Bad Luck Read online

  “I need an ambulance right now. Seventy-fourth Street on the ocean side. Russell Nashe’s house. A woman has been shot. Do you have that? Seventy-fourth on the ocean side, the great big gray place all by itself. On the top floor, in the bathroom. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re on their way now.” Too damn calm.

  “Hurry, you gotta hurry. She’s hurt badi!” This woman is too fucking calm. She doesn’t realize how serious this is. “Please, hurry!”

  “Sir, are you hurt also?”

  “Me?” He realized he was rubbing his knee and he stopped. “No, no, I’m not hurt.”

  “Then you should go down to the street and be there when the ambulance arrives to direct them to the injured person.”

  “Right, yes. I know that.”

  Tozzi dropped the phone on the floor. He ripped a blanket off the bed and brought it into the bathroom to cover Valerie. He felt for the pulse again. He didn’t want to leave her. He stroked her hair, put his cheek to the floor, and looked into her glassy eyes.

  “They’re coming, Val. They’re coming.”

  He heard the sirens then and he jumped up, about to run downstairs, but he stopped to shut off that goddamn music, too loud, too loud. He twisted the volume dial on the unit built into the wall and happened to glance out the bathroom window. That little fishing boat was almost a speck on the ocean.

  Fucking Immordino. I swear to Christ I’m gonna kill that bastard. I don’t give a shit. I’ll fucking crucify him.

  The doorbell suddenly jolted him, made him jump. Like a big fishhook speared through the chest. He pushed off the wall and ran down to let the ambulance guys in.

  They’re here, Val. They’re here. They’re here. Hang on. Please!

  n other news, police arrested seven Jamaican immigrants in a predawn raid in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn. The seven men are accused of belonging to a notoriously violent drug posse specializing in the sale and distribution of marijuana. A police spokesman reported that half a ton of marijuana was found in an apartment where the suspects were in the process of dividing and packaging the drug for street sale . . .”

  On the screen seven handcuffed black guys were being marched into a police station one by one, all greasy dreadlocks and drop-dead eyes. The picture switched to the grungy apartment, cops showing off the cache. Two burlap bales, the sides slit open to show the grass. Hundreds of neat plastic Baggies, rolled tight and taped shut, ready for sale. A plastic laundry basket full of cash. A sawed-off shotgun, an AK-47, three 9mm automatics, a .357 Magnum. The camera panned by the arsenal quickly, but Gibbons was almost certain the .357 was a Colt Python, the one with the six-inch barrel. A real Wild West item. Nice bunch, these guys.

  The picture switched to one of the arresting officers, an undercover cop sitting in a darkened office, his head just a shadow in order to maintain his anonymity. An off-camera reporter asked him how the arrest had been executed.

  “The suspects had been under surveillance for several weeks prior to this morning’s arrest Three of the men were observed picking up a major shipment yesterday at—”

  “Did I tell you that Brant Ivers’s wife RSVPed today?” Lorraine said. “She said she was very sorry, but they won’t be able to make the wedding.”

  Gibbons looked over at her sitting on the other end of the couch, flipping through a magazine. A stupid magazine. He looked back at the TV, but the undercover cop was gone. Goddammit. He wanted to hear where the Jamaicans were bringing in their weed.

  “Mrs. Ivers was very apologetic in her note, but they’re already committed to parents’ weekend at Groton. That’s where Brant, Jr., goes. Her husband went there too, apparently. He’s very active with the alumni association.”

  “Too bad.” Gibbons stared at the magazine in her lap, one of those oversized magazines with a lot of pictures of girls in their early twenties wearing clothes for women in their late forties, the kind of pictures that make women crazy because even after they buy the clothes, they still don’t look like the models and they refuse to believe that it isn’t the clothes that’s the problem. It’s the years. Gibbons turned back to the news.

  A still photo of Richie Varga appeared over the anchorman’s shoulder. Gibbons sat forward.

  “Lawyers for convicted mobster Richie Varga appealed his 1987 murder conviction, citing improper procedure by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in making his arrest. Varga, who is currently serving a life sentence at the Ray Brook Federal Correctional Institution in upstate New York, was convicted of running a renegade La Cosa Nostra faction while he was living under the protection of the government’s Witness Security Program. In seeking to overturn the murder conviction, Varga’s lawyers hope to have their client moved from a maximum-security facility to a medium-security prison. In filing their appeal, Varga’s attorney’s charge the FBI with illegal use of—”

  “Is there a buttonhole in the lapel of your new suit?”

  “Wait!”

  “—which led to Varga’s eventual capture. In other news . . .”

  Goddammit! What the hell’s wrong with her?

  Lorraine paused and looked at the television. “You and Michael were on that case, weren’t you? You’re the ones who caught him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think they’ll overturn the conviction?”

  “Beats me.”

  “You worked so hard on that case. You nearly got killed. Thank God Michael found that warehouse where they were keeping you.”

  Yeah . . . lucky me.

  The commercial came on then, a commercial for Maalox. Gibbons was biting his tongue, dying to say something. But where the hell do you begin? How do you tell the woman you love she’s turned into an idiot and she better snap out of it?

  “So does it?” she said.

  “Huh? What’re you talking about?”

  “Does your new suit have a buttonhole for a boutonniere?”

  Gibbons was sitting on a volcano, about to explode. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Well, yes. You can’t wear a flower in your lapel if you don’t have a buttonhole.”

  “If you don’t have a hole, you use a pin.” Nitwit.

  “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that.” She folded over the magazine and extended it to him. “I was thinking you should wear a yellow tulip to offset the gray suit. See the girl in this picture? On the bottom of the page. Don’t the tulips look nice with her—”

  “Do you think you can hold on to this crucial information until after the news?” Before I throw you out a fucking window.

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry.”

  A cornflakes commercial was just ending, and the anchorman came back on. “And now, Lou Moses with sports . . .”

  The camera switched to Lou Moses, the worst hairpiece in broadcasting. Looked like something dead on the side of the road. The guy’d been on TV for ten years, probably made four, five hundred grand a year, and he couldn’t get himself a better rug? One of the mysteries of the universe. Just like women.

  Lou started going over the baseball scores. Gibbons glanced over at Lorraine. She was all jammed up in the corner of the couch, like she was trying to make herself small. She had the whipped-puppy look, something new for her. Christ Almighty, he wished he could figure out what in the hell was wrong with her. They had to talk. As soon as the news is over.

  “—and there’s been a mysterious development in the War Down the Shore, the heavyweight-championship bout between reigning champ Dwayne ‘Pain’ Walker and former champ Charles Epps scheduled for this Saturday night in Atlantic City. It seems that ‘Pain’ Walker’s longtime trainer was secretly hospitalized earlier this week in Reading, Pennsylvania. Reporter Craig Wood at our sister station in Philadelphia is at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital in Reading—”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted—”

  “Not now, not now!”

  A heavy-set guy in a plaid jacket held a microphone in one hand, a clipboard in the other. He was sta
nding outside a hospital emergency-room entrance. “Lou, Henry Gonsalves, the champ’s trainer—and, some say, the only man the erratic young fighter trusts—was admitted to Our Lady of Mercy Hospital here late Sunday night under the name Hector Diaz. A nurse, who would not give me her name, told me today that Gonsalves, who remains in critical condition, was unconscious from the time he was brought in until late Monday afternoon and that he had facial lacerations, a broken jaw, and two fractured ribs. He was later diagnosed as having sustained a severe concussion, and some degree of brain damage is feared. The nurse told me that Henry Gonsalves’s injuries seem to indicate that he’d been beaten up very badly.

  “The Walker camp had no comment when I called today, and they refused to even acknowledge that the champ’s trainer was in the hospital. Officially the hospital is also refusing to comment, saying only that it’s their policy to respect the privacy of all patients under their care. However, ‘Pain’ Walker’s former wife, model Bonnie Kilmer, did tell me today that the champ’s temper is very unpredictable and that he’s capable of lashing out at anyone, including those he supposedly loves. While she expressed doubt that her ex-husband would ever turn on Gonsalves, who she feels is responsible for their breakup, she would not rule out the possibility.

  “A very bizarre development coming on the eve of the big fight. We hope to bring you more information on Henry Gonsalves’s condition at eleven. Reporting from Our Lady of Mercy Hospital in Reading, Pennsylvania, this is Craig Wood. Back to you, Lou.”

  Our Lady of Mercy, Our Lady of Mercy . . . Why did that sound so familiar? Our Lady of Mercy . . .

  “Lorraine, do you remember a—” He looked over at her. She was scrunched up in the corner of the couch, crying. Oh, for chrissake.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She blew her nose into a Kleenex. “Go to hell.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She was sobbing.

  “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

  She blew her nose again. “Just don’t talk to me.”

  Her Kleenex was a wet little ball, but she was still trying to use it. He took the handkerchief out of his back pocket and offered it to her.

  “Go to hell.” She opened up the shredded Kleenex, looking for a usable spot.

  “Are you going to tell me what your problem is or not? You know, I’ve had it up to here with this crap.”

  She spun around, eyes flashing. “You’ve had it up to here! I’ve had it up to here!” Shrill. A madwoman.

  Gibbons was speechless. He couldn’t believe it. It was the old Lorraine.

  “I was going to get us tickets to the closed-circuit broadcast of the fight, to surprise you, but you can go to hell now.” She turned back to her raggy Kleenex and muttered to it. “Selfish son of a bitch.”

  “What’re you, kidding? You hate boxing.”

  “Well, I was going to do it for you, but forget it. I’m tired of bending over backward, trying to make things nice for you.”

  “Why? Why do you have to make things nice for me? They were nice before. We decide to get married and suddenly everything is different. I don’t understand.”

  She flashed those psycho eyes at him. “I wanted to make everything perfect for you so that you’d be comfortable with the idea of getting married. I knew you still had doubts.”

  Gibbons saw red. “What do you mean ‘comfortable’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you just be honest and say it? You’re afraid I’ll back out of this. Right? That’s what you’re afraid of. That’s why you’ve been acting so stupid.”

  “I act stupid? Just asking you a simple question is acting stupid?”

  “It is when I’m trying to watch the news.” He pointed at the TV. “Some of this stuff happens to pertain to my job.” The weatherman was pointing at the map.

  “I only asked a simple question and you jumped down my throat.”

  “It wasn’t one simple question. I’m listening to a story and you’re telling me that Brant Ivers can’t come to the wedding because he’s going to his class reunion or some such shit. What the hell do I care where Ivers is going—”

  Then it dawned on him. Ivers. He was the one who’d told him about Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. In Reading, Pennsylvania. That was where Sal Immordino had supposedly been treated for Pugilistic Brain syndrome, where his bogus headshrinker was affiliated. Our Lady of Mercy. The doctor who’d testified that Sal was mentally incompetent, poured on all the medical bullshit, lied through his teeth. But Walker’s camp is down around Philly—why didn’t they take him to a hospital there? How the hell did he end up in Reading? A coincidence? No way. Immordino’s recommendation? But how does Gonsalves know Immordino? How does anyone at Walker’s camp know Immordino? Unless Immordino arranged to have Gonsalves taken to his hospital, to hush things up. Because he beat the shit out of Gonsalves himself? The way he did to that guy Lawson back when he was a pug? Why? He glanced at the TV, stared at the computerized weather map, green blobs moving over the Midwest. Because Gonsalves has a lot of influence over the champ, that’s what the ex-wife said. Immordino wanted Gonsalves to get the champ to do something, he refused, and Sal pounded his head in . . .

  Jesus. Gibbons couldn’t believe it. It was so fucking obvious. Immordino is fixing the fight. The mob pretty much gave up on fight-fixing thirty, forty years ago. That’s why he didn’t think of it until now. But so what if they haven’t fixed a big fight since the fifties? No crime like an old crime. Right? He looked at the screen. A smiling sun. It was going to be nice tomorrow. He jumped up from the couch and headed for the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” The fishwife.

  He stopped and looked at her. She looked like she was gonna bite him. “I gotta talk to Tozzi.”

  “He’s not home. I tried him a little while ago.”

  He went to the closet and got Excalibur out of the shoe box on the top shelf, clipped the holster onto his belt. They used to fix fights back when he’d bought this gun, 1955. Thirty-eight Colt Cobra. Didn’t make these anymore. He threw his suit jacket on and grabbed his hat.

  “Where the hell are you going?” she yelled from the couch. “You’re not going to leave this unfinished. Come back here and talk to me.”

  She-demon. Fantastic. It was great to have her back. “I’m sorry. I gotta go find Tozzi. This is important. We’ll talk later.”

  “Oh, wonderful! And this isn’t important?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He had his hand on the doorknob. “That’s not what I said.”

  “You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious how you feel.”

  He took his hand off the doorknob, walked back to the couch, and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you. We’ll finish this fight later. But I have to find Tozzi now.” He headed back to the door.

  “If you walk out that door, Gibbons, the wedding is off.”

  Facing the door, Gibbons rolled his eyes to the ceiling and showed his teeth. Jesus Christ Almighty. She finally shapes up and now she doesn’t want to get married.

  “I’m not kidding. You leave me here and I’m calling the whole thing off.”

  He turned the knob but held the door closed for a second.

  “I’m serious.”

  Medea. The Gorgon. Screaming Mimi.

  “I gotta find Tozzi.” He opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and looked back in at her.

  She was shaking her head, waving her arms like an umpire calling the man safe. “That’s it, that’s it. I’m serious.”

  “Later, Lorraine. Later.”

  He closed the door, but he could still hear her saying she was serious, that was it.

  He put on his hat and headed for the stairs. Fucking women. When you want them, they don’t want you. When they want you, then they don’t look so good.

  Gibbons hurried down the worn marble apartment steps. At least this proved she wasn’t permanently braindamaged by the wedding shit. That was good. He turned the landing and looked
back up at the apartment door. She’s not serious. She’s just mad. That’s all. I hope.

  Gibbons remembered this dingy little lobby as soon as he opened the door. He walked over to the open doorway that led to the practice space and saw a group of people wearing those white martial-arts pajama outfits, running around like nuts out on the blue mats. He spotted Tozzi right away. He had a feeling Tozzi would be here. He went to the pay phone on the wall then, dropped a quarter in, and dialed the 800 number. Pulling up one of the orange plastic stacking chairs, Gibbons propped his foot up and stretched the cord as far as it would go so he could look through the doorway into the dojo. It rang three times before someone picked up.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Yeah, this is Gibbons, four-seven-oh-nine. Who’s the night clerk on tonight?”

  “Moran.”

  “Put me through to him.”

  “Hold on.”

  Gibbons watched the nuts out on the mat. Tozzi was standing in line with the others, waiting to get his ass kicked by one of the guys with the baggy black pants, one of the black belts. When it was his turn Tozzi ran up and grabbed the black belt’s wrists. The guy whipped Tozzi back like it was nothing, then whipped him forward again and threw him over, countergrabbing Tozzi’s wrist so that he hit the ground hard—real hard—right on his side. Gibbons winced, but Tozzi jumped right up and ran back to the end of the line, ready to get pulverized again. Gibbons shook his head. These people were fucking crazy. Tozzi said aikido was supposed to be a soft martial art, supposed to make you calm. Bullshit.

  A tired voice came through the line then. “What do you want, Gibbons?”

  “What’sa matter, Moran? I wake you up?” Moran was always so happy when he had to do night duty.

  “I wish. Now what do you want?”

  “Tell me something. Did Tozzi call in today?”

  Moran snorted a laugh into the phone. “No, Tozzi didn’t call in. But we got a shitload of calls about him.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Let’s see.” The sound of shuffling papers, Moran going through the log. “Well, it seems that Tozzi discovered an attempted homicide this morning. A woman named—where is it? where is it? here—Raynor, Valerie Raynor.”