Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  “Don’t . . . say . . . a word. You . . . just . . . listen.” The blond guy enunciated every word, but he didn’t stop pacing. The greaser jammed the gun into Tozzi’s spine for emphasis, as if he needed it. “This is from Sal Immordino. Okay? He says you’re not a good boy. He says you don’t know how to mind your own . . . fucking . . . business.”

  Maybe they don’t know, Tozzi thought. Maybe Sal’s just jealous, because of Sydney. It’s possible. Maybe this isn’t a hit, maybe just a warning. They would’ve done it by now if this was a hit. Hit and run, that’s how they usually do it. Gotta stay in character, then. “Yeah, well, fuck you and Sal Imm—”

  Blondie swung the camera backhanded and smashed the side of Tozzi’s head. Slivers of glass from the shattered flash fell into the dead pine needles on the ground. Tozzi shook his head. Fucking asshole. He wondered if he was bleeding.

  “Now don’t be such a wiseass, Tomasso.” Blondie clenched his jaw again. “Just shut up and listen.”

  Tozzi wanted to kill the bastard, but with the greaser back there . . . His gun was in his ankle holster. No way he could get to that. He tried to get a better look at the greaser’s face in the car window, wondering just how trigger-happy this guy might be. If he was a kid, maybe he was new to this kind of shit. Tozzi considered turning on him quickly and wrestling him for the gun. Of course, Blondie probably had a weapon of his own, besides the Nikon. Shit. He suddenly had a bad feeling then. Maybe Immordino did know. Maybe Blondie had been instructed to tell him something before they kill him. That’s what was holding things up. Shit . . .

  Then Tozzi suddenly remembered something, a move he’d practiced in aikido class a long time ago, what to do if someone is holding a pistol in your back. He didn’t remember it exactly, and the hand on the shoulder was a variation they hadn’t practiced. He tried to visualize how his sensei had done it. Roll to the gunhand side until you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with the attacker. Grab the wrist of the gun-hand . . . Yeah, that sounds right. Bend the wrist back, point his fingers to the ground, and throw him down with a kote gaeshi. Yeah, that would work, but what about the hand on his shoulder? How do you start the technique with that other hand holding you in place? Well, what if you turn to the other side, away from the gunhand? Can’t do kote gaeshi from that side, but how about a kokyu nage, a big throw? Yeah, but what about the gun? Gotta get control of the gun. Can’t do anything before you take care of the gun. How the hell do you do that? Shit . . .

  “What’sa matta?” Blondie said. He kept pacing up and down, three steps this way, three steps back, clenching his jaw with every turn. “This too much for you to figure out? It’s not hard. We’re gonna make it short and sweet for you, Tomasso.”

  Fucker. Next time he turns away I’m gonna try it, the kote gaeshi. The greaser’s not holding on that tight now. I’ll make it work. Go ahead, Blondie, turn around, turn away from me. I’ll throw the greaser down on his back, take his gun, and put a hole in your stupid fucking head with it. Come on, Blondie, come on. Turn around, turn around . . . Good. Now!

  But just as Tozzi started to make his move on the greaser, he glanced into that car window and saw the reflection of another head rising up behind the greaser, a head in a gray fedora. Holy shit! What the fuck was she trying to prove? He glanced quickly at Blondie, whose back was still turned. Just get out of the way, Val.

  Tozzi was about to turn on the greaser when he caught Valerie’s reflection in the glass, slapping the greaser’s ears with the palms of her hands. The greaser wailed as his eardrums burst, and as he went to grab his head, Valerie took the gun right out of his hand, just like that. She jammed the muzzle into the greaser’s pimply neck and told him not to move or she’d blow his fucking head off.

  Well, fuck me. Tozzi couldn’t believe this.

  “The other one,” Val shouted then, nodding toward the open parking lot.

  Blondie was making tracks, hightailing it across the lot. Tozzi got down on one knee, pulled the .22 out of his ankle holster, and took off after him. He was just about to yell, Stop! FBI! when he caught himself. “Get back here, you fuck!”

  He caught up with Blondie just as he was about to jump into his car, but the guy was wiry and he turned on Tozzi unexpectedly, shouldering him in the gut. They both hit the dirt, Blondie trying to strangle Tozzi’s gunhand like a snake, beating it on the ground. Tozzi punched him in the kidney—once, twice, once more—but the guy didn’t let up. He slapped his free hand over Blondie’s nose and hooked his thumb on the pressure point where the jaw met the ear. Tozzi pressed, then kept pressing, searching for the right spot, but he wasn’t hitting it because the guy didn’t seem to be affected. Fucking wiseguys aren’t even human.

  Tozzi noticed the tire of Blondie’s car right in front of his face. Who knows? Maybe it’ll do something. Tozzi struggled to bend his wrist and aim, then he fired a shot into the tire, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger. He felt the whoosh of escaping air and flying dirt in his face.

  Blondie groaned and rolled away, rubbing his eyes. “Shit! There’s shit in my eyes!”

  “There’s shit in your head.” Tozzi hauled him up by the lapels and slammed him against the car. He frisked him, then dragged him back across the lot to Val and the greaser. “Watch this one,” he said to Val as he frisked the greaser and found a small automatic in the pocket of his jacket. Tozzi heaved it into the woods, then took the greaser’s 9mm from Val and threw that into the woods too. He grabbed the greaser by the shirtfront and threw him down on the ground, then pushed his buddy, who was still complaining about his eyes, on top of him. “Get on your bellies with your hands behind your heads. Now!”

  The greaser complied right away. Blondie took his time about it, bitching about his eyes the whole time.

  “Hey, Blondie, make sure you tell your boss he can go fuck himself. You got that?”

  He turned to Val. “Come on, let’s go.” He gave her the car keys and kept his gun on them. She got into the Mercury and started the engine as he went around to the passenger side, keeping his gun on them over the roof of the car. “Let’s go,” he said as he got in. “Fast.” She kicked up dirt as he slammed his door closed. He got on his knees on the seat and peered out the back window at the two wiseguys on the ground.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “Fine.”

  She did seem fine. She drove fast but in control. She took the big car out to the county road and maintained a nice steady speed. When she tipped her fedora back and showed some forehead, Tozzi thought of Gibbons. He always did the exact same thing with his hat in these situations.

  “Who were your friends back there?” she asked.

  “No friends of mine. Not even acquaintances.”

  “Didn’t think so.” She braked at a stop sign, then pulled out onto a two-lane highway. She picked up speed and cruised at sixty-five, fast but not too fast. She was a good driver.

  Tozzi rolled up his pant leg and put his gun back in the holster. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Burst that guy’s eardrums like that.”

  “I took a self-defense course once. You know, one of those courses for women who’re scared shitless of being raped.”

  “Where’d you learn how to handle a gun?”

  She looked over at him and grinned. “I’ve never held a gun in my life.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Swear to God. I used to take acting lessons, though.”

  “You’re full of it, Val.”

  “No, just centered.”

  “Huh?”

  “Centered. Calm for the fight. I practice this Chinese martial art called t’ai chi. It’s something we work on.” She kept her eye on the road.

  “T’ai chi, huh?” Chi in Chinese is the same as ki in Japanese. As in aikido. They called it being “centered” in his martial art too. Calm for the fight? Same thing in aikido. Tozzi stared at her holding the wheel. He was trying very hard not to be steamed because sh
e’d stolen his thunder back there.

  They drove in silence for a while. She turned on the radio and played with the dial until she picked up one of the Philly stations. Bruce was singing about the tunnel of love.

  “So,” she finally said, “am I taking you to the casbah, or are you taking me?” She looked over at him with that little lopsided grin of hers, waiting for an answer.

  Tozzi shook his head and laughed. She was great. He couldn’t stay mad at her even when he wanted to.

  There was just one thing that bothered him. Would Sal Immordino let him live long enough to find out just how great she was? The smile turned brittle on his face.

  he air was clear and cold, and the moon was bright enough to read by. Joseph’s face looked a little purple in the moonlight—lavender actually. Sal wished the hell his brother’d loosen up. Joseph stood there by the door with his hands jammed into the pockets of that big overcoat of his, collar up, hat brim pulled down. William Powell as the Thin Man. Except Joseph wasn’t thin.

  Sal touched his elbow. “You know what to say?”

  “Of course I know what to say. Hey, look, Sal, I’m not stupid.”

  “I don’t need the attitude, Joseph. I know you think this is stupid, but let’s just do it the way we planned, okay?”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know why you don’t want to go directly to Walker. That makes more sense to me. But you’re the boss, Sal. I’m just a jooch. I don’t know nothin’.”

  Sal held his tongue. You know pork chops, you jackass, that’s what you know. “Just trust me, Joseph. I know how these guys are.”

  Joseph shrugged. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”

  Sal bit his bottom lip. Always the attitude with this guy. If it wasn’t for Cil’s insistence that he take care of his brother, he’d send the bum back to that goddamn butcher shop in Sea Girt where he belongs. For the life of him, Sal didn’t know why the hell he listened to his sister half the time. Just because she’s a nun she don’t know everything. But you gotta take care of Joseph, she says, he’s your only brother. Family, huh? Bullshit. Sometimes they were more fucking trouble than they were worth. Both of them.

  Sal pushed through the door and stepped into the gym, and instantly the memories started coming back. The place was the same, exactly the way he remembered it from when he trained here—when was it? ’72, ’73?—for the Lawson fight. A square of moonlight slanted in through a window and cut across the heavy bag. Sal remembered working that bag for hours on end. Henry Gonsalves would hang on to the backside of the bag like he was humping it, yelling instructions at him, “Uppercut! Cross! Right! Right! Left! Jab it! Cross! Lower! Work the body! Lower! Lower!” For hours they would do that. Probably did the same thing with Walker.

  But maybe Henry had better methods now. After all, he’d brought “Pain” Walker through the ranks and taken him all the way. When Henry was Sal’s trainer they never even got close to a title shot. He was the stepping stone other guys used to get into contender position. Everybody wanted to fight him on their way up—he was a good draw because he was so big and such a hard puncher—but he’d lost more than he’d won, a lot more. Sal realized, of course, that he was a very different kind of fighter from “Pain” Walker. He didn’t have Walker’s footwork, for one thing. Or his physique. He didn’t have Walker’s dumb fearlessness either, leading with his head, leaving himself open to bait his opponent, that kind of stupid shit. In his heart of hearts Sal always thought he could’ve had a shot at the title, but he was no “Pain” Walker. He was a different kind of fighter altogether. Anyway, that was a long time ago and it just wasn’t meant to be. Sal wasn’t bitter. No.

  Joseph was looking all over the place. “Where is he? I don’t see him,” he whispered. “If he was here, there’d be lights on.”

  “Shuddup, will you please?” Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy. Jesus, he acts like a jerk sometimes.

  Sal scanned the old gym. He looked at the rectangle of moonlight laid out on the canvas of the old ring, the old worn leather corners. Sugar Ray Robinson had trained in that ring. So did Sonny Liston. Henry always used to say he liked this place because it had magic. Sal looked up at the rafters. Magic for some guys.

  “So where the hell is he?”

  Sal glared at his brother. I’m gonna kill this stunade—

  “Hey! Who’s over there?”

  A figure came out of the shadows in the ring. Stocky, snow-white hair, electric-blue satin jacket, a pretty big gut now. Sal watched his old trainer step into a patch of moonlight. Henry had aged. He wasn’t an old man, but he’d gotten old. Everybody does. Eventually.

  “Who’s over there? Dwayne? That you?”

  Sal nudged Joseph. “Go ahead.”

  Joseph looked at Sal, the attitude plastered across his face as he called out. “It’s an old friend, Henry. He wants to see you.”

  “Wha’?”

  Sal bunched his shoulders and walked his palooka walk toward the ring. “It’s me, Henry. Your old boy Sal. ’Member?”

  “Sal who?”

  The overhead lights sputtered on and stomped out the sweet moonlight. “Sal Immordino,” Joseph said, his hand on the wall switch.

  Henry squinted and shaded his eyes, standing at the edge of the ring with the stumpy cigar in the middle of his mouth, like the captain of a ship.

  Sal kept walking the walk, smiling his dopey smile at his old trainer. “It’s me, Henry.” Sal climbed into the ring and threw his arms around the man. “How ya doin,’ Henry? How ya doin’?” Henry smelled of cigar, always had. He wasn’t exactly returning the embrace. Sal figured he was gonna be this way.

  Joseph looked up at Gonsalves from the floor. “We were in the area, and Sal said he wanted to come say hello, wish you luck. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Henry looked suspicious, hostile almost. He knew what Sal’s line of work was—there was no question about that—but that was okay. Sal wanted to see those little flashes of fear in his eyes, the ones Henry didn’t think he was showing. Fear was good. It would save everybody a lot of time and aggravation. Sal stood there grinning, shoulders rounded, his head swaying, moving his feet, feigning vague punches at the old guy who just stood there with his hand glued to the ropes. This was good. Okay, Joseph, you can talk now. Give ’im the rap.

  “My brother thinks the world of you, Mr. Gonsalves,” Joseph started. “He talks about you all the time, even tells his doctors about you. That’s why we came here to see you.” Joseph hauled himself up to the ring, then leaned over the ropes and whispered to Henry. “His doctor said it might do him some good, make him happy. Sal’s been very depressed these past few years.”

  Henry shrugged. “So whattaya want from me? I ain’t no doctor.” He was trying to be tough, but his eyes were giving him away. What he knew about Sal now was probably what he’d read in the papers, and the papers always gave the FBI version, that Sal was faking it, that there was nothing wrong with him. Henry had known him when he was an ambitious kid trying to get ranked. The FBI said he was a dangerous criminal, an underworld boss. The only thing Henry could be sure of, though, was Sal’s fists—they were dangerous. Henry kept looking at Sal but avoiding eye contact. Poor Henry didn’t know what to think.

  Joseph leaned over the ropes again. “Just play along with him. I’m asking you, please, Mr. Gonsalves. My brother thinks he’s a nobody. He doesn’t want to live. All he talks about is you and fighting. That’s it. Just do us this one favor. Please. Act like you’re training him for a big fight. Just for five minutes. It would mean a lot to him.”

  Henry took the cigar out of his mouth and gestured helplessly. “I mean, what can—? Hey, how the hell did you know I’d be here in the gym? What’d you guys, follow me, for chrissake?”

  Joseph shook his head. “Sal knew you’d be here. He said you always hung around the gym on Sunday nights when you were training for a big fight. Sunday night was your worry night. That’s what he said you told him. His memories of you are very, very clear
.”

  Sal nodded, grinning like a dope. “That’s just what I told him, Henry, yeah. Sunday is worry night. You always throw me out of the gym on Sunday night. You like to be alone so you can worry.” Sal kept nodding, punching air. Joseph was doing all right. He could be very ingenuous when he wanted to be, very convincing. A perfect front man when he wants to cooperate.

  “So why’d you guys sneak up on me like this? Huh?” Suspicious bastard.

  Joseph looked properly embarrassed. “You may not be aware of this, Mr. Gonsalves, but there are certain law-enforcement agencies—the FBI, for one—that have it in their heads that my brother is in the Mafia. For some reason they think he’s some kind of kingpin, a boss, whatever they call it.” Joseph switched back to whispering. “I mean, look at him, Mr. Gonsalves. Sal’s not . . . capable.”

  “But why’d you have to sneak in here? That’s acting pretty shady, if you ask me.” Henry took the dead cigar out of his mouth, then put it back in and sucked on it a little.

  “We came here like this to save you and the champ a lot of embarrassment. We’re being persecuted unfairly. There’s no reason why you and the champ should suffer by association. If we’d called you up first, came during the day, you’d have cops questioning you and all kinds of crap you don’t need. And if the papers got wind of it, oh, man . . .” Joseph shook his head sorrowfully. “It just wouldn’t be fair to the champ.”

  Henry chomped on the cigar as he stared at Sal. He was trying to look tough, but his eyes told the tale. Sal kept grinning and bobbing, boxing the air, acting like he hadn’t heard a thing his brother said. Joseph did all right. Now it was his turn.

  Sal shuffled around the trainer with a clumsy sidestep, throwing cramped little punches at nothing. “Let’s put the gloves on, Henry. Gotta work on my timing. My timing is shit. You told me that. C’mon, Henry. Let’s get the gloves.”

  “We’d really appreciate it, Mr. Gonsalves. Just five minutes.” Very nice, Joseph. That face is beautiful. Sincerity like that you can take to the bank.