Bad Apple (29 page)

Gibbons watched Freshy doing his little tap dance, but it didn't seem to be working. Stanley and the gorillas weren't buying his story, and for the moment Buddha was ominously noncommittal. Gibbons was glad. The heat was on Freshy now and off them. He had no problem giving up Freshy for the slaughter.
The little shit had turned on Gibbons and helped Stanley take him and Lorraine hostage. And if he was telling the truth and really had double-crossed the Bureau, he deserved to be thrown to the lions.

Freshy still had his index fingers up. He was blinking like a strobe light. “You think you're smart, Gib. I know what you're trying to do here. Well, I got some news for you. For all of youse.”

Gibbons winced and bared his teeth. “Spare us the bullshit, Freshy. Nobody wants to hear it.”

“Oh, no? Well, lemme tell you something. That agent that got shot up on the Turnpike this morning? Paterson?”

“Petersen.”

“Petersen, Petersen, right. Bells did do it. I know it for a fact.”

Stanley barked. “Bull-
shit
.”

“No, Stanley, no, not bullshit. Before the meeting he had last night with Mr. Stanzione downstairs in the bar, were you with Bells? Were you?”

Stanley didn't answer right away. He looked at Buddha. “I was home.”

Buddha's ice cubes rattled.

Stanley glared at Freshy. “But so what? What does that prove?”

“C'mon, Stanley, get real. Bells had an appointment with that guy Petersen. The guy was bringing money he wanted Bells to shy for him. And what did Bells always say? You want free money, find some jerkoff shy who'll give you a loan and then whack him. Free money. I heard him say it a hundred times. You guys never heard him say that?” Freshy looked to the gorillas for corroboration.

Buddha held on to his icebag and looked up at the gorillas. “Did you?”

The polyester primates nodded in unison.

“See what I'm saying here? I thought I was doing the right thing, telling Bells everything I found out from the FBI so we could keep a step ahead of them. How the fuck was I supposed to know he was gonna turn around and whack a fed? I didn't know that. I swear to—”

BA-BOOM!

The locked stairwell door flew open and crashed against the brick wall behind.

“Freeze! FBI! You're under arrest! Drop your weapons!” Four agents rushed in, guns drawn, high-stepping over their battering ram on the threshold. Gibbons recognized two of them, young guys from the Newark office whose names he couldn't remember. The first one in had wavy red hair and reminded Gibbons of cub reporter Jimmy Olson from the
Superman
comics. He nodded at Gibbons in recognition but kept his eyes on the bad guys. Gibbons clutched his chest and smiled with his teeth, wanting to cheer, even though the bastards should've been here hours ago.

Then suddenly he heard Lorraine's squeal behind him. “Gibbons!”

Freshy had his arm crooked around Lorraine's neck, bending her backward. Excalibur was in his other hand, the barrel buried in Lorraine's scalp.

Once again Gibbons reached for the gun he didn't have, even though he was looking right at it. Son of a—

Pain seared through his chest. He held his breath, hoping it would pass, but it didn't. He kept telling himself it wasn't a heart attack, it wasn't a heart attack, but the words kept bouncing back at him like a racquetball: It
was
a heart attack, it
was
a heart
attack. He remembered hearing guys who'd had cardiacs say that the pain was like a truck parked on your chest. Gibbons wasn't sure if his pain felt exactly like that, but he had nothing to compare it to. But the more he thought about it, the more it did feel like a heavy weight, and the more he tried to deny it. It wasn't like it was an eighteen-wheeler parked on his chest. More like a pickup truck, he thought, a little pickup, that's all.

He blinked and squinted up at Lorraine with Excalibur to her head. He sniffed in a sharp breath. “Let her go, Freshy. Let her go
now.
” He wanted to yell it, but he could barely get it out.

Jimmy Olson heard Gibbons, and he repeated the order. “Let the woman go.”

Freshy ignored them both.

Stanley and the gorillas were ignoring the agents, too. The greaseballs had pulled their guns as soon as the agents broke down the door, and now they were holding them on the squeaky-clean street agents from Newark. Freshy had Lorraine, and Gibbons and Buddha were sitting on opposite couches, just staring at each other. It was a friggin' Mexican standoff. Gibbons couldn't believe it. This never happened in real life. Not like this. But if he dropped dead, the wiseguys would have the clear advantage. That's why he couldn't croak now. Not until he knew Lorraine was safe. He sniffed in another short breath and kept his eye on that little shitass Freshy.

“Drop your weapons. Now!” Jimmy Olson was very stern.

“Drop your own fucking weapons,” Stanley growled.

Young Olson looked grim, and so did his buddies. The FBI philosophy is to always have overwhelming manpower and firepower when you go into a situation like this. So much for philosophy.

The room fell silent all of a sudden. You could almost feel everyone thinking hard, trying to figure out what he could do to
break the stalemate. Gibbons's hand was still on his chest, palm over his heart. He was counting the beats, hoping they were regular beats, though he wasn't sure he knew what regular was. He watched Lorraine breathing fast under Freshy's arm around her neck. The minute stretched. Nobody from either side was coming up with any brilliant moves, and the pickup truck was still parked on his chest.

The icebag rattled.

“So?” Buddha said.

That's all he said.

Gibbons stared at him, fighting to hide his discomfort. “Yeah? So what?”

That was all he could say without giving himself away.

They just stared at each other.

After another long minute, Jimmy Olson coughed. “Ah, Agent Gibbons?”

Gibbons rolled his eyes toward him.

“You're the senior agent here. Perhaps you should handle the negotiations.”

Gibbons frowned. Thanks a lot. No wonder Perry White was always so pissed off at Jimmy Olson. Gibbons closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe through his nose until he thought the pain let up a little.

He opened his eyes and looked at Buddha. “Let's make this simple, okay? You let my wife go, we'll leave. Okay?”

The four freshman from Newark bristled, but they kept their mouths shut. Gibbons knew these young guys were mentally tallying up the charges they could make against these mooks. And they didn't even know about the stiff in the john yet. But Gibbons didn't give a shit about making cases against these zeroes. All he wanted was his wife back, unharmed. Before he died.

He stared hard at Buddha. “So? Say something.”

The little emperor took the icebag off his head and felt the goose egg. He looked at Gibbons. “Sounds okay to me.” He looked up at Stanley then and nodded with his head toward Freshy.

Stanley interpreted the gesture. “Let her go, Fresh.”

“No, no, wait.” Freshy shuffled his feet, and his burst of jitters joggled Lorraine like a marionette. “Listen, listen.”

Stanley shook his head. “No,
you
listen. Mr. Stanzione says to let her go. That means let her go.” The Tazmanian Devil was working his jaws.

So was Gibbons. Gun or no gun, chest pains or no chest pains, he was ready to pounce on the little shit.

Freshy backed up, hauling Lorraine back with him. “Just listen to me, listen to me. Okay? You still think I'm a rat, that's what you're thinking. But you're wrong. I'm not. I did the right thing. At least, I thought I was doing the right thing. I swear. Why don't you gimme a break here?”

“Let her go.” Buddha spoke to him directly now, and Freshy reacted as if it were a ghost talking to him.

“No. No. Listen to me, Mr. Stanzione. Please.” Freshy was shitting bricks. “Bells fucked you over, right? He gave you counterfeit money, right? Okay, so let me take care of him for you.”

“You?” Stanley couldn't believe this twerp would even suggest that he could take on Bells.

Gibbons couldn't believe it either, but this made him nervous. If Freshy seriously thought he could go
mano a mano
with Bells, he'd lost it, which wouldn't have bothered him at all, except for the fact that he was holding Excalibur to Lorraine's head. The pickup truck was still on his chest. Tears came to his eyes, but it wasn't because of the pain. The thought of him sitting here helpless when Lorraine could die at any moment from a slug fired from his faithful revolver totally overwhelmed him. . . .
But only for a few seconds. He opened his eyes, set his jaw, and sniffed in as deep a breath as he could stand. Personal emotions never help in situations like this.

“How do you think you're gonna get Bells?” Gibbons wasn't mocking Freshy, just putting it to him hard, trying to make him think straight and be rational.

Freshy appealed to Buddha. “I know how I can do it. I really do. If Bells is with Tozzi, I can find him.”

“How?” Buddha's face turned sour.

“The transmitter thing Tozzi's wearing. I can track 'em in the FBI van, find out where they are, sneak up on Bells, and—”

“No one sneaks up on Bells.” Stanley was absolutely certain about that.

“Oh, no, no, no, I will, I will. Don't worry about that, Stanley. I'll get up right behind him, real quiet, and I'll stick this gun right in the back of his head, and I won't wait. No way. I'll do it fast.
Ba-da-boom.
I'll blow him away. Clean. One shot. Right through the brain. Before he can do anything.”

Gibbons's chest felt squeezed again. All of a sudden the pickup truck had a cow in the back.

Lorraine's eyes were wild. Did she suddenly notice that Gibbons was in distress? Oh, Jesus, he hoped not. He didn't want her to worry.

Freshy was smiling like a maniac, sweat pouring off his face. “I wanna make my bones, Mr. Stanzione. I wanna get made some day. Let me make my bones now. I'll do this for you, Mr. Stanzione. I will. I'll get Bells for you. Then someday when—I mean
if
the time comes, I'll be all set because I already killed for you.”

A sour Edward G. Robinson expression was frozen on Buddha's face. He looked up at Stanley. “What the hell's he talking about?”

Stanley raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “He's a wackarino, Mr. Stanzione. What can I tell you?”

“Drop your weapons,” Jimmy Olson said again, but nobody paid any attention. It was only to convince himself that he was doing something useful.

“Gibbons?” Lorraine knew something was wrong with him, but Freshy yanked her back and shut her up.

“Just give me this one chance, Mr. Stanzione. That's all I want. Just let me try. I know I can find him with that equipment that's in the van. Just let me try.”

Buddha put the icebag back on his head and closed his eyes. “You're giving me a headache.”

“Please, Mr. Stanzione, please. I can get outta here. If I take her with me, I can do it. These guys won't shoot as long as I got Mrs. Gibbons. You see what I'm saying? I got a hostage. I'm the only one who can get out. Just let me
try.
”

Buddha looked around the room, the ice cubes rattling gently on his head. Freshy was right. It was an even standoff; everybody was covered. Except he had the hostage.

Gibbons swallowed on a dry throat.

Buddha shrugged. “Go 'head, do what you want.” He didn't seem to care. He looked at Gibbons and the young agents. “I can't stop you.”

The capo was clever. He wasn't gonna incriminate himself in front of five FBI agents. Freshy might get lucky and actually pull it off.

Freshy's face was underbelly white. “You serious, Mr. Stanzione? Really? I can do it?”

“I said you can do what you want, kid. Nothing I can do to stop you.”

Freshy grinned. “Okay, okay. Right. I understand. I got it.”
He started backing toward the elevator, dragging Lorraine with him.

Lorraine reached out. “Gibbons?”

Gibbons was fuming. He was ready to take off his shoe and hurl it at the little jerk, do anything to keep him from leaving with his wife. He was just about to tell Jimmy Olson to shoot the bastard when Freshy suddenly stopped.

“Hey, Gib,” Freshy said.

“Hey, what?”

“C'mon, get up.”

“What?”

“C'mon. You're driving.”

“What're you, funny?”

“No. I said you're driving. Now get up.” He jammed Excalibur into Lorraine's head to make his point. All of a sudden the little shit had balls.

The ice cubes rattled. Buddha was snickering.

Gibbons gritted his teeth, held his breath, and bore down on the pain in his chest. Another cow just got in the back of the pickup.

Tozzi and Gina separated to get by a garbage can left in the middle of the sidewalk. “Bread and butter,” Tozzi said as they kept walking.

Gina peered at him over the turned-up collar of the inside-out coat, which she held closed under her glasses, covering her face.

Tozzi immediately felt stupid for having said that. He was just trying to get her to talk to him.

“So where is it?” she said. “I thought you said it was up here.”

Tozzi pressed his lips together and slowed down. He and Gina were on foot on Seventy-eighth Street on the Upper West Side, in the middle of the block between Amsterdam Avenue and Columbus Avenue. When their float had stopped on Eleventh Avenue over by the river, they'd hailed a cab, and Tozzi told the cabbie to take them to this block because he was sure the Twentieth Precinct was here. But the cabbie wouldn't take them down the block because Columbus on the other end was jammed with people out to see the balloons being blown up for the parade, he said, and he didn't want to get caught in traffic. Gina started to argue with the guy, told him he could back up on the one-way street after he dropped them off, but the cabbie refused. Tozzi
didn't want to waste any more time arguing, so they just got out and walked. But now he just couldn't figure it out. He was almost positive the Two-Oh was on this block. They must've moved it.