Gibbons just stared at him. If he didn’t go, Tozzi wouldn’t stop bothering him with this slave shit. He might even go over there himself, risk being recognized by this brother-in-law and getting his head blown off. He was that stupid. It would be easier to just go, prove him wrong, and get this stupidity over with. Then maybe they could get down to a more realistic investigation.
“Are you going to do it or not?” Tozzi insisted as he stuffed his face. “Tell me now.”
Gibbons reached over and stole the pickle from Tozzi’s plate. They were the kind he liked—crunchy, not too sour. He bit off half of it and chewed slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
Tozzi looked disgruntled. Gibbons knew he liked these kind of pickles, too. “I didn’t say you could have that.”
Gibbons took another bite. “Sorry.”
This was damn weird. Gibbons hated to admit that Tozzi might be right, but something was very wrong here. He was standing in the middle of the processing floor at the Farm-Fresh Poultry factory, watching chicken carcasses hung on a conveyer line shuttling from station to station. One after another, they were submerged in big vats of bloody water, then some were detoured to stainless-steel tables where they were cut into parts, others sent whole to a machine that wrapped them in plastic and spit them out onto a conveyer belt. The clack and rumble of the machines was the only noise in the place because the people who worked here didn’t say “boo,” not to him, not to each other. They worked fast and steady, like the rest of the machinery, eyes down, no expression on their faces whatsoever. And goddamn it, there wasn’t a round eye in the house. Every last one of them was Oriental.
Whether they were Japanese or not, he had no idea. And if they were slaves, they sure as hell weren’t saying. They sure worked like slaves, but the doors weren’t locked. He’d walked right in. But if these guys were slaves, where were the overseers? Who was in charge here? There were no cars in the front lot, and aside from a few trucks at the loading dock, there was just a sad-looking white Dodge parked out back, a traveling salesman’s kind of car, definitely not the kind of vehicle Mafia guys like.
Gibbons walked over to one of the vats where six of these young guys, three on each side, were washing chickens. One of them had a nasty black-and-blue mark on the side of his face. Globs of chicken fat floated on the briny pink water, and it smelled worse than it looked. How could you ever eat chicken again after smelling this?
“Hey, fellas, where can I find the boss?”
They kept scrubbing those damn chickens, eyes down.
“The boss,” he repeated, raising his voice over the noise. “Where’s the boss?”
It was as if he wasn’t there.
“Anybody speak English? Do you understand me? English?”
He stared into each face one by one, trying to make some eye contact. Nothing.
He didn’t like this at all. Even if they’d been warned not to talk to strangers, these poor schlumps wouldn’t even look at him, didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way. Other than retards and robots, only people with something serious to fear behave this way. It made Gibbons nervous.
“Okay, this is your last chance, boys.” He pulled out his ID and waved it at them, hoping something that looked official might goose them a little. “Special Agent Gibbons of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Like the police but better. Savvy? So if any of you knows English, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The one with the bruised face looked up, then looked away quickly when Gibbons made eye contact. “You got something to tell me?”
No response.
Gibbons put his ID back into his pocket. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered as he turned away and walked toward the iron grid-work stairs that led to the second floor. The offices must be up there, he figured.
Gibbons started to mount the steps when he noticed a couple of guys at another vat staring at something on the other side of the room. He turned around and saw another Oriental guy standing in the doorway by the front entrance, just standing there staring at him. The guy was as wide as he was tall. He looked like a beetle standing up on its hind legs, wearing a loud black-and-white houndstooth sports jacket.
“You in charge here?” Gibbons called over to him.
The beetle nodded and started walking toward him, no expression on his face.
“I want to ask you a few questions,” Gibbons said. He came down off the steps to meet the nodding beetle. “Listen, I—”
Suddenly the beetle took a giant leap and was airborne, one foot extended, aimed directly at Gibbons’s face. Gibbons tried to get out of the way, but there was no time. The foot caught him in the shoulder. He fell flat on his back, hit hard, and slid a few feet on the wet sawdust that littered the tile floor. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he managed to reach into his jacket and pull his gun. He held it on the big beetle who was standing over him, staring down at Excalibur with contempt.
Takayuki stopped breathing when he saw the gun emerge. He froze where he stood with his hands in the cold greasy water of the vat. He should have said something. He should have warned the policeman about Mashiro.
“Back off, Tojo,” the policeman shouted, but Takayuki already guessed what Mashiro’s next move would be. It happened so fast all he saw was the gun skittling across the floor and hitting the wall, and Mashiro’s foot snapping back after he kicked the man’s hand.
The policeman scrambled to get to his feet then. He got to one knee, but Mashiro’s lightning fist caught him square in the chest and knocked him back onto his haunches. He rolled over onto his side and clutched his chest, wincing and gasping for breath. Takayuki immediately feared that the man was having a heart attack. He could feel the pain radiating through the poor man’s torso. He knew from experience.
Mashiro stood back, waiting. The policeman tried to focus his blurry vision on the samurai, but then he looked over at Takayuki’s work station. Takayuki panicked. He was looking right at him.
Lorraine . . . I promised her this wouldn’t happen . . . I said I wouldn’t get hurt . . . fuck . . . help me, boys . . . I can’t get hurt . . . she’ll kill me . . .
“Hey . . .” He winced and forced out a grunt. “How about giving me a hand, boys?” It hurt to breathe. “No, huh. For Lorraine?—ooooph!”
Mashiro’s foot found that same spot in the middle of his chest. The man was writhing in the sawdust now. God, he wished he could stop this. Maybe if they all rushed the samurai at once? Takayuki glanced around the room at the pale, scared faces of his companions and knew they’d never do it. They’d all seen the devastating power of Mashiro’s skills. They were as scared as he was.
Cold sweat covered his face. The stupid man was on his hands and knees now, struggling for breath with his forehead on the filthy floor. Stay down, fool. Fake it.
Mashiro was hovering over the policeman, his legs wide apart, testing the distance between his open hand and the man’s neck, the same way a karate master sizes up a stack of boards. Takayuki’s breath was short. He knew what was coming.
Looking all around him, wishing there was something he could do, Takayuki reached for the only weapon available, a plucked chicken hanging right over his face on the conveyer line. He grabbed it by the legs and flung it fast. The chicken soared and hit the hump of Mashiro’s back just as his hand was reaching its target. The policeman collapsed on the dirty floor flat on his belly. He wasn’t moving.
Mashiro whipped around, crouched to confront his attacker, but all he found was the yellow-skinned chicken lying at his feet. He glared at them all one by one, searching each face for a sign of guilt. When he came to Takayuki, he stopped.
Takayuki felt faint. He thought his legs were going to buckle under him they were shaking so badly. Mashiro knew it was him. He already had a black mark against him for going to D’Urso and demanding to know what happened to his cousin. In an instant he considered dozens of impossible retaliations against the samurai’s inevitable attack, even though in his heart he knew that not
hing he could ever do would hinder this madman. Takayuki clenched his teeth and braced himself for the slaughter.
But when Mashiro suddenly turned away and went over to pick up the policeman’s gun, Takayuki’s pulse raced even faster. He watched Mashiro put the gun in his pocket as he walked back, then the samurai hunkered down over the policeman’s still body and put his fingers to the man’s neck. He rolled back the man’s eyelids, then slowly rotated his head, feeling the back of his neck. Finally Mashiro nodded and muttered something that ended with a short laugh. The samurai took the man’s lifeless arm and hauled him up, getting under his limp body and carrying him out to the loading dock over his shoulder.
After Mashiro had passed through the plastic strips that hung over the loading dock bay, Takayuki listened to the silence as he stared at the chicken on the floor, sawdust clinging to its skin. It was quiet for only a moment, though, as his companions went right back to work as if nothing had happened. He scanned the groups of animated bodies, continuous motion under the harsh fluorescent lights, and wondered if they were human anymore. Then he went back to work, too.
EIGHTEEN
THE ELEVATOR lurched to a stop. Tozzi’s stomach was jumpy enough. “Come on, come on,” he said, impatient for the doors to open.
Roxanne stood next to him, looking uncomfortable. “Maybe I should wait for you down in the lobby.”
“No, stay with me.” He was looking up at the lighted number “9” over the elevator doors, the floor Gibbons was on. Nine was Tozzi’s lucky number. He hoped it was lucky for Gib, too. The elevator doors parted then. The first thing he saw was Brant Ivers standing by the nurses’ station talking to a stocky doctor in a white lab coat. The doctor had a big bushy beard and wore wire-rim glasses. He looked like one of the Grateful Dead. Tozzi hoped he wasn’t Gibbons’s doctor. Gibbons would hate him.
“Mike.” Ivers extended his arm and drew Tozzi into their conversation. He clasped Tozzi’s shoulder firmly, brothers-in-arms, as if he actually liked him. Asshole.
“How is he?” Tozzi asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Ivers answered before the doctor could get a word out. “We’re waiting for his CAT scan results right now.”
“Is he awake?”
“Well—” the doctor started, but Ivers cut him off.
“He seemed to be coming out of it about two hours ago, but then he fell back into the coma.”
“Not a coma, technically,” the doctor corrected. He seemed remarkably patient with Iver’s horning in on his territory.
“Anyway he’s unconscious now,” Ivers said. “They’re doing the best they can for him.” He pressed his lips together, touched the doctor’s shoulder, and smiled encouragingly at him.
A born leader, that Ivers. Tozzi wondered where the hell guys like Ivers learn this stuff.
“Your cousin is here, Mike.” Ivers nodded down the hall. “Go see her. She’s by herself. I’ll let you know as soon as we know anything.”
Oh, God, Lorraine. She must be a mess. Tozzi nodded and started heading down the hall, then remembered Roxanne was there. He grabbed her hand and dragged her along with him.
“This may be awkward, Mike. You sure I shouldn’t wait downstairs?”
“No, stay. Please.”
As they entered the visitors’ lounge, he spotted Lorraine right away. She was sitting by herself with her legs tucked under her on an apple-green vinyl couch, a collection of paper coffee cups on the coffeetable in front of her. She was wearing one of her “school marm” outfits, a light brown suit with a lacy blouse and a string tie. Gibbons always complained about her “school marm” clothes. She must’ve come straight from class. She was staring out into space.
“Lorraine. How you doing?”
Lorraine blinked and looked up. She looked at Roxanne first and frowned. Then she saw him. “Oh, Michael. It’s you.” She took his hand and pulled him down next to her on the couch. Roxanne stood there, looking like she’d rather be somewhere else.
“Lorraine, this is a friend of mine. Roxanne Eastlake.”
Lorraine worked up a smile and a nod.
Roxanne sat down in the orange vinyl armchair on the other side of the white Formica coffeetable. “I’m sorry to hear about—”
“Please,” Lorraine raised her hand, “no more condolences. I’ve heard enough of that already. He’s not dead yet.”
Roxanne pursed her lips and looked at Tozzi.
He shrugged. The woman was under pressure. Can’t expect her to be polite under these circumstances.
Lorraine let out a long sigh then. “I’m sorry if I was sharp,” she said to Roxanne. “I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s okay,” Roxanne murmured.
Tozzi started cracking his knuckles before he realized what he was doing. Maybe Rox should’ve waited downstairs. “How is he?” he asked his cousin. “What’re they saying?”
Lorraine pushed the hair out of her face and shrugged. “There’s a blonde nurse who keeps coming out on the hour, telling me not to worry, he’ll be all right. But the surgeon made me feel like I should go out and start pricing tombstones. The doctor with the beard said something about a concussion and a terrible bruise on his chest. Everytime I ask him for an update, he keeps saying we have to wait for all the test results to come in before they can determine anything for certain. I’m all confused.”
“What happened? They didn’t have any details when I called in at the office.”
“All I know is what your boss Mr. Ivers told me. The people down in the Emergency Room this afternoon say that a heavyset Asian man carried Gibbons in, set him down on an empty gurney, took Excalibur out of his pocket, returned it to Gibbons’s holster, and then walked right out. Apparently this Asian man had driven Gibbons’s car here because it was found abandoned with the keys in the ignition in an ambulance bay. There are FBI people examining the car and his gun for fingerprints and whatever else they look for. There’s a forensics man—I forget his name—conferring with the doctors. That’s all I know about it.” Lorraine shut her eyes and squeezed out a tear. “He promised me he’d take care of himself, Michael. He said he wouldn’t let this happen. Damn him.”
Tozzi nodded. It’s never a matter of not letting it happen. It just happens. You have to deal with it as best you can when it does. He looked at Roxanne who was sitting with her hands in her lap like a kid waiting in the principal’s office.
“Why do you guys hate him so much?” Lorraine suddenly asked.
“Who?”
“Ivers.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He seemed nice enough to me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe Ivers isn’t that bad.” Tozzi wasn’t going to get into this with Lorraine, not now.
“Of course, there is something about him—I can’t put my finger on it. I imagine if you had to deal with him on a regular basis, he could get under your skin.”
Yeah, like herpes.
“Mike?” Ivers was standing twenty feet away in the doorway, waving him over. Tozzi could see the Grateful Dead doctor walking down the hallway the other way. “Can I see you for a minute?”
“Sure.” Tozzi stood up and looked at Roxanne. Lorraine was still hanging onto his hand. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered to them. “He must want me for some FBI bullshit. I’ll be right back.” He let go of Lorraine’s hand and raised his eyebrows at Roxanne as he turned to see what Ivers wanted.
Lorraine stared at her cousin walking over to his boss. Ivers pulled him out into the hallway where they huddled, brows furrowed, one talking, the other nodding, both very serious. She shook her head and started to laugh bitterly. “They always do this, the two of them.”
“Pardon?” Roxanne said.
“Michael and Gibbons. They have a way of denigrating what’s topmost in their minds. Just ‘some FBI bullshit.’ Ha! God, they live and breathe for the Bureau. I don’t know what they’d do without it.” Lorraine leaned forward and picked up her paper coffeecup. She looked down at the c
old coffee, considered it, then put it back down.
“Would you like a fresh cup?” Roxanne said. “I’ll see if I can find one for you.”
Michael’s girlfriend was uncomfortable. She was looking for an excuse to escape. Lorraine remembered feeling that way when her father was in the hospital, dying of cancer. It seemed like he was on the verge of death for months. She dreaded going to the hospital and was always eager to run any errand for anyone just to get out of that damned pink waiting room. “No, that’s okay. I’ve had too much coffee already.”
“It’s no bother. Really.”
Lorraine listened to her accent and for the first time took a good look at her. British? Not Michael’s type. Lorraine scowled at herself. Christ, I sound just like my mother.
“It must be awful waiting here like this, not knowing anything.” Roxanne was trying to be cheery. She didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s pretty awful . . . not much fun.”
“Yes . . . I can imagine.”
Could she? She was very pretty. Michael’s a sucker for a pretty face. That’s what Gibbons always told her.
Roxanne flashed another cheery smile. She was trying, she really was, but what the hell can you say to someone who’s been sitting on a plastic couch all day waiting to hear if the man she loves is going to live, die, or be a cripple? What do you say?
Lorraine looked at the ceiling and blinked back the new tears. Christ, this was so self-indulgent. Enough already.
“Roxanne,” she started, wiping her eyes, “are you . . . are you and Michael . . . seeing each other?”
“Well, yes . . . sort of. But I don’t think you want to discuss—”
“I hope you haven’t fallen in love with him yet,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
Lorraine blushed. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I’m sorry. That must’ve sounded very hostile. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You’re putting me in your position, aren’t you?” Roxanne’s eager smile faded. So did her accent. She was pretty when she smiled; handsome when she didn’t. A very unconventional beauty.
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