonna take me off the street, you watch. Sure as shit.”
“Not necessarily.” Gibbons wanted to be hopeful even though he knew Tozzi was probably right.
The phone rang again. Only one ring this time.
“You know, Gib,” Tozzi said. “I got my ass kicked three times in one day. I’am a special agent, I’am supposed to know how to take care of myself. I practice aikido two, three times a week. But what did it all do for me? I still got my ass kicked.”
Bad-mouthing aikido, a bad sign. He must really be depressed. He used to think aikido was the be-all and end-all. “Listen, Toz, you had five of Nashe’s bodyguards gang up on you the first time. The second time Walker’s guys were holding your arms while the heavyweight champion of the world worked you over. And shit, with Immordino at the fight, you were hurt, you were punchy, for chrissake. What did you expect?”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen guys who know aikido take care of five attackers at the same time. Easy.”
“Black belts, yeah. What’re you? Only an orange belt. What’s that? It takes years to really learn that martial-arts stuff so you can kick ass. You’ve got a long way to go, right?”
Tozzi just looked at him. “How do you know?”
“I know because, unbelievable as it may seem, I pay attention when you bore the shit out of me with your aikido stories.” You’re supposed to smile, Tozzi. I’m trying to make you feel better. Why don’t you cooperate for once in your life?
The door opened then and Brant Ivers whisked into the room.
“Good morning,” he said to the rug. He dropped his morning papers on the desk and sat down in the high-backed swivel chair. Court was in session.
“What’re you doing here, Tozzi? You look terrible. Why aren’t you home?” Lot of compassion. Asshole.
“It looks worse than it feels. I’m okay.”
Ivers adjusted his suit jacket. Black pinstripe, two-tone gray rep tie. The man meant business today. He stared at Tozzi’s face, assessing the damage, then shook his head gravely. One of his practiced gestures. “Well, if you say you’re all right . . . Actually I’m glad you’re here, Tozzi. I want to get a few things straight about the events in Atlantic City this weekend. Some matters of procedure.” The SAC was wearing that tight-assed headmaster look of his, the I’ll-hear-your-side-of-it-then-I’m-gonna-bust-your-balls-because-I’ve-already-made-up-my-mind look.
Gibbons decided to head the asshole off at the pass. “I think Tozzi did a hell of a job down there. That tape he got of Immordino threatening him and admitting to murder and all? There’s no way he can peddle that mental-incompetency bullshit anymore. Only bad thing is that with all the previous charges Immordino’s gonna have to face on top of all the new charges, he’ll end up spending more time in court than in prison.”
Ivers linked his fingers on the blotter. “Perhaps.”
Keep going, don’t stop. “I talked to a guy I know at the U.S. Attorney’s office last night. Immordino’s lawyers were scrambling all day yesterday. Damage control. They know there’s nothing they can do about the old charges, but they’re very eager to deal on the current stuff. Since Nashe is gonna face charges for attempting to fix the fight and illegal gambling, they’ve offered to let Sal testify against him in exchange for immunity from prosecution on the same charges.”
Tozzi coughed up a sarcastic laugh. “What good will that do him? He could get life for killing Sydney.”
“That’s still up in the air,” Headmaster Ivers said. “What I hear from the U.S. Attorney is that there’s been some back-and-forth as to what the charge will be on Mrs. Nashe’s death. At the very least Sal will face a manslaughter charge, but some of the boys over there feel they can kick it up to second-degree murder, based on Immordino’s vengeful intentions against both Mr. and Mrs. Nashe when he pulled the trigger.”
“And what about Sister Cil?” Tozzi asked.
Ivers made a steeple with his fingers and touched his upper lip with it. “Now that’s a very interesting question. They can charge Sister Cil as an accessory, but if they do, they’ll have a very hard time selling second-degree murder for Sal. They could charge them both with manslaughter, but my guess is that they’ll go after Sal on murder two and leave her alone.”
Gibbons frowned. “They’re just being chickenshit about it because she’s a nun. She hated Sydney as much as Sal did, and anyway, Sal was gunning for Russ, not the wife. The nun’s guilty as sin, if you ask me. They ought to charge them both with murder two.”
Ivers tilted his head back and looked at him through half-closed lids. William F. Buckley now. “We don’t prosecute them, Bert. We just arrest them.”
Gibbons bristled when he heard Ivers call him Bert. A real sarcastic prick today. “I also heard that Henry Gonsalves has offered to testify against Immordino.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s he doing?” Tozzi asked.
Gibbons shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Supposedly he’s made a lot of progress, but he’s never gonna be the same again. He has a hard time remembering things.”
“The perfect witness.” The sarcastic headmaster again. Ivers paused and just stared at the two of them, the eyes half closed. Gibbons could hear the printer running on the other side of the door.
Gibbons looked up at the ceiling and exhaled loudly. All right. Come on, say it.
Ivers’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Why is it that I feel we’ve been here before, that we’ve gone over this territory many, many times in the past? You’re both competent agents, you get results, but can you tell me why you always have to undercut your successes by continually disobeying direct orders, stubbornly insisting on doing things your way, and ignoring well-established procedure? There’s a big knot in my stomach right now from all the negative feelings I have stored up against you two. I really want to yell at you two, really lace into you, chew your asses out royally. But what good does that ever do? You don’t listen. You don’t improve. Why should I waste my breath? Why should I even waste my time with you?” Ivers grit his teeth. “Why the hell shouldn’t I have you two fuck-ups dismissed right here and now? Hmmm?”
“Hold it right there.” Gibbons was gritting his teeth too, but he waited for the blinding flash of rage to pass before he spoke. “There’s gonna be some big convictions as a result of the arrests we made down there. But let’s put all this into perspective. This was not some slap-dash shakedown. Tozzi collected more than enough evidence to put Sal Immordino away. Now I admit that we’ve been known to misinterpret instructions—yes, even disregard direct orders—but we have never ignored procedure. Never. No one’s rights were trampled on down there, and no one was abused during those arrests, despite the fact that it was a very difficult situation. Everyone was mirandized. We did it by the book.”
Ivers didn’t say a word. His face was red, his jaw set, as he unfolded the two newspapers on his desk and laid them out so Gibbons and Tozzi could read the headlines. The Daily News had a big picture of Sister Cil and Joseph Immordino lying flat on the floor, hands over their heads as Tozzi was handcuffing Joseph. The picture on the front page of the Post was juicier: Tozzi hunkered down over the nun with his hand under her armpit as he was frisking her. One headline said FBI BUSTS NUN. The other was FBI TO NUN: SPREAD ’EM, SISTER!
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Gibbons let out a long, slow breath.
Tozzi coughed into his fist. “This is very misleading.”
“You couldn’t have waited until a female police officer arrived? There were cameras all around you, for God’s sake. Don’t you have any sense, Tozzi? Look at this.” Ivers pointed to the frisking picture. “You look like some kind of thug from a Salvadoran death squad.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute.” The knot was in Gibbons’s stomach now. “That woman was in possession of a deadly weapon. There were people all over the place, innocent citizens. Nun or not, she could’ve been packing another weapon. Don’t tell me about procedure. Common sense tells you she had to be checked. Christ, she could’ve had a rocket launcher under that habit. No, I don’t want to hear any more about this nun bullshit. Tozzi did the right thing.” Gibbons’s knot got tighter. He’d told Tozzi to lay off the nun. Stupid shit.
“Would you like to know why I was late getting in here this morning? I was late because I had breakfast with the cardinal. He was very upset, Gibbons. Very upset. He gave me a real earful, and I had to sit there and take it. Nothing I said could calm him down. He told me he was going to call the Director in Washington this morning. And the President.”
“He can call the fucking Pope, for all I care. We nailed a top mobster, a fucking murderer, for chrissake. We also nailed a billionaire crook who’s got God knows how many scams going. And in the process we managed to deplete the Mistretta family’s war chest by about thirty mil. All by ourselves. How can you weigh all that against this trivial bullshit you’re giving us here? Frisking a nun. This is bullshit!”
The phone rang again. Tozzi was rubbing his temples. “Hey, Gib, don’t yell. My head.”
Ivers sucked in his breath, pointed his finger at Gibbons, and was about to start screaming when the intercom buzzed. Ivers stabbed the button. “What is it?”
The secretary’s voice came out of the intercom. “The Director on line two, sir.”
Ivers’s face was like a fistful of raw meat. His eyes were a little crossed too. Gibbons had never actually seen that, except in a comic strip. “Get out, both of you.” The headmaster was shouting.
“Shall we reschedule this?” Gibbons was trying not to grin, but he wasn’t trying very hard.
“Just get out! Now!”
Gibbons looked at Tozzi. “Come on, let’s go. The man’s got work to do.” They got up and went to the door. Gibbons looked back at Ivers with his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, waiting for them to leave. “Give ’im my regards.” He followed Tozzi out and shut the door behind him.
The printer was zipping away on the secretary’s desk. She was making herself look busy, scribbling something on a yellow legal pad. Nice-looking girl, in her thirties. The nervous type, though. Look at her. Oh, me! Oh, my! The Director’s on the phone! Calm down, honey. It’s not your ass that’s gonna get reamed. Gibbons smiled and waved to her as they went out the door into the hallway.
Tozzi was over at the water fountain, getting a drink. He was wincing a lot. Maybe it hurt for him to bend over like that. Poor bastard.
“Why don’t you go home, Toz? Give yourself a break.”
“Actually I was thinking of taking off to go to the hospital.”
“You in pain? I’ll take you.”
“No, not for me. The hospital down the shore. To see Valerie.”
“I thought she gave you your walking papers.”
Tozzi shook his head. “I never said that.”
“Oh . . .”
“Yeah, I thought I’d go down for visiting hours, ask her if she’ll come to the wedding with me. I think she’ll be on her feet by then. It’s June ninth, right?”
“What?”
“Your wedding, stunade. Did you forget?” Tozzi was grinning under his bandages.
“No. I didn’t forget.”
“You better not. I’ll tell Lorraine you forgot. She’ll hit you over the head with a frying pan.”
Ha-ha-ha, a frying pan. Real funny. “I didn’t forget. Why don’t you just get the fuck outta here before you cause any more trouble?”
Tozzi started walking backward down the hall. “So is it the ninth or not?”
“Yeah, it’s the ninth.”
“That’s what I thought.” Tozzi waved. “See you tomorrow.” He disappeared around the corner.
The ninth. Less than a month away. Gibbons looked down at his shoes, the black wingtips, the ones he’d bought for the wedding. Tozzi’s inviting Valerie. Nice girl. A lot like Lorraine . . . in some ways. He kept looking at the shoes. No, not really. Only Lorraine’s like Lorraine. He stuck his head in the water fountain built into the wall and took a drink. The water was icy cold.
He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down at his wingtips, then headed for the Organized Crime Unit’s section where his cubicle was.
When he got to his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed her number again. It rang four times, and he knew from the static on the line that it was gonna be the goddamn machine again.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t come to the phone right now. If you’ll leave your name, number, and a short message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Beeeep.
Gibbons bit his upper lip. His face was hot. The tape was hissing, waiting for a message. Shit.
“Hey, listen, Lorraine. If you think I’m gonna apologize and tell you how I feel about you on this goddamn machine, then you’ve got another think coming. I’m sorry I ran off the other night. I am. And I do want to marry you. Even though you’ve been driving me nuts with all this wedding crap. I still want to get married, but if you wanna call it off, you gotta tell me to my face. You know, you’re not the only one who can give ultimatums here. So if I don’t hear from you soon, you can forget it. You can take your goddamn fish mousse and—”
“I’m here.” Lorraine picked up, the real Lorraine. She was there.
“Oh . . . hi.”
“Well,” she said, “does this beat your ultimatum, G-man?” He could hear the sly grin in her voice.
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“So are we still on?”
“Yeah, sure . . . I’m willing if you are.”
“But what about the wedding reception? Shall we scrap all the plans? Just go down to the courthouse?”
“No, no, no. Italian girls gotta have big receptions. I think it’s the law. Anyway, what’s a wedding without a celebration?”
“You sure that’s what you want? Fish mousse and all?”
Gibbons put his feet up on his desk and looked at the toes of his wingtips. “Yeah. I’m sure.” He smiled like a crocodile then. “Just as long as I don’t have to eat there.”
BAD LUCK
All Rights Reserved © 1990, 2008 by Anthony Bruno
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Originally published by Delacorte Press
ISBN: 978-0-786-75340-6
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
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Bad Luck Page 27
