Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  He stood up, nerves jangling in his hands and forearms. “Move, Cil. Lemme out!”

  “No!” She stood up and stuck her face in his. “You don’t trust Joseph, that’s obvious, and you’re determined to get caught. If you don’t sit down and behave right this minute, something will happen. You’ll go to jail. This is my fault. I’ll go talk to Mr. Nashe. He’ll listen to me. Now you stay here.”

  Before he could say anything, she was rushing down the aisle, her veil flapping behind her. She had a point. He’d done time before. He didn’t want to go back. But he didn’t want to end up in the foundation of some building either. He swiped his face again, he was sweating buckets. He watched her working her way around the ring, saw her glaring at the two bimbos with the round cards. He felt pains in his chest, little pains, but they were in his chest. Jesus Christ, is this how it starts, a heart attack? He was breathing hard and he hadn’t done anything since they’d come in, just sat here. He watched her moving through the pack of cameramen, calling to Joseph through the bodyguards, Nashe nodding, letting her into his private section. He glanced over to his left then, toward Mistretta. The old sourpuss was pointing at her, leaning over and telling Frank Bartolo something. He spotted Cil—Christ, you’d have to be blind not to see her with that habit on. There she was, standing next to Joseph, giving Nashe her two cents’ worth, Nashe not giving a good goddamn about either one of them. And Mistretta’s watching. Oh, shit! He put his hand over his heart. I’m gonna die. Right here. I’m gonna die.

  Sal jumped when the bell rang to start round two. Walker leapt up out of his corner, bounced into the middle of the ring. Epps hauled himself up off his stool, flat-footed. The crowd yelled. Sal sat down, his heart thumping in his chest like it was trapped in there.

  Gesù, Gesù! I’m gonna die!

  ozzi was hunkered down at the edge of the ring, holding a 35mm camera, looking across the canvas through the fighters’ legs at Gibbons, who was leaning on the skirt on the other side, holding up a camera of his own, shoulder to shoulder with all the real photographers. He wondered how convincing Gibbons really looked, wearing a green nylon windbreaker over his white shirt and suit pants. Gibbons was a good agent, the best man the Bureau had, as far as Tozzi was concerned, but he was from the old school, Hoover’s school. No matter how you dressed him up, he looked like a fed. Tozzi hoped nobody was picking up on that.

  He looked up at Walker and Epps in the ring. Walker was making Epps look bad, real bad. Lot of red leather smacking Epps’s midsection again and again and again. Lot of sweat flying, shining like starbursts in the overhead lights. Lot of lung power hissing out of their noses with each punch—more from the champ than the challenger, though. If the champ intended to throw this one, it sure didn’t look like it. As Gibbons had predicted, it looked like Walker had something to prove. Still, Tozzi wouldn’t mind seeing Epps get in a few good shots, maybe tag him one on the nose with that legendary right of his, make Walker see some of those neon-green worms. Tozzi squeezed the swollen bridge of his nose and winced. It hurt like a bastard, had to be broken. He also had one of those little nagging headaches that just wouldn’t go away, right behind his eyeballs.

  The Nashes were on the other side of the ring where Gibbons was. Tozzi could see Sydney sitting there in the third row in Nashe’s private section, sparkling like a little purple star, unruffled by Sal’s brother Joseph and his sister the nun sitting next to her, jabbering over her head, pleading their case with smiling Russ, big black bow tie under his chin, butterfly collar, satin lapels on the tux. Russ was smooth, but the smile was for show. The Immordinos were beginning to draw attention, but he couldn’t sic his gorillas on them, not on a nun, not here. Sydney, on the other hand, seemed to be getting a real kick out of seeing Joseph and Sister Cil in such a state. That sly little grin, just eating it all up. Tozzi hoped he’d read her right and that she delivered the gossip the way he’d given it to her. He glanced back at Sal Immordino sitting all by himself, rocking back and forth, looking very upset. All three Immordinos seemed pretty shook up about something, and Sydney had been over there whispering in Sal’s ear. Seems like she did tell him, but with Sydney you could never be sure. She had her own agenda. He sniffed his shirt. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes. Sydney, Sydney, Sydney . . .

  Gibbons was looking at him now, giving him the eye. He nodded toward the seats on Tozzi’s side, and Tozzi followed his gaze to Sal Immordino coming down the aisle now. Tozzi moved fast, rushing into the aisle and blocking Sal’s path. He could tell right away from Sal’s face just how glad he was to see him.

  Immordino didn’t slow down as he came up to Tozzi Just threw an arm out, intending to push past him. Tozzi settled in, got his one-point, and extended his arms, laying his palms on Sal’s big fleshy chest. No muscle, just ki. Sal was thrown back, startled. Tozzi kept pushing, wouldn’t let him get his balance, pushing the big man back until they were secluded on the exit ramp.

  “Get outta my face, Tomasso!” Sal was huffing and puffing, gonna blow your house in.

  Tozzi moved closer. “How’s it going, Sal?”

  “Move, Tomasso!” Sal grabbed Tozzi’s forearms, Tozzi grabbed his. The big man tried to toss Tozzi aside, but Tozzi held on.

  “Get out of my fucking way, you little bastard!”

  Tozzi didn’t say anything, just held on while Sal tried to shake him loose.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you, Tomasso. I don’t give a shit who you are.” Sal suddenly wrenched his right arm loose and punched Tozzi in the chest. Tozzi held his breath. It wasn’t much of a punch, but after the beatings he’d taken from Nashe’s gorilla squad and then “Pain” Walker, just the residual vibrations of the punch’s impact made the rest of him hurt. Tozzi held his breath, grabbed Sal’s lapels, and hung on tight, intent on staying very close. Sal’s punches won’t have any power this close. He hoped.

  “So what’s the big hurry, Sal? Aren’t you enjoying the fight?” Tomasso the wiseass talking. Had to goad him.

  “You’re dead, you little shit. Let go of me!”

  Tozzi let his body go slack and just hung on Sal. “Come on, Sal, let’s go back to your seat and watch the fight. C’mon, we gotta hurry up. It’s not gonna last long. Look at your boy Epps. He looks older than you, for chrissake. Next round—you wanna bet? Ten bucks. Walker’s gonna knock him out in the next round. Wanna bet?”

  “Fuck you!” Sal tried to shake Tozzi off, wrestle him down to the floor, but Tozzi just held on for the ride. “I’m gonna punch your fucking heart out, Tomasso. You think I can’t? You think I can’t?”

  Tozzi shook his head and his nose brushed against Immordino’s. A sharp pain shot up to his forehead. “No, Sal,” he said, holding his breath, “I don’t think you can do shit.”

  “No?” Sal was still struggling. “You ever hear of a coon named Lawson, a pug? I did him that way. I’ll do you too.”

  “What’re you, Fred Flintstone? That’s ancient history. Anyway, don’t flatter yourself, Sal. That was just a freak accident.”

  “Bullshit it was!”

  Tozzi yanked on his lapels. “No, you’re bullshit. Big mob guy everybody’s supposed to be afraid of, so tough. Tough, my ass. You sent your guys after me twice, they couldn’t do shit. You try it yourself a couple of times, and you fuck up worse than them, end up shooting a fucking woman. What’sa matter, Sal? You don’t know girls from boys? Huh?” Tozzi yanked again. “Huh, Sal? Huh?”

  Sal swung his hands up from underneath, slammed down on Tozzi’s forearms, and broke Tozzi’s grip on his lapels. But Tozzi locked on to Sal’s forearms again and held fast. Sal wrestled with him, pushing him this way and that, but Tozzi wasn’t letting go. “I whacked tougher mothers than you, Tomasso. With my fists.”

  “Whacking guys with your fists—you expect me to believe this? What’re you, Bruce Lee now, back from the dead?”

  “Fuck you!” Sal squeezed harder on Tozzi’s forearms.

  Tozzi’s fingers were getting numb.


  The crowd roared then and Tozzi saw Sal staring at the ring. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on. Epps was down on one knee. The referee was counting. Three, four, five . . . Epps got up. The ref held the challenger’s face and checked his eyes. He nodded and let the fight go on.

  “Get the fuck away from me!” Sal screamed. His eyes were wild, his face shaking.

  “You’re full of shit, Sal. You don’t scare me. You slap your brother around, that’s about it. Yeah, and you beat up old men like Henry Gonsalves, guys collecting Social Security. That’s what you do. Whattaya think you’re gonna do to me, huh? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. Nothing, that’s what.”

  Sal snapped one hand up and grabbed Tozzi’s throat. “I’ll do worse than I did to Gonsalves. I’ll make you wish you were him. At least he lived.”

  Bingo!

  Tozzi tensed his neck and smiled in the man’s face as he reached into his pocket and brought out his ID. He flipped it open, waved the shield in the big dummy’s face. “You’re under arrest, Sal.”

  “Big fucking deal.”

  Tozzi stuck his ID back in his shirt pocket, then unbuttoned the top two buttons and showed Sal the wire taped to his chest. There was a tiny microphone, the size of a pencil eraser, in Tozzi’s chest hair. It was connected to a microrecorder taped to the small of his back. Sal’s eyes became hubcaps. He was rewinding the tape in his mind, trying to remember what he’d said, trying to convince himself that he hadn’t really admitted to the attempted murder of Henry Gonsalves or the murder of Earl Lawson, or that this tape could be used to prove mental competency, which would mean that he would have to face all those old charges he’d walked on a few years ago. Tozzi smiled. Bingo.

  Tozzi removed Sal’s limp hand from his neck and turned him around as he took the handcuffs he’d borrowed from Gibbons out of his back pocket.

  “Hey, wait a minute now.”

  “Shut up and spread your legs. Wider. Wider! Put your right hand behind your head. Hurry up!”

  “Tomasso, let’s talk about this—”

  “Do it, asshole!”

  Sal sighed and put his left hand behind his head. “C’mon let’s be reasonable here, Tomasso.”

  “Shut up!” Tozzi bent Sal’s right arm up behind him and held the wrist one-handed while he cuffed the hand behind Sal’s head. “You have the right to remain silent, Sal, which you should’ve been doing all along if you were smart, you big fucking dummy. You have the right to legal counsel. If you cannot afford—”

  The hall exploded then, people jumping out of their seats, screaming and yelling. Sal arched his head back to see what was going on in the ring.

  Don’t look, Tozzi told himself.

  “Shit,” Sal muttered. “I’m fucking dead.”

  The crowd was going crazy. Whatever was going on down there, it must’ve been good. But don’t look, he kept telling himself, not until he’s cuffed. But Tozzi could hear people in the crowd counting, counting with the referee . . . three, four, five . . . Could Epps have done it? Was Walker down for the count?

  Tozzi turned and looked. He couldn’t help it. Epps was the one on the canvas, Walker was standing—

  “Hey!”

  Sal broke loose from the hold. Tozzi tried to tie up his right arm again, but Sal snapped it away, then hammered his elbow back, right into Tozzi’s face, right into his nose.

  Tozzi clutched his face. The pain shot through his head like there was a Sidewinder missile sunk into his face. He dropped to his knees. Colors flew by, Steven Spielberg special effects flew by, eight million miles an hour, speeding through space. Noise and space banshees whizzing past him. His head exploding, one long, continuous, mounting explosion. It wasn’t stopping. Tozzi stopped breathing, couldn’t relax his face, couldn’t open his eyes. All he could do was brace himself like this and not move until it stopped—if it stopped.

  Finally it started to calm down. He was breathing. It hurt like hell and his head was throbbing, but the spaceship ride was over. Just the neon-green worms behind his eyelids again. Those good ol’ green worms. Oh, shit . . .

  When he could finally unclench his face, he pried his eyes open, but it was all a blur. Brain damage, he thought. And an ugly fucking nose. Worse than Sal’s. No woman will ever want him with a nose like that. Then the blur became double vision and gradually the images merged together. He got to his feet. In the ring Walker and Epps were in their corners, getting sponged and massaged. The round was over. Sal was gone. He looked past the ropes. Sal was over with his brother and sister, yelling over Sydney’s head at Russ, jabbing his finger at the smiling billionaire, the handcuffs dangling from his wrist. He looked for Gibbons, but he couldn’t see him.

  The room started to spin then, and Tozzi had to sit down.

  on’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, Nashe, because you do.”

  Gibbons watched Sal jammed into that row, his brother right behind him trying to look useful, his sister the nun hanging on his arm trying in vain to pull him away. He was on his feet now, his face like a Jersey tomato as he yelled at his friend Nashe, pointing two fingers at the billionaire, the blond wife sitting between them, apparently enjoying it from the catty look on her face. “She told me you changed your mind, you went to Walker on your own.” Sal was pointing down at Sydney’s blond head. “Isn’t that what you just told me?”

  The wife just shrugged, bare shoulders and a Mona Lisa smile.

  Nashe fingered his bow tie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sure I even know who you are, sir.”

  The billionaire looked calm—a good act. He was clever, though. Besides the two got-rocks couples in the row be hind them, there must have been at least a hundred people within earshot, the way Immordino was yelling. Nashe wasn’t about to acknowledge the fix or that he even knew Immordino, not where someone could hear. Particularly someone like a special agent from the FBI posing as a photographer. Gibbons stood at the back of the pack of photographers crowding around the edge of the ring so he could eavesdrop on the activity in Nashe’s private section. He peered through the viewfinder on his camera and shot off pictures at random to make it look like he was paying attention to the fight. There were at least five bodyguards that Gibbons had noticed—one guy standing next to Joseph, another one on the other end of that row, one at the top of each flanking aisle, and a floater, an older guy with a build like a fireplug who was keeping tabs on the others. This must be the Polack Tozzi told him about. Gibbons pegged him right away for an ex-cop. The little pirogi was sharp, the kind who’d notice a photographer not taking enough pictures. Gibbons scanned the other side of the ring through the camera lens. Tozzi was probably staying out of sight because he knew the Polack would spot him. He was still wondering, though, what the hell had happened over there with Immordino. He hoped Tozzi was all right.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Nashe! I’m telling you! Don’t fuck with me!”

  The nun yanked on his arm, but it was like trying to move an elephant. “Come sit down, Sal. You’re being stupid. Come on!”

  “Lemme talk to him, Sal. Lemme talk.” The greaseball brother was tapping Sal on the back. “Go ’head, Sal. Go sit down.”

  Sal ignored them both, but something else seemed to be bothering him because he kept looking up into the crowd in that side section over there. At first he thought Sal was looking for Tozzi, but now he didn’t think so. Gibbons scanned the section, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell Sal was looking at.

  Up in the ring Walker was cutting the ring nicely, jamming Epps into the corners, pounding the man’s body. Epps was throwing punches, but they all seemed weak. The man looked beat.

  Sal was having a conniption fit. “Send one of your flunkies to Walker’s corner and give him the message. Put the nigger in reverse. You hear me? Now, you fucking bastard! Do it now!” He was out of his mind.

  The nun was straining to move him. “Stop, Sal. Will you listen?”

  The wif
e reached up then and ran her hand along Sal’s cheek. The nun’s mouth dropped open. She looked like she was gonna blow a gasket. Sydney didn’t give a shit about Sister Cil. Look at her rolling those big green eyes, the sly little pout. She was like a sexy little rich-bitch cat in a cartoon. “Listen to your sister, Sal,” she said. “Be a good boy and go sit down now.”

  The nun slapped the little cat’s arm away. “You leave my brother alone. Don’t touch him!”

  The bodyguards jumped, and Gibbons was about to move in when Nashe waved them off. The Polack confirmed the order, signaling the goons to back off. The two couples in the back looked very put out.

  Sal shrugged his sister off his arm, told his brother to get the fuck away from him, then he glared down at Nashe again. “Hurry up now. I’m not kidding here, Nashe. You know I’m not. Send one of your boys over there right now. Hurry up!”

  Nashe ignored him and looked at the nun. “Sister, we’re all here to enjoy the fight, but your brother is interfering with some people’s enjoyment. Now I don’t want to be unpleasant about it, but if you can’t get him under control, I’m going to be forced to have him escorted out. Okay?”

  Light flashed in the nun’s glasses. “Don’t threaten me. You can’t throw my brother out.”

  Sydney piped up then. “Oh, yes, he can. And there’s no law that says you can’t have a nun ejected for disorderly conduct as well.” Mona Lisa smirk, real cool.

  The nun’s frown was like a horseshoe hanging under her nose.

  Suddenly the crowd was on its feet, screaming like crazy. Gibbons looked up into the ring and saw Walker slamming uppercuts into Epps’s gut, one right after another, Epps just taking it, arms practically at his side, serious pain in his face. People from way back in the cheap seats were flooding down the aisles to get a better look at the onslaught. Gibbons was suddenly pressed up against the photographers in front of him, and it was a struggle just to turn around and see what was going on with the family feud. In the middle of all the commotion the bodyguards were doing their best to block the rows and keep the invaders out of Nashe’s private section. Brother Joseph was getting huffy now, shouldering big Sal out of the way. Gibbons could see that they were yelling at each other, but he couldn’t hear over all the jerks yelling in his ears. Then he saw it, just a glimpse, but he definitely saw it coming out of the sharkskin jacket. Joseph had a gun.