He stood up, looked down at the phone, and sighed.
Of course, the professional thing to do would be to call back and leave his number, right?
He sat down and punched out her number again before he lost his nerve. He listened to her message, then waited for the beep.
Beeeeep.
“Gina, it’s Tozzi again. I forgot to leave my—”
“What do you want?” She picked up. She was there. She sounded really bitchy.
He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to—” He stopped himself short. He was tired of the bullshit, tired of playing games. “I just have one question, Gina. The wedding ring. Why are you wearing it?”
“What? You’re sick. I’m hanging up.”
“Just tell me that. That’s all I want to know. I won’t bother you anymore if you just tell me.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ve established that. Now just give me a straight answer about the ring. What is it, like an engagement thing, wearing a wedding band like that?”
She sighed into the phone. “I told you. Bells gave it to me. It was Margie’s.”
“Yeah, but why were you wearing it?”
“Margie was my best friend, you stupid dickhead. I loved her. And I miss her. What was I supposed to do with it? Stick it in a drawer and forget about it?”
“Oh. . . .”
“You happy now?”
“I was just curious. Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, now you’re gonna apologize? Spare me.”
“All I said was that I was sorry to bother you. It is a holiday. I’m not apolo—”
“Just shut up. I’m not in the mood. I’ll call you.” She hung up the phone.
Tozzi stared at the receiver. “I’ll call you”? What did she mean by that?
He hung up the phone and furrowed his brow. Nah. She’s not gonna call. She didn’t mean it that way.
He went back into the living room and returned to his place on the couch.
That’s not what she meant. She won’t call.
The Goofy balloon was drifting down Broadway on TV.
So what did she mean?
Gibbons leaned back from the kitchen table and glared at the TV through the doorway. The camera switched from Goofy to that perky little brunette from the Today show. She was holding a microphone, and you could see her breath as she spoke.
“And for those of you just joining us here in Herald Square, New York City, for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, we regret to tell you that one of our big balloons met with tragedy last night. The Bart Simpson balloon was the apparent victim of a mob rubout. Sources tell us that Bart sustained extensive punctures from heavy gunfire while he was being inflated for the parade, and we’re told that the damage may be irreparable. A sad loss for fans of the hit cartoon program—”
“Will you turn that off, for chrissake?” Gibbons yelled at the back of Tozzi’s head. “At least put on some football if you’re gonna watch that thing.”
Tozzi turned around and stared at his partner through the doorway. “I don’t like football.”
“What’re you, a friggin’ communist? Everybody likes football.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you’re screwed up anyway.”
“Guess so.” Tozzi turned back to the parade.
Asshole.
Gibbons was still steamed up about Tozzi using the shotgun to deflate the balloon.
Lorraine was over at the counter, pulverizing potatoes in the food processor. She never made mashed potatoes because she didn’t like them herself, but she was making them today. For him.
She dropped a glob of margarine into the hopper. “How’s the tooth?”
“What tooth?”
“You know what I mean.”
Gibbons stuck his tongue in the space where his molar had been. “It’s better than it was, I guess.” He’d been in so much pain this morning, he begged his dentist to open up the office and yank it. It was still very sensitive now, even with the painkillers, and the sutures smarted whenever he touched them. That’s why Lorraine was making mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and cream of carrot soup—that was going to be his Thanksgiving dinner. That and the inside of the pumpkin pie. He figured he’d have the runs for a week on this meatless diet. Either that, or he’d turn into a liberal.
“How’s your chest?” Her back was turned to him as she worked the food processor.
“Ugly.” A big yellow and purple bruise covered the left side of his chest where the bullets had hit him, but the crushing chest pains never came back. They took an EKG at the hospital last night, and the doctor told him not to worry. He hadn’t had a heart attack. Residual muscle spasms caused by the impact of the bullets after the pain-killers and the booze wore off. He hadn’t told Lorraine anything about the chest pains or the EKG. Why worry her?
Lorraine shut off the food processor. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
Lorraine turned around. Her face was red. “I’m sorry that I didn’t cry for you.” She sniffed and wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “When you got shot yesterday, and you were lying on the floor in Macy’s? I didn’t cry. It just wouldn’t come. I just stared at you and accepted it . . . that you were dead. I couldn’t cry. I’m sorry.”
Gibbons swallowed hard. His stomach sank, weighed down by that feeling of dread he always got whenever Lorraine sprang one of these emotional discussions on him, the ones where she aired her feelings and expected him to do the same. He always felt like he was being put on the spot whenever she did this. He believed in people being honest with each other, but these kind of deep confessionals weren’t for everyone. Christ, if everyone started confessing what they really felt about each other, there’d be more domestic violence than there already was. God made people repressed for a reason.
Silent tears brimmed in Lorraine’s eyes as she stood there, wringing her mashed-potatoey hands on a dish towel.
Gibbons really felt cornered now. Shit.
He got up and went to her, starting to give her a hug, which was always a good way to get out of these situations. Give her a hug, let her cry it out, and hope it passes quick. But as he went to put his arms around her, she raised her hand to push him away, and he froze, afraid that she’d touch his sore chest.
“What’sa matter?” he said.
“I don’t want to be comforted. I want to tell you how I feel.”
Gibbons sighed. There was no way out.
“What happened yesterday really opened my eyes to a lot of things. I guess the biggest shock is that we’re getting old.”
Gibbons scowled. “What’s that got to do with anything?” He hated talking about his age.
“I think I couldn’t cry for you because we’re not young lovers. We’re not Romeo and Juliet. I guess when you get older, deep down you know that loss is inevitable, so you can’t cry about it. I wanted to, though. I apologize.”
Gibbons just looked at her. He was nervous. He wasn’t sure if it was his turn to say something, or she was just pausing.
“Did you notice that I didn’t cry? Or were you too fuzzy from the pain?”
He licked his lips. “Well, to be honest, that didn’t cross my mind. The only thing I was worried about was you. I was afraid you were gonna get hurt with all those crazy wiseguys around.”
She nodded, looking down at the linoleum. He thought maybe she’d be happy or touched or something. After all, he was being honest; that really was how he felt when all that shit was going down. But now he felt like he’d said something wrong.
She lifted her eyes and let out a long sigh. “I guess you still think of me as the damsel in distress while I’ve moved on to thinking of you as the old monarch. The two of us, actually. The old king and queen.” She went back to inspecting the linoleum.
“Lorraine—” He cleared his throat. “Lorraine, you’re getting all medieval on me. I mean, I know medieval history is what you teach a
nd all, but I think you’re—you know—making things more dramatic than they really are.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Dramatic? How do you mean?”
“Well . . .” He didn’t want to hurt her, but he did want to be honest. “Well, this old king and queen jazz. It’s all very symbolic and all, but that’s term paper stuff. It’s not real. It’s not us. I love you. I married you, for chrissake. Why the hell shouldn’t I worry about you taking a slug from one of those mutts? So you didn’t cry for me, so what? Some people just don’t cry. It doesn’t mean they’re not human. I don’t need for you to cry. I know you care about me.”
She looked up, and a tear dripped down her cheek. “You’ve never said that.”
“Yeah, I know. But I know you know I care about you. Why else would you be making me mashed potatoes, when I know what you think of mashed potatoes? For you, making mashed potatoes is like voting Republican. Right?”
She tried to sit on her smile, but she couldn’t. She reached for his hand and shook her head. “You’re really something, Gibbons. You really are.”
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “You’re something, too.” He kissed her, and when she tried to cut it short, he tightened his grip and kept her there. It hurt his chest to hug her like that, but so what? They needed this.
“I better stir the soup,” she murmured, their lips pressed together. “I think it’s burning.”
No loss, he thought as he let her go. Who the hell ever heard of cream of carrot soup? Rabbits who don’t care about cholesterol, that’s who.
As Lorraine went to stir the soup pot, Gibbons peeked into the living room. Tozzi was gone. Back in the bedroom calling Gina again, no doubt. Gibbons had eavesdropped on him on the kitchen extension while Lorraine was in the bathroom.
He reached up and quietly lifted the receiver on the wall phone, covering the mouthpiece as he brought it to his ear and heard Gina’s voice.
“. . . Will you please leave me alone about this? To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I meant. Don’t make a federal case about it.”
“But, Gina, I heard you say it. You said you’d call me. Is that what you really meant? I mean—”
Gibbons carefully hung up the phone, shaking his head. What a sorry piece of work that guy was.
He went over to Lorraine at the stove. “So whatta we gonna do about your cousin? He’s like a dog in the desert looking for a tree.”
“What do you mean? He’s the big hero, isn’t he? He survived being kidnapped and marked for death by Tony Bells. He saved Gina DeFresco’s life. He assisted in the arrests of Bells and Freshy, and you told me they’re both going to go away forever.”
Gibbons nodded. “Freshy’ll do time for attempted murder. They found the rest of the counterfeit bills at his house in Bayonne, which pretty much proves that he was the one who shot Petersen. As for Bells, he’ll never see the light of day again. They’ll get him on murder, kidnapping, and everything else under the sun.”
“So what’s wrong with Michael?” Lorraine looked very concerned about her dear cousin. “Is it postcaptivity stress syndrome, something like that?”
Gibbons glanced into the living room to make sure that Tozzi was still out of earshot. “Lorraine, I’m surprised at you. Isn’t it obvious?”
“What? Him and Gina?”
“Of course. Whatta’ya think? Romeo’s looking for a Juliet again. He never learns, this guy. They never work out, these women. He oughta try being gay. Maybe he’d have more luck.”
Lorraine put the lid back on the soup pot. “I don’t know. I have a feeling this time it might be different.”
“Get outta here. It’s always the same old story with him. He finds a new woman, and he’s in love, he’s in love, then—boom—she’s gone. Something always happens to screw it up for him. But if you notice, it’s never his fault. It’s always them. You watch. It’ll be the same deal with Gina. If it ever gets that far.”
“You think so? I’m not so sure.” Lorraine started to whisper. “He’s always like a kid with a new toy when he meets somebody new, always very hopeful. But not this time. He’s been moping around all day.”
“He always wears a big puss when he doesn’t get what he wants when he wants it.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite like this—so distracted, so out of it. I think Gina’s done a real number on him. But Gina isn’t like the other ones. I really have a feeling it might be different this time.”
“Yeah, but Gina doesn’t want any part of him. That’s why he’s sulking.”
“Well, maybe he’ll have to put some effort into it for a change. And for Gina, I bet he will.”
Gibbons shook his head. “No way. Not Tozzi. The first time Gina rubs him the wrong way, he’ll be out the door, looking for someone else. You watch.”
“I don’t think so. I think Gina’s gonna be the one. I just have a feeling.” Lorraine had this funny little grin.
“Get outta here. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want to bet?”
“How much?”
“You name it.”
“Ten bucks.”
“You’re on.”
Tozzi appeared in the doorway then. His brows were furrowed as he stared at the window in the oven as if it were the television. He seemed confused. Maybe he wanted it to be the parade. He wandered into the kitchen and lifted the lid on the soup pot, brow still furrowed. He paused by the food processor filled with mashed potatoes and stared at that for a while.
“We gonna be eating soon?” he asked.
“In a little while,” Lorraine said.
“Oh . . .” He kept staring at the mashed potatoes.
“Are you hungry?”
“No . . . not really.”
Lorraine shot a knowing look at Gibbons. Tozzi was always hungry.
“The turkey should be done in about a half-hour. Can you hold out that long?”
“Ummm . . .” Tozzi didn’t seem to be listening.
Gibbons just shook his head. What a piece of work.
“Why don’t you see if the football games are on yet?” Lorraine suggested.
“Football?”
“Yes. There must be some bowl game on.”
“Yeah . . . I guess . . .”
“Why don’t you go see?”
“Okay . . .”
Tozzi gazed at the mashed potatoes a little while longer, then went back to the couch in the living room and started changing channels.
Gibbons and Lorraine looked at each other.
“You still want to bet?” she asked.
Gibbons stared at the back of Tozzi’s head set against a green football field on the TV screen. “I don’t know. . . .”
When he turned around again, Lorraine was wearing that funny little grin. “You want to make it twenty?” She looked pretty confident.
He rubbed his jaw. He had his doubts now. She could be right about this. “I don’t know,” he said. “I may have to rethink this.”
“How about a hundred?”
Gibbons winced as he touched the sutures through his cheek. Son of a bitch.
When he opened his eyes, Lorraine was looking at him, her arms crossed. “We still on?” she asked. She was smiling like a crocodile.
BAD APPLE
All Rights Reserved © 1994, 2008 by Anthony Bruno
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying
recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system,
without the written permission of the publisher.
For information, address Writers House LLC at 21 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10010.
Originally published by Delacorte Press
eISBN: 978-0-786-75343-7
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
, Bad Apple
Bad Apple Page 26