“Oh, Michael, will you please stop with that?”
“It’s true. He didn’t trust her because she’s not Italian. That’s probably why he didn’t like me. I was a half-breed.”
“So why did he pick you, then?”
“Revenge.”
Tozzi picked out another butter cookie, a bell with red sprinkles on it. He tossed it in his mouth and chewed without thinking, then realized he was eating only out of aggravation because he never ate anything artificial that was red. Red dye number whatever. Gives you cancer. Shit.
Lorraine picked around in the cookie tin until she found a plain one with nothing on it. “You shouldn’t get yourself all worked up over this, Michael. Being executor isn’t that big a deal.”
“You don’t think so? I’d rather be Secretary General of the United Nations. You watch. This is gonna be nothing but trouble. You’re gonna find out you’ve got cousins you never knew you had. They’re gonna smell Uncle Pete’s will and they’re gonna come out of the woodwork. You watch. And they’re all gonna swear that they were so close to Uncle Pete. And who’re they gonna scream at when they don’t get what they want? Who’re they gonna sue? Huh? The executor. Me.” Tozzi picked out a plain cookie with a walnut stuck in the center. “Besides, I don’t have time for this right now. I’m stuck on this trial thing, the Figaro Connection.” He bit into the cookie and it crumbled in his hand. “Shit.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. The university’s on winter break until the end of January. I’m only teaching one course next semester, and I have all my notes from last year, so I don’t have that much to prepare. I can do a lot of the running around for you.”
“Really? I thought you were painting Gibbons’s apartment, making the place livable now that you’re living there.”
Lorraine stared at him dead-on. She wasn’t smiling. “I’ve been fighting with Gibbons over colors for the past two weeks. He doesn’t like anything I suggest. He says my tastes are too ‘teacups and doilies.’”
“You can’t compromise?”
Lorraine sighed. “Do you know what his idea of a compromise is? Pepto-Bismol pink. Do you know why he likes that color? He says it’s the color they paint police interrogating rooms. It supposedly has a very soothing effect on agitated suspects. That’s what he told me. This is what I’m married to.” She took another cookie. A bell with the red carcinogen sprinkles.
“Don’t they make a pink that you both like?”
“I hate pink. And do you know that ugly blue plaid carpeting he has in the hallway? He says he likes it. He doesn’t want me to replace it.”
Tozzi frowned and shrugged. “It’s not so bad.” He remembered that blue plaid. It was just like the pleated, blue plaid skirts Lesley Halloran used to wear to school with the navy blazer, her school uniform. He also remembered that blue-jean miniskirt she wore with the lacy white blouse at the Halloween dance sophomore year. The night he almost asked her to dance.
“Michael? Are you listening to me?”
“Hmmm?”
Lorraine shook her head, disgusted. “You’re as bad as Gibbons. All you think about is the FBI.”
“Come on, Lorraine. You know that’s not true.”
“Well, maybe it’s me, then. I used to be able to overlook Gibbons’s eccentricities, but now that we’re married, they seem to bother me a lot more. I’m trying my damnedest to avoid the stereotype. You know, the woman who grins and bears it during the courtship, all the while thinking she’s going to change her man once they’re married. But he doesn’t make it easy.”
“What eccentricities? Gibbons has been my partner for eleven years; I’ve never noticed anything that eccentric about him. I mean, he’s a pain in the ass, and he can be a mean son of a bitch—and very sarcastic to boot—but other than that he’s the salt of the earth.” Tozzi was grinning, waiting for her reaction.
“Well, he can be the salt of the earth occasionally. But there are just some things he does . . .” She pressed her lips together and shook her fist. “I’d like to brain him sometimes.”
“Me too. Like today. He was in a foul mood all day, bit my head off every time I turned around. And just because he saw this guy in court he can’t stand, a guy who used to be an agent with us.”
Lorraine’s eyes narrowed. “What’s his name?”
“Jimmy McCleery.”
Lorraine closed her eyes and winced. “That explains why he was such a bear last night. Oh, God.” Her eyes suddenly snapped open and she snatched a green Christmas tree from the cookie tin. “Why am I eating these?”
“You know McCleery?”
She looked at him for a moment as if she were debating whether she should tell him or not. “Yes,” she finally said, “I know him.”
Tozzi set down his coffee cup. “How well do you know him?”
She made a face. “Not that well. We had a few dates, that’s all.”
Tozzi was shocked. “When was this?”
“Years ago. Jimmy had just arrived at the Manhattan field office. At the time, Gibbons and I had just had a big fight, a serious fight. We said some pretty awful things to each other, and I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore if that was the way he felt. Neither of us was willing to back down, and so we stopped seeing each other. I eventually calmed down, and I wanted to make up with him, but you know Gibbons—everything is Iwo Jima with him. He wasn’t ready for a truce yet. I had just met Jimmy at a Christmas party. I saw right away that he was the type Gibbons loathed, so to goad him into coming to his senses, I jumped at the opportunity when Jimmy asked me to go out with him.”
“You went out with Jimmy McCleery? I can’t believe this.”
“It never went very far, Michael. It was just two or three dates, I can’t even remember. Nothing happened. I told you, I just did it to make Gibbons jealous. And it must’ve worked. We made up pretty soon after that. It was Valentine’s Day. I remember it very well. He brought me roses.”
“Gibbons bought roses?”
Lorraine raised the cup to her lips but didn’t drink. “He isn’t on the job all the time, you know. Gibbons does have a soft side. It may be buried deep inside him, but it’s there.”
“Yeah, like the center of a Tootsie Pop.”
Lorraine frowned sternly. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. I get enough of it at home.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Lorraine ignored him and rummaged through the cookie tin again. More nervous eating.
“Tell me the truth, Lorraine. You really went out with Jimmy McCleery? I just don’t see it. I mean, he’s so—I don’t know—so full of shit.”
“But he has a beautiful voice. And a real passion for Irish literature. I remember he quoted Yeats on one of our dates. ‘Leda and the Swan.’ He even recited passages from Molly Bloom’s monologue in Ulysses, verbatim. He was quite mesmerizing.”
Tozzi sipped his coffee and nodded. Sounds like a real fun date.
“Jimmy McCleery is a very sweet person. He’s not Gibbons, but he’s sweet.”
Tozzi rolled his eyes. Don’t even say it.
He was reaching into the tin, searching for one of those plain cookies with the walnuts, when the doorbell rang.
Lorraine looked at the door. “That must be Gibbons. I told him to meet us here.” Tozzi started to get up, but she motioned for him to stay put. “I’ll let him in,” she said, and went into the hallway to buzz Gibbons in.
Tozzi wrapped his fingers around the warm coffee cup and stared out into space. Fucking Uncle Pete. Had to stick it to me one more time, even after he croaked. Good ol’ Uncle Pete. Ought to bury him in one of those old refrigerators.
Tozzi looked up when he heard the knock. He could see the door from where he sat. He glanced down at the cookie tin and spotted another one of those walnut cookies. He was just about to grab it when Lorraine opened the door.
“Oh . . . hello.” Lorraine’s voice was too pleasantly polite.
“Hello. This is Michael Tozzi’s ap
artment, isn’t it?”
Tozzi looked toward the doorway, and his gut bottomed out. What the . . .? It was Lesley Halloran. What the hell did she want?
Tozzi got up and went over to them. How the hell . . .?
“Michael,” she said, flashing a warm, cordial smile like a sunny day in May. “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but we haven’t had a chance to talk in court.”
She took her hand out of the pocket of her black wool overcoat and extended it to him. Tozzi just stared at it. The overcoat had a velvet collar. She’d had a gray one with a velvet collar in ninth grade. Like Elizabeth Taylor in one of her riding outfits in National Velvet. Little priss.
He took her hand, very wary of her. Her fingers were cold.
What the hell does she want? She gonna offer me a paper bag full of cash to come down with some selective amnesia on the stand? Or does she think I can give her the inside track on the prosecution’s strategy against her boy Salamandra? Unbelievable. Yeah, well, I got two good words for her.
Putting on a deadly serious face, he coughed and went into his fed mode. It was the only way he could deal with her without feeling totally goofy. “How did you get my home address, Ms. Halloran? You know that approaching me like this is highly improper. Let me warn you that I may have to inform the court if this meeting goes any further.”
He was doing his best big bad fed act, but the bitch wasn’t even paying attention to him. She was staring at Lorraine.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Lorraine Tozzi?”
“Well . . . yes, I am . . . or I was.” Lorraine looked puzzled.
“I’m sure you don’t remember me, but you used to be my baby-sitter. Lesley Halloran? The police chief’s daughter?”
Lorraine’s mouth fell open. “Oh, my God . . .” Lorraine stared at her, biting her bottom lip. “Little Lesley . . . my God, it is you.”
The two women embraced, then did that thing where they linked fingers and pushed away to look each other up and down, one of those Julie Andrews moves. Tozzi frowned. They weren’t paying any attention to him.
Tozzi coughed into his fist and overrode their little squeals of delight. “I asked you how you got ray address, Ms. Halloran.”
The blue eyes shot open, startled at his stern formality. She did look good—better than in high school, he thought—but she should’ve done her hair in banana curls for this act. She wasn’t fooling anyone. She was no Shirley Temple. Little Lesley Halloran was a man-eating defense attorney representing a major Mafia heroin importer, a cunning cutthroat on the Good Ship Lollipop.
“Well, I . . . I got your address from your cousin Sal, the insurance agent. On South Orange Avenue?”
Lorraine shook her head. “That’s Sal. Mr. Big Mouth. But frankly, even though he shouldn’t have told you, I’m glad he gave you Michael’s address.”
They hugged and did their little Julie Andrews dance again. The hills were alive with the sound of bullshit.
“Lorraine? Excuse me. Ms. Halloran, I want to know why you came here to see me. Why didn’t you try contacting me through the field office first?”
“Well, I . . . I wanted to talk to you . . . off the record.” She looked sincere, even a little apologetic, but he wasn’t buying it. She wanted something.
“Off-the-record communications between defense counsel and a federal agent involved in an ongoing criminal proceeding are strictly forbidden unless in the presence of an assistant United States Attorney and a designated superior from said agent’s field office.” Gibbons was standing in the doorway, looming over Lesley’s shoulder. Popeye home from the sea. His big bad fed routine was very good.
Lorraine smiled nervously, a little uneasy with her hubby’s sudden arrival. “Hi. How’d you get in?”
Gibbons glanced at her and twiddled a credit card between his fingers. “American Express. I never leave home without it.” He looked at Tozzi. “I thought you were gonna get your landlord to change that lock. It’s worthless.”
“I know.”
Lorraine forced a smile and sidled up to her husband. Next to him she actually did look like Olive Oyl. “Would you believe that I used to baby-sit this person? Gibbons, this is Lesley—”
“I know who she is. What I want to know is why she’s here.”
Lorraine frowned. She wasn’t pleased with her husband’s manners.
Lesley was unruffled by Gibbons’s hard scrutiny. “You’re absolutely right. This could have the appearance of impropriety. But my purpose here has nothing to do with the trial.” She turned to Tozzi. “I wanted to see you, Michael, to catch up on old times. But outside of the carnival.”
“What?”
“I realize I should have called first. I’m interrupting something, and I apologize. But maybe we can have lunch tomorrow. How does that sound?”
Tozzi glanced at Gibbons.
“Are you buying?” Gibbons asked.
Lorraine looked mortified, but Lesley just laughed, a light little titter of a laugh. “Well, I’m asking, so I guess I’m buying. What do you say, Michael?”
Tozzi shrugged. “Well . . . sure. Why not?”
“And how about you, Lorraine? Can you join us?”
“Why, yes. That would be nice.” She was glowering at Gibbons, silently warning him to behave.
Gibbons tipped his hat back. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to come along too. Wouldn’t be proper for you and Tozzi to be meeting without government supervision. Just to be safe, there should be a witness who can attest to the fact that you weren’t discussing the case in the event that someone accuses you two of not being on the up-and-up.”
Lorraine crossed her arms. “Don’t put yourself out.”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I can deal with it.”
Lesley grinned at the happy couple. “Then I’ll meet you all in the rotunda at the courthouse tomorrow at noon, if that’s good for you. Michael?”
“Ah . . . yeah, sure, fine.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The women embraced and kissed cheeks, then Lesley squeezed past Gibbons. She caught Tozzi’s eye and grinned before she disappeared into the hallway. The sound of her departing footsteps carried up the stairwell. No one spoke until they heard the front door slam shut downstairs.
Gibbons looked at his partner. “What do you think that was all about?”
Tozzi shrugged. “Prelude to a bribe? A little cash incentive for some well-placed forgetfulness? Whattaya think?”
“Will you two just stop it?” Lorraine had her fists on her hips. “Good God, you think everyone is a criminal. You’re so suspicious. I’ve known that girl since she was a baby.”
“You fail to realize, Lorraine”—Tozzi folded his arms over his chest—”bad guys are our business.”
“Our only business.” Gibbons smiled like a crocodile.
“Oh, to hell with you both.” Lorraine stomped back into the kitchen. “Some Christmas spirit.”
Gibbons followed her in. “You know, I always thought Scrooge was on the right track until those goddamn ghosts screwed him up.”
Lorraine scowled. “My husband, the literary scholar.”
“Ask him if he knows any Yeats.” Tozzi couldn’t help himself.
Gibbons squinted. “Who?”
Lorraine grit her teeth and cast a dirty look at Tozzi from behind her coffee cup.
“Enough of this crap,” Gibbons said. “Get your coat, Tozzi. Ivers wants to see us, pronto.”
Lorraine spread her fingers flat on the table, like a cat putting her claws out. “I thought we were all going out to dinner.”
Gibbons shook his head. “Sorry. Something came up at the last minute. We’re needed.”
Lorraine crossed her arms and put on a pout.
Gibbons sat down next to her, put his elbow on the table, and leaned in close. “I’m sorry, but this really is an emergency.”
Tozzi was a little startled to hear such a conciliatory tone coming out of Gibbons. It
must’ve been that soft Tootsie Roll center talking. “So what’s the big deal, Gib?”
“Vincent Giordano. We gotta baby-sit him.” Gibbons looked in the cookie tin. “You’re not gonna believe this. Those crybabies over at the U.S. Marshal’s office complained they had no warning that this was going to happen and because it’s so close to the holidays, they can’t arrange adequate protection for Giordano at the drop of a hat. Can you beat this shit?”
“What a load!”
“So who gets to clean up the shit? Who else? The Bureau, as usual.”
“But why you two?” Lorraine demanded. “There must be a couple of hundred agents in your office. Why you?”
Gibbons tilted his head to the side and smiled sticky-sweet. “Christmas. Ivers picked the guys with no kids for this assignment, because families should be together on the holidays.” Gibbons grabbed a cookie and chomped down on it. “Fuck.” He grabbed another one for the road as he stood up. “C’mon, Toz. Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Lorraine said. “I’ve got some bad news of my own.”
Gibbons’s jowls sank. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”
“Our uncle Pete died this morning.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“What!”
“You went to the gynecologist the other day, right? I thought you were gonna tell me they found something wrong with your plumbing. Who’s Uncle Pete?”
“You know Uncle Pete. The one who lived in Jersey City. You met him at our wedding.”
“You mean that shriveled-up old guy who kept stealing the candied almonds from all the tables?”
Lorraine frowned at the memory. “Yes. Him.”
“Gee, I’m sorry to hear that. He’s the one who had the brownstone, isn’t he? On that little park over there where the yuppie kids took over.”
“Yes. Van Vorst Park.”
“You know, Toz, I hear those old houses like your uncle’s are going for three, four hundred thousand these days.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tozzi could see it coming.
Gibbons looked down at Lorraine, one eyebrow raised. “How much did your uncle like you, Lorraine?”
“More than he liked Michael.” Lorraine was smoldering. She stared down into the tin and started picking around for another cookie, trying to ignore them both. It was definitely nervous eating.
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