Bad Luck

by Anthony Bruno

  Gibbons dropped the camera and started shoving bodies out of his way, palming faces like basketballs. He was only about fifteen feet away . . . with about sixty bodies between them. Shit. He tried to muscle through with his shoulders, but the photographers around him were leaping at him like salmon swimming upstream, lunging for a shot of the action in the ring.

  Through the bodies Gibbons could see Sal and his brother fighting for the gun. Sal suddenly threw Joseph’s arm in the air, and Gibbons saw that the gun was a fucking cannon, a stainless-steel 9mm automatic. When the rich people in the row behind saw the cannon, they leapt over their seats like deer and took cover, fancy clothes and all. Sal twisted Joseph’s wrist—gun and handcuffs glinting over the waves of jostling heads—twisted until Joseph let go, then he took it away from him, easy as pie. Joseph looked hurt, but Sal didn’t notice. He was crazy mad. He leaned over Sydney and grabbed Nashe by his pleated shirtfront, hauled him up out of his seat, and jammed the pistol into the billionaire’s gut. Nashe was white, looking all over the place for his bodyguards, but they were so busy dealing with the riffraff, they didn’t notice what was going on with Sal and their boss.

  “Turn around, you assholes!” Gibbons yelled to the bodyguards. “Your boss is in trouble!” But it was no use yelling. There was too much noise. No one could hear him.

  Gibbons didn’t like the look on Sal’s face now, mean but satisfied. Gibbons knew that look. Sal was resigned. He was gonna do it. Jesus. Gibbons pushed heads out of the way, threw his elbow right and left, battling his way through the crush.

  “Drop it, Sal,” he yelled. “FBI!”

  Nobody heard him, still too much noise.

  Then he saw it in a flash. That hard, sweet look of satisfaction passing over Sal’s face as he was about to pull the trigger, then surprise and annoyance as Sister Cil suddenly yanked on his arm just as the gun went off. Gibbons saw the muzzle flash. A faint crack through the uproar confirmed it. That and Sydney jolting back into her seat, a fright wig of white-blond hair, her head whipping back, bobbling, finally coming to rest, slightly askew on those delicate, bare shoulders. The bodyguards heard the shot, but they were confused, couldn’t figure out what had happened. The rich people heard it too because they were climbing over seats, climbing over people, fighting like hell to get out of there. Sal was backing away, trying to get out too, but there was nowhere to go. He was hemmed in, bodies everywhere, bodies who had no idea they were in the middle of a murder scene.

  In the middle of Sydney’s white chest, there was a neat little entry wound rimmed in black. No blood for a second, then the gush. It gurgled out in a rush and poured down into her cleavage, soaking through the sequins. A big splotch of deep purple started spreading down the front of her sparkling lavender dress. Gibbons’s first thought was that a woman that small couldn’t possibly have so much blood. The gush died down to a thick flow then. She wasn’t moving. Screams, cheers, arms flailing, open mouths, intense eyes all around . . . but she wasn’t moving. The killing had hardly been noticed in all the craziness. Most everybody else was watching the killing in the ring.

  Gibbons finally made it to the end of the row where the Immordinos were all jammed in together. The Polack and one of Nashe’s goons were blocking them in so they wouldn’t escape. The Polack had his heels dug in with his back up against Joseph’s. Any paying customer who got too close, the Polack shoved back into the crush. Gibbons moved in and stuck his ID in the guy’s face. The Polack shoved him back like all the rest, the little son of a bitch. Gibbons got his footing, grabbed the guy’s ugly tie, and made him look at the ID.

  “Wake up, asshole. FBI.”

  “Le’go of me—who the eff’re you?”

  Gibbons recoiled from the guy’s greasy head. It stunk of sweat and hair oil. “Special Agent C. Gibbons, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I don’t want any more lip outta you. You understand me?”

  The Polack sneered at him. “You got no jurisdiction here.”

  Gibbons wrapped the tie around his fist and hung him high. “Listen up, my friend. I’m a fed. I got jurisdiction everywhere. Now you get your guys to clear this aisle right here immediately, or I make sure you get named as an accessory to murder.”

  “Get the eff’ outta—”

  Gibbons yanked him up higher. “You think I’m joking? Huh? I know a lot of judges who don’t look kindly on ex-cops who get involved with the wrong element. Aiding and abetting, obstruction of justice—all kinds of nice things they can hang ex-cops with. I’ll bet you know of a few judges like that too. Huh, Kowalski?”

  They just glared at each other, the tie digging a line into the tough little Polack’s jowls. The guy didn’t say anything, but he was thinking hard. He knew the score. Gibbons let go of the tie.

  “Now get your guys to clear that aisle. I’m deputizing you.”

  Mokowski gave him a dirty look, but he did what he was told, ordering the two nearest goons to clear a space. Gibbons had to remember to have him picked up later. The guy was dirty, sure as shit. Cops never cooperate with feds, not even ex-cops. He’d given in too easy. For the time being, though, he’d let the guy think he was getting away with something. Gibbons figured he might need him if Tozzi didn’t show up soon. And where in the hell was Tozzi, goddammit?

  Gibbons drew Excalibur. He got into the empty row behind the Immordinos and moved in fast. He extended his arm and stuck the muzzle of his gun behind Sal’s ear. “Gimme your weapon. Two fingers.” He dug the .38 into Sal’s flesh. Sal didn’t say a word. He just switched the big automatic to his other hand and held it out upside down by the grip. Gibbons took it with his left hand, felt for the safety to make sure it was off, then pointed it at Joseph. “Put your hands on your heads. All three of you.”

  The nun looked at him, shocked.

  “That’s right—you too, Sister.”

  Joseph was reluctant. Gibbons stuck the automatic in his face, shining metal to sweaty flesh, and Joseph started to cooperate. Real tough guy. “Now face me, all of you, and move out into the aisle. Keep some space between you. Go on, move.”

  Gibbons shifted his gaze between Sal and Joseph, back and forth, as they moved into the aisle with their sister in the middle. Sal was probably too smart to try something stupid, but Gibbons wasn’t going to count on anything, not now. Joseph was a jerk-off, but he was dumb enough to try something he might’ve seen in a movie. “Turn around slowly and face me. And keep those hands where I can see them.”

  The crowd was going nuts. He could just imagine what was going on up there. Sal tried to stare straight ahead and look blank, but his eyes kept darting up to the ring. Joseph was staring at the fight. He looked like he was in severe pain. The nun’s mouth was a flat line, her eyes hidden behind the glasses. Then the three Immordinos winced as camera flashes blanched their faces. The photographers must’ve picked up on the arrest, figured they could get a few quick shots in before Walker sent Epps to bed for the night.

  Gibbons heard someone yell “Hey!” in his ear, and when he turned his head a flash went off in his face. Asshole photographer. He was blinded, big spots in front of his eyes. “Down on the floor,” he barked at the Immordinos, making like nothing had happened and he could see perfectly. “On your bellies, legs apart, hands over your heads. Right now. All three of you.”

  “I will not,” the nun said.

  “You heard him! Do it! Now!”

  Gibbons recognized that maniac scream. Who else? His eyes started to clear and he could see Tozzi muscling his way through the photographers. Gibbons blinked. Tozzi looked awful. His face was gray, one eye almost closed, it was so swollen. What the hell did he do, cut through the ring between Walker and Epps to get here?

  “Here, take this.” Gibbons gave him the automatic. “You take the brother. I got Sal.”

  Gibbons hunkered down and put one knee in the middle of Sal’s back as he nestled Excalibur’s barrel in the hair at the back of Sal’s neck. Sal’s right hand was already cuffed. How convenient. Gib
bons gripped the open cuff for control. “Put your left hand behind you,” he ordered. Sal complied. “Now your right.” When the hands were together, Gibbons cuffed the other wrist, then proceeded to pat Sal down.

  When he was finished, he looked over at the victim and her husband. They hadn’t moved, Nashe sitting there with his mouth open, pulling on his bottom lip, staring at his wife, the beautiful hair and all that blood. It was hard to read the expression on Nashe’s face. It was somewhere between disbelief and revulsion. It wasn’t love or compassion, that’s for sure.

  Gibbons got up off Sal’s back, grabbed his elbow, and helped the big man to his feet. Tozzi was just finishing up his pat-down on Joseph, ordering him to stay right where he was on the floor. He moved on to the nun, who had actually assumed the position, spread-eagled on the floor. Gibbons noticed that Tozzi kept pausing to shake his head. As he started to frisk Sister Cil, he suddenly stopped and nearly keeled over on top of her. He had to brace himself with his hand on the floor, he was so punchy. He continued the body search then, running his hand down the nun’s side under her arm, and Gibbons was just about to say something, tell him to just keep her still and wait until a female officer got there, when a camera flash distracted him, a lot of camera flashes. A dozen Nikons were all pointed down at Tozzi feeling up the nun. “Tozzi!” he yelled. “Hold up!” But he didn’t hear him.

  The crowd surged like a tidal wave then, and Gibbons looked up at the ring. Walker was poised in the follow-through of a right cross, Epps reeling back into the ropes, head flung back, the side of his face smeared with blood. The challenger rebounded off the ropes, stumbled forward, and walked into a right-uppercut, left-hook combination. Epps’s knees buckled and he fell straight down on them. Gibbons winced. Epps wavered there on his knees for a few seconds, the ref holding Walker back, Walker crazy to finish the man off, as if he hadn’t already. Finally Epps fell over like a tree, bloody cheek and swollen eye pressed flat against the canvas. Poor bastard looked almost as bad as Tozzi.

  The ref started to count. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”

  Gibbons looked up at Sal. “Good fight.”

  “. . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!”

  Screams, cheers, total craziness.

  Sal grunted. “Fuck.” He shook his head, then looked over to that side section where he’d been looking before.

  Gibbons followed his eyes and spotted an island of stillness in the agitated sea of fight fans. Sabatini Mistretta glaring down at them, glaring at Sal. He looked like a little pissed-off bulldog. Just like old J. Edgar. Gibbons smiled like a crocodile.

  Sister Cil and Joseph were standing up now with their fingers linked over their heads. Tozzi looked like he was about to pass out, swaying on his feet, the automatic limp in his hand, his eyes going in and out of focus.

  “Sit down, Tozzi. I can handle it from here.”

  Tozzi nodded and let him take the big automatic, then he fell into the nearest seat, cradling his face in his fingers. He looked awful. Camera flashes started exploding again and Gibbons turned his head away. Bastards. He stuck the automatic in his belt.

  Up in the ring the ref was calling the winner, raising Walker’s arm into the air.

  Sal shook his head and smirked. “Shit . . .” He glared at Nashe who was still sitting there pulling on his lip and staring at his dead wife. “Son of a bitch.”

  Joseph was shaking. He was ready to shit his pants. “Sal, Sal, what do we do now, Sal? That was my gun, Sal. I mean, what’s gonna happen now, Sal?”

  “Shut your goddamn mouth, and don’t talk to me.” Sal was mean.

  “Salvatore, shush.” Sister Cil had her finger over her lips. “Don’t you talk anymore, Sal. Listen to me for a change,” she whispered. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry about Mr. You-Know-Who. I’m sure he’ll understand about the money. I’ll take the blame. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him. He likes me.”

  Walker was prancing around the ring, waving the championship belt over his head. It was the first time Gibbons had ever seen the guy smile.

  Sister Cil watched Walker for a moment, then she looked over at Sydney’s lifeless body. The nun’s contempt for the dead woman was all over her face. She shook her head, staring at Sydney. “You see, Sal. This is what happens. It’s just the way Grandma always told us: Gesù Cristo vede e provvede. He sees and provides, Sal. He will provide for us, Sal. He will. I know it. Believe me.”

  Sal sneered at her. “Just shut the fuck up, will ya, Cil?”

  Her mouth fell open. Camera flashes glinted off her glasses. Uniformed cops were pushing through the crowd, coming down the aisles with weapons drawn.

  Gibbons smirked at the cavalry, annoyed. It’s about time, he thought.

  Tozzi was moaning into his hands.

  Sal sniffed and grunted, like a hog on a chain.

  Joseph was trying not to cry.

  Nashe was pale, still pulling on his lip.

  Sydney was dead.

  The nun’s mouth was still open when Gibbons looked at her again. She was crossing herself now, crossing herself over and over again.

  Gibbons just shook his head. Amen.

  he fancy brass clock on Brant Ivers’s desk said it was nine-twenty. So where the hell was he? Special Agent in Charge is supposed to be Mr. Punctual. He said he wanted to see Gibbons first thing Monday morning, and Gibbons had been here at nine sharp. What the hell, Ivers have too many bran muffins for breakfast? Jesus. Gibbons crossed his legs and laid a hand on his ankle, looking around the SAC’s office to see what else was new.

  Next to the brass clock there were two picture frames. One displayed a formal sit-down portrait of the three Ivers boys, the other one had a picture of the lovely Mrs. Ivers. Gibbons reached over and turned it a little so he could see what she looked like. Ivers always kept it facing him, so Gibbons had never really gotten a good look at the wife. She might’ve been all right-looking at one time, but she was a real whipped poodle of a suburban matron now. Tired-looking, long-suffering, put-upon. Sort of a nothing blonde. Eyebrows sloping away, like she was always fretting about something. In a way, she kind of reminded him of the actress who played the wife on the old Dick Van Dyke Show. What the hell’s her name?

  Gibbons put the frame back where it had been and looked at the pictures on the wall instead, but he kept coming back to Mrs. Ivers. He was thinking about Lorraine, wondering whether she was heading down the same road as Mrs. Ivers. He suddenly remembered Tozzi’s friend Valerie and her Dick Tracy hat. He thought about Lorraine wearing that hat. She’d look good in it, mysterious. He kept staring at Ivers’s wife, thinking about the blond bartender in the gray fedora. Lorraine the way she was, Lorraine the way she will be? He let out a long sigh, wondering whether he’d end up with one of these pathetic pictures on his desk. Maybe they should forget about it. Can the wedding. Just live together, put things back the way they used to be.

  The way they used to be . . . Fat chance. Last time he saw her, she swore she’d call it off if he walked out the door. When he’d finally gotten back to his place on Sunday, she was gone, no note, nothing. He must’ve called her place down near Princeton at least twenty times, but all he got was the answering machine. Guess he didn’t have to worry about getting stuck with dopey wife pictures on his desk. Shit . . .

  The door opened then. Gibbons looked over his shoulder, expecting Ivers. It was Tozzi.

  “What in the hell are you supposed to be?” Gibbons said. “Spiderman?”

  Tozzi shut the door. There was a metal brace over his nose, white tape crisscrossing his face to hold it in place. Two nice shiners, one still a little puffy. He went over and took the chair next to Gibbons, across from Ivers’s desk. He looked like hell.

  Tozzi nodded at the SAC’s empty chair. “So where is he?”

  Gibbons shrugged. “He’s late. What’re you doing here? I thought you were gonna stay home and rest.”

  “What the hell am I gonna do at home? Take painkillers and jerk o
ff?” Tozzi’s voice was low, subdued. It was hard to read his face with the bandages and the black eyes.

  “Oh . . . I thought you were hurting.”

  Tozzi just shrugged and stared out the window.

  They didn’t say anything for a while. The phone rang and one of the buttons flashed on Ivers’s console. It stopped in the middle of the second ring. The secretary must’ve picked up at her desk outside.

  Gibbons turned in his seat to face Tozzi. “You hear from Valerie?”

  Tozzi started nodding, still staring out the window, more like he was thinking than saying yes. “I saw her yesterday. At the hospital. I’m getting sick of hospitals.”

  “You talk to her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how is she?”

  “She’s over the hump, she’ll be okay.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what about the two of you? She still mad?”

  Tozzi nodded again. “Yeah . . . kind of.”

  “At least she’s talking to you. That’s something.”

  “Yeah . . .” Tozzi started feeling his face. “I think she was happy to see me like this. Like we were even now.”

  “Yeah, but at least she’s talking to you.”

  Tozzi nodded, but he didn’t seem to be listening. Maybe she’d told him to fuck off and he just didn’t want to talk about it.

  It got very quiet. You could just make out the faint sound of Ivers’s secretary’s printer zipping through a letter behind the door. Gibbons waited for Tozzi to say something. Must be the painkillers. He’s never this quiet. “What’d they give you for the pain?”