5 Bad Moon (20 page)

Donald’s head was bent over his trembling folded hands, eyes shut tight. “‘
…
and forgive us our trespasses,’” he whispered, “‘now and in the hour of our death. Amen.’”

She took the wimple off Donald’s head. “Amen,” she repeated.

Tozzi sat on the edge of the couch in Gibbons’s living room, biting a hangnail, staring at the television, thinking about John. On the screen, Sal Immordino paced up and down the sidewalk, shuffling his feet, mumbling to his hands, throwing shadow punches. It was a copy of the video the state police had taken that morning outside Sister Cil’s place in Jersey City. The camera zoomed in on Sal’s face. He kept his eyes down, never looked into the camera, just paced and mumbled, sparring with his invisible partner.

Gibbons got out of the armchair and went over to the VCR. “They told me it’s all the same. Two hours of this shit.” He reached over to shut it off.

“No, wait,” Tozzi said. “I wanna see a little more.”

Tozzi watched Sal, watched his face, waiting for him to slip, waiting for him to glance at the camera, to show that he really was aware of what was going on. But he never did. He was so good at this, so well-practiced. He should be. The bastard’s been doing it long enough.

Gibbons was standing there, with his arm on the TV. “You seen enough?”

Tozzi sat back and nodded. Gibbons turned off the VCR and Sal disappeared from the screen. The green outfield of Shea Stadium under the lights took his place.

“It’s him,” Tozzi said. “I know it. Sal’s the one. Mistretta, Bartolo—it makes sense. John was a mistake. He thought it was me. But Sal’s definitely the one. It has to be.” He checked his fingers for another hangnail to bite.

Gibbons changed the channel to a basketball game. The Sixers were playing Boston for the Eastern Conference title. Philly had the ball. Their geeky-looking center, that seven-and-a-half-foot African guy, looped the ball back out to the perimeter to Charles Barkley, who wasted no time shaking Larry Bird on a pick and muscling his way straight to the hoop, scoring
over
the Celtic center with a finger roll.

Gibbons switched back to the Mets game. They were playing the Dodgers. Dwight Gooden was on the mound. Darryl Strawberry was at the plate.

“You’re not saying anything, Gib. You don’t think it’s Sal?”

Gibbons backed up to the armchair, his eyes on the game. “Sure, I think it’s him.”

“And?”

Gibbons looked at him sideways. “And nothing. We can’t prove it. He’s got all his bases covered. According to the hospital records, the last time he was out on the street was nineteen months ago. Until yesterday.”

“So he hired someone.”

“Who?”

“I dunno. Somebody from his old crew, maybe a free-lance contractor, I dunno.”

“I dunno either.” Gibbons glanced at him, then went back to the game. “But that’s the whole point. We don’t have a shooter we can connect to Immordino, so basically we got nothing. All we can do is what we’re doing right now. Sit tight and let him think you’re dead, so he can go his merry way. If he is making a power play for Mistretta’s old job, maybe he’ll get reckless and we can catch him doing something to implicate himself. If we’re lucky.”

“Yeah
…
if we’re lucky.”

On TV, Gooden threw heat. Strawberry swung and missed. Strike three. The side was retired. The crowd at Shea cheered the hometown big-money player for striking out the multimillionaire Mets defector.

Tozzi closed his eyes and rubbed his face. He couldn’t stop thinking about John. His wake was tonight. Tozzi hoped it wouldn’t be an open coffin.

Goddamn Immordino.

Immordino, Immordino. Tozzi wished he could get the bastard out of his head for a little while. The guy was gnawing at his gut, keeping him awake at night, distracting him from everything. There
had
to be something they could do to nail him. There had to be.

Tozzi stared at Gibbons’s profile in the armchair. “Where’s your partner today?”

“Huh?” Gibbons was wrapped up in the ball game.

“Cummings. Where is she?”

Gibbons looked over his shoulder to see if Lorraine was around. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Haven’t been able to watch a game in peace since she got here. I hope she’s lost.”

“Nice to see that you’re getting along so well.”

Gibbons grunted, his eyes glued to the set. Dave Magadan was at the plate. Ojeda was pitching for LA.

“Michael?”
Lorraine called from the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

“Would you come here for a minute? I want to ask you something.”

Tozzi hauled himself off the couch and flexed his knee before he headed for the kitchen. He was walking without the cane now, but the leg was still a little stiff.

Lorraine was sitting at the table in front of a steaming coffee mug. She was wearing one of those Mexican weave pullover things—orange, blue, and brown-gray stripes. The dinner dishes were stacked in the sink. “Would you like a cup?” she asked.

“No, thanks.” He had caffeine jitters as it was, he’d been drinking so much coffee. Drinking coffee and staring into space, thinking about Sal Immordino, wanting to put him away so bad, wanting to make him pay for what he did to John. Tozzi pulled out the chair opposite his cousin. “So what’s up?”

She puckered her mouth to one side for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She puckered her lips again. She seemed uncertain about how she should begin.

“Just say it, Lorraine.”

She sighed before she started. “Michael, what are you doing with that girl?”

The blood flared in his face. He held his tongue until his temper burned back down. “By ‘that girl,’ do you mean Stacy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Stacy.”

“What do you mean, what’m I ‘doing’ with her?”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, Stacy is head over heels for you. Are you—how should I say this?—are you reciprocating those feelings?”

Tozzi looked up at the ceiling. He wished to God he could reciprocate those feelings.

“Who told you this? Cummings?”

Lorraine’s brows slanted back in sympathy. “Madeleine and I are concerned about you—both of you.”

“My personal life is none of her business, and it’s none of yours either, Lorraine. So just don’t worry about it, okay?”

“But, Michael, you’re not being fair to Stacy.”

“What do you mean, I’m not being ‘fair’?”

“You seem to be leading her on, treating her like a
…
like a pet.”

“Like a pet? Did you come up with this one by yourself? It sounds more like one of Dr. Cummings’s analyses.”

“Michael, I’m not accusing you of anything, but let’s be honest. Your history with women is nothing to brag about. I’m afraid you’re going to end up hurting Stacy and you don’t even realize it.”

Tozzi reached across the table for her coffee mug and took a sip. He made a face. It had sugar in it. “Lorraine, you don’t understand the situation here. It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Tozzi just looked at her for a second and sighed. How could he tell her that his dick was broken?

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, encouraging him to tell her what was on his mind.

But there was no way he could bring himself to tell her. Christ, he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Gibbons. He’d thought about unloading it on John, but he could forget about that. Yesterday he finally worked up the courage to call the doctor who had treated his leg and asked if his impotence could be a side effect of the gunshot wound.

The doctor said he seriously doubted that his problem was a physical ailment. According to the doctor, impotence is almost always the result of stress. Tozzi admitted that he was under a lot of stress, particularly with Stacy. When Tozzi told him that he’d been avoiding sex with her because he was afraid he’d fail, the doctor told him he’d never know whether he was truly impotent unless he tried to have intercourse. Tozzi just grunted when he said that. He knew his own body and he knew that normally he would get erect just standing next to a woman like Stacy. He didn’t say anything to the doctor, but he wasn’t willing to risk an experiment, not with Stacy. What if they got started and he couldn’t make it happen? He could never live with himself after that. The doctor finally suggested that Tozzi might want to see a shrink if his problem persisted.

Great. Maybe he could get an hour on the couch with Dr. Cummings. He could tell her all about his limp dick and how it was driving him so crazy he couldn’t respond to Stacy. That wouldn’t be too stressful. Yeah, right.

The phone rang. Tozzi looked up at it, a white wall phone next to the refrigerator. Lorraine didn’t move to pick it up. It stopped ringing. Gibbons must’ve answered the extension in the living room.

“Be fair to her, Michael. For once in your life don’t be such a typical male.”

“Whattaya talking about, Lorraine?”

“Michael, I know you. You’ve only known Stacy for what?—a week and a half?—and already you’ve fast-forwarded into the future, decided the relationship could never work, and now you’re looking for the escape hatch. You’ve done this with every woman I’ve ever seen you with. Except in this case, Stacy’s just too good-looking to let go of, so you’re sitting on the fence.”

“That’s not true.”

“Michael, I know you. Be honest. You’re poison with women. You don’t know how to treat a woman like a person first. You’re doing it now with Stacy. You’re treating her like the Pump-It-Up Girl.”

“Lorraine, you really don’t understand the situation.”

“I understand perfectly.”

Tozzi couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was Cummings talking, not Lorraine. “Lorraine, I’m under a lot of stress right now. I’m very confused about a lot of things and—”

“Don’t make excuses, Michael. Stacy’s probably even more confused, thanks to you. She’s probably trying to figure out what the hell you want from her, and you’re not giving her any clues. Remember, she’s only—what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? She’s looking to you to take the lead. That’s why I think you should make up your mind about her, Michael. As they say, shit or get off the pot.”

“But—”

Gibbons came into the kitchen, tying his tie as he walked. “Get up, Tozzi. We gotta go.”

“Where?”

“The field office. That was Ivers. He wants to see us, right now.”

“Us? I’m still on sick leave.”

Gibbons shrugged. “He said he wanted you, too.”

Tozzi looked at the clock on the stove. “It’s eight-thirty. He’s still at work?”

“Yup. He said a coupla lab reports just came in. C’mon. I told him we’d be there by nine.”

Tozzi stood up and rotated his knee to loosen up the leg. Lorraine had a condemning stare fixed on him. He just shrugged. It was beyond his control, but she didn’t understand that. And he didn’t know how to explain it to her.

“We’ll finish this some other time. Okay, Lorraine?”

“Yeah, I bet we will.” Weary and sarcastic.

“Finish what?” Gibbons was putting on his jacket.

“Nothing.” Tozzi pointed his foot and stretched the leg.

Lorraine was staring at him, accusing him with her eyes.

“I’ll see you later.” Gibbons bent over and pecked her on the cheek. Her eyes stayed on Tozzi.

“Yeah, see you around, Lorraine. And thanks for dinner.” He didn’t need this aggravation, not from his own cousin.

Tozzi turned and headed for the door with Gibbons right behind him.

Out in the hallway, Tozzi could hear the sound of plates and silverware clinking in the sink. Lorraine was starting to do the dinner dishes.

Shit or get off the pot, huh? She didn’t understand. She never would. She’s a woman. He let out a long sigh and followed Gibbons out the door.

Madeleine Cummings was flipping through a stack of printouts spread out next to her on the green leather couch in Ivers’s office. Ivers was in one of the guest chairs, leaning over a mess of papers on the coffee table. It looked like they’d been here for a while. Gibbons glanced at Tozzi as they walked into the assistant director’s office, then narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He wanted to know what the hell Cummings was doing here.

Ivers looked up at them over his half glasses. “Pull up a chair. We’ve come up with something on the Mistretta-Bartolo killings.”

Gibbons looked at Tozzi again, but Tozzi just gave him a shrug. He glanced down at all the papers on the coffee table as he dragged up a chair. He didn’t like the look of this.

Ivers sat back, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you lay it all out for them, Madeleine?”

Gibbons’s upper lip rose on one side. Madeleine? When did this happen?

Cummings sat up and faced them. She let her gaze settle on Gibbons. “I’ve been doing a little work on my own.” She reached into a manila envelope and pulled out a black-and-white glossy. “This is our man. Donald Emerick.”

Gibbons grabbed the photo. It showed a chubby little guy being led away by a cop. He looked like a distraught honey bear in a cartoon—smallish, round-faced, full bushy beard. Gibbons guessed that the picture had been taken at the time of his arrest because the guy was in handcuffs rather than a strait-jacket or belt restraints. The little honey bear was crying in the picture, crying inconsolably from the contorted expression on his face—mouth open, lips sort of puckered, eyes slanted back in fear. Either that or he was howling at the moon.