Bad Luck (21 page)

“You know, Tomasso, I really don't care who the other guy is. At this point it really doesn't matter.” Sal was aiming at the balloons again. “What I'm
really
curious about is you and Nashe's wife.”

Tozzi wasn't listening. He was thinking about how fast Sal could put three holes in his chest, just the way he did to the chair.
Pfitt-pfitt-pfitt!

“You been fucking Nashe's wife, haven't you?”

“What?” Tozzi was thinking about three holes in his chest, bowling-ball holes.

“You don't have to play stupid with me, Tomasso. I got eyes, I can see. You been screwing Sydney behind Nashe's back.” Sal was smiling, like he was happy about it. “Yeah, she's something, isn't she?”

Tozzi just looked at him. No . . .

“I wish the fuck I had a camera. The look on your face is one in a million, Tomasso. What is it? You jealous? You in love with her?”

“Sydney? No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing.”

Sal pinched his nose, laughing like a leaky radiator. “Yeah, sure. You don't love the bitch.”

Tozzi stared at the big slob lying on his bed, all those inflated rubbers floating around him. He was thinking about bowling-ball holes with blood coming out of them. He felt a little queasy way back behind his molars. No . . . not with Sydney . . . not
him.
Oh, man.

Sal put his free arm behind his head. “It's nice doing it with her, isn't it? It's like stealing from that asshole husband of hers.”

Tozzi stared at the balloons.
Pfitt!
Another one over by the window disappeared.

“Pay attention, Tomasso. I'm talking to you. You're falling apart here. I thought a guy like you'd be—you know—Mr. Cool. I mean, Jesus Christ, it takes some balls for a two-bit bodyguard to put the moves on the boss's wife. Especially when the boss is Russell Nashe. Didn't you think Nashe'd do anything if he found out? Or you thought you'd never get caught? Or maybe you just didn't think that far ahead? Or maybe it's”—Sal narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember—“unbridled passion? Yeah. Isn't that what they call it? Is that what your problem is, Tomasso? Unbridled passion?”

Tozzi shifted in his seat, straightened his leg and bent it again to loosen the material a little so he could get to the gun easier. If he got the chance. “Look, Sal, I—”

Pfitt!

Tozzi felt the slug hit wood under his seat. He looked down and saw a fourth hole in the chair.

“Sit back, Tomasso. All the way back.” Sal wasn't smiling now.

Tozzi settled down, nice and slow, wondering if he should just be cool or if he should force the issue, go for his gun and take his chances. He could feel the cold sweat creeping down his back. Immordino was a killer, no doubt about that. But if Immordino really believed he was a fed, would he risk killing him? That would be stupid. But then again he has to, now. Sal had talked to him, showed that
there's nothing wrong with him. Cold sweat trickled over Tozzi's skin. He knew he was fucked.

“So you gonna talk to me or what, Tomasso?” Sal was looking mean now. Tozzi remembered a picture he'd seen of Immordino from his boxing days. The Lawson fight. Sweat spraying out from Lawson's Afro. Immordino's right mashing Lawson's face. Sal looking real mean, like he was really enjoying it. That was the fight where he'd killed the guy.

Sal rested the butt of his gun on the bedspread by his side, leveled at Tozzi. All he'd have to do was squeeze the trigger, nice and easy, one two three. Tozzi forced himself to look at Sal, not the gun. His shirt was soaked now. Sal stared him in the eye. He wasn't smiling. It was quiet except for the blown-up condoms making little squeaky noises as they drifted into each other. Tozzi held his breath.

But just then they heard something, both of them together. Sal sat up, glaring. The key in the front door. Val. Oh, shit.

“Who's that?” Sal hissed.

Tozzi shrugged. If Sal thought she was the “other guy,” he'd plug her as soon as she came around the corner.

“Hey, Mike!” she called out.

Sal glared at him.

“Mi-ike! Are you here? What is it? My birthday?” She was laughing. Probably thought
he
had blown up all the rubbers. He looked at Sal's gun, thought about going for his, but then he heard her coming. Shit, stay out there.

Sal threw his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his gunhand down to his side where she couldn't see it.

Tozzi sat forward, elbows on his knees again, and she appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Val.” She wasn't wearing her hat. Thank God. Probably took it off and threw it on the couch when she came in. He looked at Sal, who was hauling himself up to his feet, mumbling to himself, doing his numskull bit. Tozzi was impressed. Wiseguy code of honor. Sal wasn't going to kill her just because he wanted
Tomasso. Colombians pull shit like that, but Mafia guys don't like to waste people who don't deserve it. Bad for the image. Tozzi was impressed. And grateful.

Valerie looked confused, disappointed, a little miffed. “You guys having a party in here?” A little testy. Not much, but he could hear it in her voice.

“No,” Sal mumbled, “no party over here.” He sniffed and shuffled his feet a little, all hunched over now.

Tozzi stood up. He could see where Sal was holding the gun, down behind his thigh. “Val, I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Just ran into him on the way up.” He caught Sal's eye. “Val, this is, ah, Clyde. Clyde Immordino.” Tozzi looked at her and shrugged as if to say, Look at the poor bastard. What could I do?

“Hi,” she said. Miffed, but she wasn't gonna say anything in front of company.

Sal muttered something, looking down at the floor. “Gotta go,” he said then and sort of shuffled off toward the door.

Tozzi followed him out, with Valerie bringing up the rear. He saw Sal sneak the gun back into his pants under his jacket. Tozzi let out a long breath.

“You be a good boy, Tomasso,” Sal grumbled under his breath, scowling up from under his brows.

Tozzi opened the front door. “I'm always good.”

“Yeah.” Sal nodded, too many times. “See ya 'round, Tomasso.” He shuffled out then.

After Tozzi closed the door he looked over at Val who was in the kitchenette, running a glass of water for herself. “Who's he?” Still a little frosty.

“Some guy I know.” What'd she think? They were gay? Jesus.

Tozzi went over to the cupboard and pulled down a bottle of Saint James. He held up the bottle to show her. “Rum. You want one?”

“Why not? On the rocks.”

He took down two glasses, grabbed some ice from the freezer, and poured, hoping he didn't look as rattled as he
felt. He handed her a glass, clinked, and drank down about half of what he'd poured for himself. The fireball of paranoia he'd felt a few minutes ago was passing. Now all he had to worry about was the fallout. Sal Immordino, the head of the Mistretta crime family, was on to him. Sal knew he wasn't Tomasso, and he'd figured out that he was some kind of cop. Sal knew he was screwing Sydney, who he was screwing too. Worst of all, Sal had let Tozzi know that he wasn't a mental defective, that he was certainly competent to stand trial in a court of law. How many more reasons did Sal need to kill him?

Tozzi took another long swig. He was a dead man.

He looked over at Valerie sipping her drink and he noticed her hat on the counter. She reached over and stroked his cheek with the back of her finger, smiling apologetically, giving him the big cow-eyes. He worked up a smile for her and finished his drink.

God help me.

hat's that?” Gibbons stared at the thing in the middle of the table. It looked like white Jell-O in the shape of a dead fish. Gibbons didn't even want to think about what it could be.

Lorraine yelled from the kitchen, “It's a fish mousse. I got it from the caterer. She suggested it for the reception. Try it. It's pretty good.”

Gibbons sat there holding the edge of the table, frowning at the fish. Not on your life.

Lorraine whisked in from the kitchen then, carrying a platter in each hand. She set them down on the table on either side of the fish, and Gibbons nearly threw up. He looked up at her, and she actually looked pleased with herself. It was that same home-sweet-home, Betty Crocker look she had whenever she showed him a page in a catalog that had curtains she liked.

“What's
that
?” he asked.

“These are chicken breasts in Mornay sauce.”

“I don't see any chicken.”

She laughed that stupid little titter-laugh. “It's under the sauce.”

“That's loaded with cream. What about my cholesterol?”

“I told you. This caterer does a modified nouvelle cuisine. She makes the sauce with skim milk.”

He kept looking at it, thinking maybe it really wasn't that bad, but it didn't get any better. It was all gloppy sauce and no chicken. Sorta like hot tapioca pudding spread out on a plate. He leaned over and took a whiff.
Oooofff—it
even smelled like puke. He checked out the other platter. It was all brown and mushy. He didn't even want to get close to that one.

He looked up at Lorraine, pleased as punch with this atrocity. “That,” she said, pointing to the brown stuff, “is a carrot-prune compote.”

Gibbons's eyes narrowed. “Isn't that what you're supposed to put in flowerbeds?”

“That's
compost
, not compote.”

He nodded at it, frowning. Same thing. “Carrot-prune compost.” He kept nodding. “You sure you don't put this around the tomato plants?”

She just tittered again. Goddammit. He was getting sick and tired of this relentless good nature of hers. Why didn't she just tell him to shut up and eat it or go hungry?

He breathed through his mouth so he wouldn't have to smell it. “You know, I keep telling you. Your relatives won't eat this kind of stuff. Baked ziti and sausage, veal parmigian', spaghetti and meatballs—that's what they want.” That's what I want.

“It's not their wedding. If they don't like the food, that's their problem.”

She was spreading fish mousse on a cracker, very slow and careful about it. He watched her hands, the way they moved. He'd always liked watching her hands. They were beautiful. He looked at her face as she concentrated on that cracker, her eyes lowered, her hair loose, her mouth
serious. A Neapolitan
contessa.
She really was beautiful,
really
beautiful.

“Why don't we just elope?”

Her eyes sprang open. “You're not serious?” A flash of pain and anguish in her face, as if he'd just said he wanted to shoot her dog or something.

“It was just a thought. We wouldn't have to worry about what to feed these people. We wouldn't have to bother with
any
of this wedding shit.” Which is just making you stupid, Lorraine.

“There's nothing to worry about,” she said. “It'll be fine. The relatives will fend for themselves. And the people from Princeton will definitely appreciate this kind of food.” She waved her hand over the chicken puke.