Bad Apple (28 page)

Gina was like most girls, though. Always wishing and a-hoping for Prince Charming to come down the pike. Just brought up wrong, that's all there was to it. She was probably in fantasyland right now, thinking she was safe. Just jump on a float and fly away, escape from reality. Dumb, Gina. Very dumb. But that's the way she is. She's looking all over the place for magic when she should've learned how to make her own magic. She's very unrealistic. Still, she isn't totally worthless.

As he walked closer to Santa's float, the guy standing guard finally noticed him and froze where he stood. Bells exhaled a laugh through his nose. See? So obvious. The guy's tense, stiff, instantly belligerent. Typical male. He reminded Bells of Mikey-boy.

Mikey-boy the FBI agent. Mr. Gallant. Prince Charming. In his mind, maybe. Hopelessly predictable. And teamed up with Gina, even worse. She was gonna tell him they could escape on
this magic carpet in her mind, the big fuzzy caterpillar, and he was gonna listen to her, the jerk. That was the other problem with guys: they listen to women. Any guy who listens to a broad doesn't see the bank shots, the combinations, the angles. He's too direct. The lady complains—
bang
—he tries to please her. Action, reaction. Call and response. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the people in this world just weren't brought up right. They don't think; they just react. They're no better than snails.

Bells strolled over to Santa's float and checked out the reindeer. The guy standing guard had that high-testosterone look, the bug-eyed frown—it's mine, and you can't have it. The guy followed Bells around the side of the float as Bells gazed up at the sleigh-tower where Santa would be riding tomorrow.

When Bells moved closer and touched the shredded white paper that was supposed to be snow, the guy barked: “Hey! Whatta'ya doin' over there?”

Bells grinned. “I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.”

“Well, go dream someplace else.”

Bells left his hand on the paper snow for a moment, then put it in his pocket. He didn't move away from the float, though. Just looked at the guy as the guy glared at him.

“Is there something you want, pal?”

Bells shrugged and shook his head.

“Then move away from the float . . . please.”

Bells smiled. The
please
told him a lot. He had the guy thinking twice about him. Good.

The truck's engine rumbled, and the paper snow shivered. Bells waited.

The guy took a step closer. “Hey, mister, I don't want any trouble here.”

That meant he did, but he didn't. He wanted trouble only if he knew for certain that he could kick the intruder's ass. Bells
stroked the paper snow and looked at him, waiting for him to make up his mind.

“Hey, pal, I'm not playing games here. You understand what I'm saying?” He moved in a little closer, testing the distance to see if Bells would react. A typical predator, a coward with big teeth. Won't attack until he's sure there won't be any retaliation.

Bells just looked at him, dragging his fingers across the paper shreds.

“Get your hand off that. You're gonna damage the float.”

Bells smiled when he heard the guy say “damage.” Official language. High-test males love jargon. It sets them apart, makes them special. Just like cops.

“I'm telling you for the last time, pal. Get away from the float.”

Bells did nothing. The truck engine revved, and the float started to move. Bells closed his fist on a handful of paper snow and let the movement of the float uproot it. He looked at it in his hand, then let it go. White shreds floated to his feet, a few strands sticking to his pants.

The guy charged like a bull. Bells had caused “damage,” so now the man had a reason to act, reasonable cause. Guys always need defensible reasons. He rushed up to Bells and reached for his lapel. “Hey! I told you—”

Bells brushed the guy's hand aside and in one fluid motion spun the poor bastard around and pulled the guy's back to his chest.

“Hey! Whatta'ya doin'?”

Bells had his wrists crossed on the guy's chest, gripping both of
his
lapels. Bells pulled, using the guy's jacket collar to cut off the blood supply passing through the large arteries along the sides of his neck. Bells could never remember the right name for those arteries. A Green Beret he knew a long time ago told him,
but he forgot. The Green Beret showed him this move, told him that you could make a person black out in ten seconds doing this, but that you had to be careful because one person in a hundred will die when you do this to them. He even let Bells try it on him, telling Bells not to worry, he wasn't one of those people because he'd had it done to him plenty of times before. Bells never found out if that was true or not because he shot the jerk through the eye before he came to. He owed Buddha money, and there was no way he could ever pay up. He might have been a Green Beret in the army, but he was a bum out on the street. He should've stayed in the army.

Bells held on tight, waiting for the guard to stop struggling. It wasn't long before the guy slumped to the pavement, out cold. As the big tires of the flatbed rolled past his motionless body, Bells wondered if he was dead, if he was one of those one-in-a-hundred people. Bells looked down at his blunt bulb-nosed face and decided that this dweeb couldn't be one in a hundred in anything.

He turned and walked toward the float as it tried to crawl away from him. When he caught up with it, he put his palms on the paper snow and vaulted on board, then went to the steps of the sleigh-tower and climbed up. Sitting in Ole Saint Nick's seat, he looked out at the big friggin' caterpillar as it slithered into the tunnel. Gina DeFresco was somewhere on board with Prince Mikey-boy and the cool-ass dinosaurs. As soon as they got to Manhattan, they'd probably flag down a cab or something, and Bells would do the same, follow them wherever they went. It would all work out fine. New York was full of dark little nooks and crannies where you could off someone quick and just walk away from it, no problem.

Except this wasn't gonna be a single hit. It was gonna be a combination shot.

Gibbons held his chest and took shallow breaths. He was having chest pains—not bad ones, but bad enough. They weren't the same pains he'd been feeling all day. These were new pains. He tried not to think about them. He had enough to worry about.

He was sitting on the black-leather couch in Bells's grubby loft, opposite the green-leather couch where Buddha was sitting with a big plastic bag full of ice on his head. The corners of the bag drooped over his ears, and now the little shit looked even more like Napoleon. Everybody was standing around waiting for His Highness to make a declaration, but the little bastard was still smarting from the bop over the head Bells had given him with the toilet-tank cover, and he hadn't said a word since it happened.

Gibbons looked over at Lorraine on the other end of the couch. He was getting edgy. It was a bad situation. The longer Buddha and his gorillas kept them there, the more likely they'd end up killing them. True, Gibbons was the law, but he and Lorraine had heard too much. At the very least, these guys were facing a kidnapping charge that could send them away for a good long stretch. Gibbons knew they weren't gonna let that
happen if they could help it, and Buddha Stanzione wasn't known for his charitable nature.

The loft was as solemn as a church as they all waited for the little emperor to show some signs of life, and that just aggravated Gibbons more than he already was. He wanted to know what the hell happened to the backups he'd called for hours ago. He wanted to know what the hell happened to Tozzi. He wanted these bastards to at least let Lorraine go. But he wasn't getting what he wanted, and he was ready to strangle someone. Except that his chest hurt so bad, he didn't think he had the strength.

Then something occurred to him that drained the blood from his face. What if the chest pains weren't from the bullet shots he'd taken? What if he was having a heart attack? Jesus. He couldn't have a heart attack now. He couldn't leave Lorraine alone with these animals. No, it couldn't be. It wasn't a heart attack, he kept telling himself. If he croaked, they'd kill her for sure.

Gibbons started sweating. He couldn't wait around for the emperor anymore. He might not have the time. “Hey, Buddha,” he said, breaking the silence, “wake up over there. You looking for sympathy or what?”

Stanley and the four double-knit gorillas glared at him, but Gibbons didn't give a shit. He was sick of waiting around.

“Wake up, Stanzione, will ya? We supposed to sit around here all night? Big Dom's gonna start stinking up the bathroom pretty soon. You guys smell bad enough. I don't wanna have to smell him, too.”

Buddha opened his eyes and rolled them toward the bathroom. He'd forgotten about the dead gorilla in the can.

Gibbons laughed despite the pain. “Yeah, let's hang around for a while. Maybe the cops'll come by, and you can tell them how Big Dom got that way.”

Buddha looked at Stanley. “Shut him up.” The little emperor shut his eyes again.

“You heard him, Gibbons.” Stanley was as solemn as an altar boy.

“Tell him to go fuck himself.”

Stanley's eyes bulged. “I'm warning you, Gib.”

“Go tell your old lady.”

Lorraine took his hand and squeezed it. She was warning him to behave. She was being as solemn as the rest of them.

Gibbons rubbed his chest and felt his pounding heart. His shirt was soaked through with sweat under his jacket. He kept telling himself it wasn't a heart attack. It could be a combination of things: no lunch and no dinner; lack of sleep; the effects of the booze and the pain-killers had finally worn off; maybe the two didn't mix and he was reacting to that. It could be anything. But it wasn't a heart attack. It couldn't be. Still he was anxious to get things going, to do something to save Lorraine before he . . . couldn't.

He turned to Freshy, who was pacing the floor around the bunched-up plastic tarp. “What'sa matter, Freshy? Nothing to say? You used to have a big mouth. Why don't you say something?”

Freshy just glared at him from under his brows and continued his pacing.

“C'mon, Fresh. Speak up. What're you, a wuss now?”

Another quick glare.

Buddha raised his voice. “I said, shut him up.”

Stanley stepped toward Gibbons, pulling his gun out of his belt. He held it in his palm and raised it over his head, about to bash Gibbons over the head with it.

Gibbons was ready to duck the blow—or at least try to—when Lorraine suddenly jumped up and got between them.

“Stop!” she screamed.

“Sit down!” Stanley shoved her out of his way.

“No!” She got in his face again.

Gibbons started to get up off the couch, but the pain in his chest wouldn't let him move. He felt like his chest was a lemon being squeezed. He wanted to rip Stanley's head off, but he couldn't move. One of the gorillas came around the couch and grabbed his shoulder to keep him down. Gibbons cursed and threw an elbow into the couch. It just made the pain worse, and he had to hold his breath to keep himself together.

Stanley raised the gun again, but Lorraine hung on to his arm.

The sweat was pouring off Gibbons, and the gorilla had him by the shoulders. He had to do something. For Lorraine. To save her.

“Wait!” He tried to breathe evenly, but he sounded like a balloon with a slow leak. “Whatta'ya bothering with me for?” He pointed at Freshy. “
He's
the one you should be pissed off at. He's been working for us, ratting on you guys. How do you think Tozzi got introduced to you people?”

All heads turned toward Freshy, who started blinking out of control. “Wha-wha-whatta'ya talkin' about? He's crazy, Mr. Stanzione. That ain't true. No how, no way. He's crazy.”

The icebag rattled on Buddha's head. “Stanley,” he said, “how did Bells meet this FBI guy Tozzi?”

Stanley was staring holes into Freshy. “Through him. Freshy told Bells not to worry, the guy was okay.”

“No, no, no. You don't understand, Mr. Stanzione.”

Stanley had his finger on the trigger, muzzle leveled on Freshy. The four gorillas had their pieces out, too. Buddha only had to give the word. Freshy's mouth was moving, but nothing
was coming out. He seemed to be backstepping in place, like a mime with the shakes.

Buddha's icebag rattled again and broke the tension. The little emperor was not happy. “So?” he said.

“You don't understand, Mr. Stanzione. You don't understand. Lemme explain, lemme explain.”

“So explain.” The ice cubes shifted and rattled very softly, like termites about to bring a house down.

Freshy gulped and blinked a few more times before he started. “All right, here's the deal. No bullshit, okay? Yes, it's true. I was working with these guys . . . the, the FBI guys.”

Stanley and the gorillas got restless real fast. They wanted the go-ahead from Buddha to blow his brains out.

“But, listen, listen.” Freshy was holding up his index fingers, head cocked to the side. “I wasn't doing it to help them. No fucking way, I swear to God. I was stringing them along, telling Bells everything I found out from them. Everything. I swear to Christ on my mother's eyes. I'm not lying, I swear.”

Gibbons exploded. “Bullshit! You were working for us.”

Stanley's gaze bounced back and forth from Freshy to Gibbons and back to Freshy. His face looked like a fist. “If you're lyin' to us, you little bastard—”

Freshy backed away from him. “No, Stanley, no. I'm telling you the truth. I told Bells everything I knew. I was loyal to him, man. Absolutely. The FBI didn't know what I was really doin'. They thought I was playing straight with them. That's what Bells told me to do. I swear.”