Bad Luck Read online

  “No, think about it. If you were Walker, would you throw the fight now? After some guy comes out of nowhere and humiliates you in front of a million reporters, I mean.”

  Gibbons’s face changed. He was considering the possibility. “Who knows? It’s no secret that Walker’s got a chip on his shoulder. He may have something to prove now. He could change his mind.”

  “That’s what I’m figuring.” Tozzi was able to walk on his own now. They came to the stage-door entrance, and there was a War Down the Shore poster taped to the door. Tozzi remembered the easel in Russell Nashe’s office, their little chat.

  “Walker gave you a pretty good shot there. I saw it. Let’s go find a hospital, have a doctor look at you.”

  “No, I’m okay.” The little guy with the jackhammer was still working on his breakout. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “You look like shit. You sure?”

  “I’m fine.” He pushed through the door with the poster on it and winced as the bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Almost two.”

  Eight hours to fighttime. Tozzi nodded to himself, wondering where she might be now. “I gotta go see someone.”

  “Who?”

  He shaded his eyes and looked straight up at the big white building next door, Nashe Plaza. “I’ve got an urgent rumor to plant.” On the seventeenth floor.

  Gibbons made a face. “What’re you talking about?”

  Tozzi didn’t answer. He was focusing on the windows on the seventeenth floor.

  il had her wrist crooked around Sal’s elbow. Sal patted her hand and smiled at her, glad that she’d decided to come to the fight. People in the crowd made believe they weren’t looking at her—a nun at a prizefight wasn’t something you saw very often—but Sal didn’t give a shit about the attention she drew. It was the kind of attention he didn’t mind having. He knew there’d be cops and feds around—a big event like this, they’re always around. Tomasso and his friends. So let them take all the pictures they want. He liked it when the papers printed those kind of pictures, him with Cil, the poor numbskull palooka being led around like a little kid. It was just what he wanted everybody to believe.

  He looked at Joseph sitting on his other side and wished to hell Cil had been a boy. Cil had smarts, Joseph was a jooch. Look at him with that suit. Sharkskin, for chrissake. Who the hell wears sharkskin anymore? No brains this guy has. I tell him don’t get the real good seats, just close enough so we can see something. We gotta blend in with the crowd, Joseph. So what does he do? He gets seats ten rows from ringside and he wears his glow-in-the-dark Guido suit. Shit for brains, that’s what he’s got. What’s the use? Can’t say anything to him here. Someone might see.

  The card girls climbed into the ring then, and the catcalls started. A blonde and a black chick, spike heels and bathing suits, like the Miss America contest. They walked around the ring for no particular reason, just giving everybody something to see while they were waiting for the fight to start. The black chick grabbed the ropes and started doing bouncing squats, like she was warming up for a fight herself. From where they were sitting, they had a good view of her ass coming down on her black heels, real Penthouse stufi. Cil was frowning. She didn’t approve of this kind of thing, women looking nice like this.

  Sal leaned over to her. “How you doing, Cil?”

  “Fine.” The bright lights were bouncing off her glasses. Death rays, turning the bimbos into piles of salt, just like in the Bible.

  Joseph leaned over from the other side, sticking his big nose in. “How you like it so far, Cil? You never thought it’d be like this, did you?”

  Cil didn’t answer. She was looking at something, not the bimbos in the ring, something over there in the seats to the left. She still wasn’t smiling.

  “What’sa matter?” Joseph said.

  “Mr. Mistretta is here.” She nodded toward the seats where she’d been looking. “At the back of the section, third or fourth row in. Frank Bartolo is with him. I think he sees us.”

  Sal looked. She was right. It was Mistretta, looking right at them. Way in the back, big sourpuss right in the middle of the row, Bartolo with that cue-ball head of his sitting next to him.

  “Oh, yeah, I see him,” Joseph said, real happy.

  “Don’t wave, Joseph,” Cil said, grabbing her brother’s arm before he lifted it.

  “Yeah, but he’s the boss, Cil. We should go over and say hello, how you doin’.”

  “Not here. He’ll get mad.”

  Sal didn’t want to stare at Mistretta. Feds love to take pictures, then make up stories with them afterward. He looked back at the black chick’s bouncing ass, wondering why Mistretta hadn’t gotten in touch with him as soon as he got out. Not even a call. Maybe something’s wrong. Why didn’t he call, though? And what’s he doing with Frank?

  There was a big commotion on the other side of the ring then, lot of cheering, some booing too. One of the fighters was coming out. Epps. Red satin robe, hood covering his bald head. He climbed up and ducked under the ropes, strutted around the ring like a king. Stopped by the black chick then, patted her ass with his glove, big smile, big reaction from the crowd. Cil coughed into her fist. My man, Sal thought. But he was still thinking about Mistretta.

  Lot of boos now, cheering too, about fifty-fifty. Walker and his entourage swept into the ring like a gang of street punks, the champ leaping over the ropes, his black robe open, black satin flying behind him like Batman. He looked pissed as usual. Started pacing, throwing punches, rolling his head, his new trainer—Henry Gonsalves’s last-minute replacement—massaging his shoulders. From the other side of the ring Epps watched the champ. He looked amused. Sal glanced up at Mistretta. Walker better not fuck around. He does and he’ll die with the title.

  “Hi, Sal.”

  Sal looked up. It was Sydney Nashe, standing in the aisle. Shit. What does she want? They were taking pictures, for chrissake. Damn!

  Sal started nodding and mumbling. “Hey, how ya doin’? How ya doin’?”

  Cil was staring at her, big frown, same way she stared at the bimbos, the sequins on Sydney’s dress sparkling in her glasses. Long-sleeved dress with big shoulders—lilac, of course—hemline above the knee. Real low-cut too. Those tits practically hanging out. Jesus.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Sal.” Sydney rolled her eyes and sidled her tight little bod into the row, leaning against the seat back of the guy in front of Cil, ignoring Cil like she wasn’t even there.

  Sal felt hot. She wants to play games, this one, always with the games. “Later,” he muttered and started rocking in his seat.

  “You won’t want to know later.” Lolita with the bedroom eyes. Thanks a lot, Sydney.

  Now Joseph’s hanging on his arm. “What’s she want, Sal?”

  “Nothin’.” Mind your own business, jooch.

  Sydney leaned forward then, that white-blond hair of hers all over his shoulder as she whispered in his ear. “The fix is off.”

  “What?” He stopped rocking.

  She stood up again, nodding with that smug little smile on her face. “That’s what I heard.”

  “From who?”

  “Mike. You know, Russ’s bodyguard?”

  Fuck. That bastard. Why the fuck is this guy always in my face? Bastard. “He don’t know shit.”

  Sydney shrugged. “Sounded like he knew a lot when I talked to him. He told me Russ changed his mind.” She whispered in his ear again. “He said Russ promised the champ a little bonus for not throwing the fight.”

  “That’s bullshit. Don’t make no sense.” Unless the feds got to him, made him a deal. No . . .

  She shrugged again, lifting the tucked-under ends of her hair on her naked shoulders. “According to what I heard, Russ did some refiguring. Decided he could make more money on merchandising if the champ won since people know him better than Epps. You know, the T-shirts and the toys and the coffee mugs and all that. I asked him about it, but you know Rus
s, he never tells me anything.”

  Why’d she look so happy about it? She liked this kind of shit, being in the middle of things. She thinks this is great. But maybe Russ sent her over. Maybe the feds are pulling the strings here, using the Nashes to set some kind of trap. She said she likes being Mrs. Nashe. Maybe she is working with them, protecting her position.

  “What’s going on, Sal? What’s wrong?”

  “Just shut up, Joseph. Nothing’s wrong.” I’m gonna kill this asshole, I swear.

  “Sal, be quiet,” Cil said. “You’re talking too much.” Cil was looking daggers at Sydney.

  “It’s not true,” he whispered up at her. “Tomasso doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Unless the fucking feds got to Nashe and made him a deal. They do shit like that. Nashe calls it off, they don’t prosecute. But what else? They must want to know about me too. I’m the one they want. The big bad wolf from the mob. Sure, Nashe hands me over to save his own ass. That’s how the feds do it. Make one guy rat on the other. Son of a fucking bitch!

  “Did you hear about what happened at the weigh-in today?” Sydney said, sweet as pie, la-di-da. Bitch.

  “Yeah, some wiseass picked a fight with Walker and pushed him down. What about it?”

  “From what I heard, it was more like he knocked the champ right on his bee-hind. Mike told me the odds changed real fast after that. You know, the unofficial ones? Out in Las Vegas? Walker was the favorite, five to one, but he’s dropped now, a lot.” She whispered in his ear again. “I guess Russ was betting a lot on the other guy. You know him—he likes to bet on longshots. I don’t know. Maybe he figured he wouldn’t make as much money with these new odds, so he decided to take a loss on his bets and make it up on selling the fight junk, the merchandising.” She shrugged and stood up. “You know Russ. He always goes for the biggest profit. For him, that is.”

  Sal grabbed her wrist to keep her from leaving. “Whattaya telling me this for, huh?”

  Sydney opened her eyes wide, the sly little grin. “Because I knew you’d want to know. I mean, I couldn’t very well not tell you”—she glanced down at Cil and Joseph—“you and your yubba-dubba family.”

  Sal squeezed her wrist, felt like breaking it, the little lying bitch, but Cil was prying his fingers loose.

  “Stop it, Sal,” she hissed. “People are looking.”

  When Sydney got her wrist back, she looked over her shoulder, cool as could be, that hair swishing so nice and pretty over her delicate little shoulders—shoulders he could snap in two like nothing.

  “The fight’s starting,” she said. “See you ’round, Sal.”

  The sly grin and the eyes. Little bitch. She sidled past Cil and stepped lightly down the aisle, showing some nice leg through the slit in that short dress, heading back to Russ and their ringside seats on the other side of the ring. Fucking little bitch. I’ll break both those legs, see how nice they’ll be then.

  “Sal.” Joseph’s face was all sweaty. He was getting nervous. What the hell was he getting nervous about? I’m the one who should be nervous. “I heard what she said, Sal. What does she mean? The nigger’s not gonna do it? Is that what she’s saying? Jesus Christ, Sal, this is bad.”

  “Just shut up, Joseph. Don’t say anything—will you please?—before I break your fucking neck. Capisce?” Sal looked up at Mistretta. The ringside announcer was introducing the fighters, reading their stats. Mistretta was staring down at the ring. Shit. Thirty mil down the tubes. Holy Christmas, Mistretta’s gonna go nuts. Look at him up there with Bartolo, that kiss-ass bastard, like teacher’s pet. I’ll take care of Sal for you, Mr. Mistretta. No problem, Mr. Mistretta. I’ll take care of it. Bastard. Shoulda put up a stink when Mistretta decided to give him my crew. Shit. And fucking Nashe. I oughta go down there and scare the shit out of him, make him choke on his fucking bunny teeth if he doesn’t get to Walker and refix it.

  Sal started to stand up. “Lemme out, Cil.”

  Cil gripped his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I gotta go talk to Nashe. Lemme through.”

  “You can’t do that. People are watching. You’re supposed to look mentally disturbed, Sal. Did you forget?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Cil. I’m just gonna go talk to him. It won’t look like anything. Now lemme through.”

  “But Mr. Mistretta is up there. He’ll see you.”

  What the hell’s with her now? “So what if he sees me?”

  She let out a long, melancholy sigh and looked up at him over her glasses. “Sit down, Sal. I’m afraid I have something to confess to you.”

  “Hurry up. What?” He sat down.

  “Sal, when I told you that Mr. Mistretta approved of you betting all that money on the fight? When he was at the halfway house in New York? Well, it wasn’t quite like that. The truth is, he didn’t want you to bet that money. He disapproved very strongly.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Sal. I lied to you. I thought my prayers would make everything work out for the best—you’d win the money, you and Joseph would get those concrete factories, my girls would have a new facility—but apparently God thought differently. It wasn’t part of His plan. I shouldn’t have lied to you. Now God is punishing me. I should’ve remembered what Grandma always said: ‘Gesù Cristo vede e provvede.’ I’m sorry, Sal.”

  Sal saw himself in her glasses, two of him. Punishing you? I can’t fucking believe this. God’s punishing her? And what the fuck is Mistretta gonna do to me? He’s gonna fucking crucify me, that’s what he’s gonna do. “Come on, get out of the way, Cil. I gotta go see Nashe. Now move.”

  “No!” She wouldn’t let go of his hand. “Be still. You’re just going to make things worse.”

  “Sal! Sal!” Joseph was hanging on his other arm. “I heard what she said. This is bad, Sal. Jeez, this is real bad. I’ll go talk to Nashe. Okay?”

  “No! You sit down, I have to talk to him.” But they were both hanging on him, keeping him down.

  The bell rang then, and a brief hush came over the crowd as the fighters came out of their corners. Sal watched, flexing his fist as if he had his rubber ball, the boxers circling and stalking, Walker doing a lot of moving, Epps slower, more deliberate. Walker was impatient, coming in fast for a few quick jabs. Epps countered with a left hook to his ear. Good! Good! Sal started to smile, but then Walker delivered a straight right to Epps’s face, scoring points with that one. Cheers and whistling. Epps backed away, backed toward the ropes. Sal’s stomach sank.

  “Get outta the way, Cil! Lemme out!”

  “Sit still, I said.” She was gritting her teeth, eyeglasses flashing. “They’ll take you back to court, Sal. They’ll say there’s nothing wrong with you, they’ll send you to jail. Is that what you want?”

  “If Walker wins, I’m gonna wish I was in jail. Don’t you realize that? Don’t you understand what you did?”

  Her face was like stone, no compunction at all. “I did what I thought was right. I made a mistake and I’m sorry. But now you’re panicking and you’re going to make things worse. Joseph.”

  He leaned over Sal’s lap. “What is it, Cil?”

  “Joseph, I want you to go talk to Mr. Nashe. You remind him that he and Sal had an arrangement, and we expect him to honor that arrangement—”

  “Get away.” Sal pushed Joseph back into his seat. “He doesn’t know how to talk to a guy like Nashe. ‘Arrangement.’ What’s that? That’s lawyer talk. I gotta lean on this guy. He’s gotta know how badly I can fuck him up—”

  “Salvatore! Your language!”

  “Forget about that, Cil. Now get outta the way. You’re aggravating me.”

  “You’re aggravating me. Joseph, go do what I told you.”

  “Where is he, Cil? Nashe, where is he?”

  Cil pointed. “Right down there. On the other side, directly across from us. You see the front-row seats? The whole section that’s roped off? He’s with his wife and two other couples. Do you see him?”


  “Yeah, I see him.” He stood up but Sal wouldn’t let him pass.

  “No, Cil—”

  “Let him by, Sal. Do you want to go to jail? Have a little faith in your brother for a change. He is older than you, you know.”

  Joseph pushed his way through and stepped on Sal’s foot getting out. “Don’t worry, Sal. I’ll take care of this.” He started down the aisle.

  Oh, shit! Look at him. Mr. Big Deal. He’s a functional idiot, for chrissake. He’s gonna make it worse than it already is.

  Sal looked all around, trying to figure out where the hell the cameras were. Maybe the feds aren’t here. Maybe they forgot to come. Then he spotted the gang of photographers down at ringside. Shit. Any one of them. Maybe all of them.

  Sal wiped the sweat off his face with his hand and looked at what was going on in the ring. What he saw gave him instant acido. Walker was right in Epps’s face, in close, cutting the ring. For such a dumb shit, he was fighting smart. Epps had a four-inch-reach advantage, but with Walker in this close it was useless, actually worked against him. He kept throwing hooks and uppercuts at Walker, but they had no power at this range. Walker had no fucking brains, so he didn’t give a shit about taking shots like this to the head. He just kept his head down and pounded away on Epps’s body. He was fighting his fight, goddammit, fighting too goddamn smart. He wasn’t supposed to be that smart without Gonsalves in his corner. Epps couldn’t take more than three, four rounds of that kind of punishment. Not at his age. Oh, man! This can’t be happening.

  The bell rang, ending round one. The fighters returned to their corners, Walker bouncing on his toes, Epps walking. Sal didn’t like the way Epps looked. End of round one and he already looked tired. Not good, not good at all. He looked through the ropes at the bimbos parading around the ring with the round cards and saw his brother standing in the aisle in that roped-off section where Nashe was sitting, waving his hands like some old greenhorn from the other side, yelling over Sydney’s blond head. Nashe was just sitting there with that big fucking smile of his. He don’t give a shit. He made his deal with the feds, he don’t care. He’s not listening to Joseph, he’s laughing at him. Joseph’s a jooch. He’s a butcher for chrissake. Why should anybody listen to him? Oh, Christ!