Bad Luck (30 page)

Gibbons looked through the doorway, and Tozzi hit the mat again with another booming thud that made Gibbons wince. He got right to his feet and went back to the end of the line. He must be feeling awful.

“You still there, Gibbons?”

“I'm here.”

“Tozzi should be home now,” Moran said. “You want me to relay a message?”

“No, that's okay.”

“He's a real piece of work, that partner of yours.”

“So are you, Moran.”

“You're tying up the line, Gibbons. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Eat it, Gibbons.”

Moran hung up and Gibbons put the receiver back on the hook. On the mat Tozzi was at the head of the line again, but this time he bowed to the black belt and took the guy's place in the middle of the mat. It was his turn to do the throwing. He stood there with his wrists out for the taking, waiting for the next nut in line to come grab him so he could start slamming bods the way he'd been slammed. Gibbons noticed that he was wearing an orange belt now. Tozzi had said something about earning a new belt, but Gibbons usually tuned him out whenever he started preaching about the wonders of aikido. He did look pretty good out there, as far as Gibbons could tell. Nothing like the guy with the baggy pants but better than the other
orange belts. He moved pretty smoothly, and his attackers made a nice
thunk
when they hit the mat. Only thing was, it all looked fake. Not just when Tozzi did it, all of them. It always looked like the guy being thrown was helping. Tozzi agreed that it looked fake, but he swore it was all real if you did it right. Gibbons couldn't figure it out, though, the passion Tozzi had developed for this aikido stuff. Tozzi was crazy, of course, but what about all these other people? What was their excuse?

The teacher, one of the other guys wearing those baggy black pants, yelled out something, and the whole class stopped abusing each other and they all bowed, very polite. Then the teacher called out
“Kokyu Dosa
,” and they all paired off and sat on their knees facing each other. One person held out his hands while the other person held him by the wrists, then they pushed. Yeah, Tozzi had told him about this one. It wasn't a contest, like arm-wrestling or anything. It was supposed to be a way of testing yourself, getting centered and finding your “one-point,” the spot below your belly button where all your energy is supposed to come from. That's what Tozzi said anyway. Gibbons was skeptical. Sounded like a lot of crap to him, but it did do something for Tozzi. At least that's what he said. Gibbons glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. After a day like Tozzi had, he needed a good “one-point.” Either that or a bottle of something with a good proof.

After a few minutes of these people pushing each other over—first to the left, then to the right—the teacher called for the end of class. They all lined up in front of him, sitting on their knees; then they bowed to the front of the room where three Japanese characters were hanging in a frame on the wall; then the teacher spun around and he bowed to the class as they bowed back to him yelling, “Thank you,
sensei.”
He got up and walked to the edge of the mat, then told them to thank their last partners, which they did. Awfully polite for people who like to beat the shit out of each other.

He watched Tozzi walk to the edge of the mat, bow to
those Japanese characters on the wall again, and put on his sandals. Gibbons caught his eye then. Tozzi didn't seem very surprised to see him. Not very happy either.

Tozzi wiped his brow with his sleeves as he came over. “Valerie's in the hospital—”

“I already heard. They say she's gonna be all right.”

Tozzi raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Yeah . . . that's what they said.”

“I heard about her telling you to get lost too. She didn't mean it. She must've been all drugged up with the anesthesia and the painkillers and all. She didn't mean it.”

Tozzi just looked at him. He didn't believe it. Gibbons put his hat on. He felt for the guy, but he wasn't about to play “Dear Abby” for him. He had his own problems in that department. “Come on, get dressed,” he said. “We gotta go see somebody. About the fight.”

“The fight? What're you talking about?”

“Just hurry up and get dressed. I'll tell you in the car.”

Tozzi rotated his head and let out a long sigh. “The Nashe investigation is over, Gib. Ivers shut me down as of today, you remember?”

Gibbons frowned and shrugged. “So what?”

Tozzi looked curious all of a sudden. “So what've you got?”

“Just get dressed, will ya?”

“What'd you find out? Just tell me.”

Gibbons rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Hurry up and get dressed, then I'll tell you.”

Tozzi didn't look so sad now. “All right, all right.” He headed for the locker room, walking backward. “You don't want to give me a little hint?”

“No.”

“Come on, Gib.”

“Get dressed.”

“Okay, okay.” He kept walking backward. “Just tell me one thing. How'd you know I'd be here?”

Gibbons smiled with his teeth. “I'm a freaking G-man. I
track down assholes like you every day of the week. Now get moving. We've got some driving to do.”

Tozzi was grinning as he went into the men's locker room.

He'd be all right.

ou know, Gib, I can't even smell it anymore.”

Gibbons looked over at Tozzi sprawled out on the beige plastic couch, his feet up on the arm, his leather jacket bunched up under his head. “Smell what?”

“That hospital smell. I can't smell it anymore. All day yesterday in the hospital down the shore with Val, all night here waiting to get the go-ahead to see Gonsalves. I can't smell it anymore. My nose is dead.”

Gibbons didn't move. His feet were on the coffee table, his cheek on his fist. He was slouched down in a waiting-room armchair. Four hours in the car with Tozzi yapping nonstop about how much he loves Valerie and how much he hates Sal Immordino and how his one-point is fucked up because he loves Valerie so much he'd like to put a bullet through Immordino's brain for what he did to her. Christ Almighty, the guy's a walking loony tune.

But having to put up with Tozzi wasn't bad enough. They finally get here to Our Lady of Mercy, way out in the
middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania, and the night-shift nurses on Gonsalves's floor are like some commando unit left over from Vietnam, a real bitch-team, and they get it into their heads that
no one
gets in to see
their
patient at
this
hour of the night, no matter
what
the reason. He and Tozzi show them their IDs, threaten them with the obstruction-of-justice jazz, do the whole big-bad-fed routine, and these women just cross their big arms over their big chests, dig their heels in, and literally block the hallway to Gonsalves's room. No way, they say. Gotta get the patient's doctor's okay. It's like they're defending the fucking Magi-not Line, for chrissake.

Then Tozzi starts getting huffy, starts screaming at them, and he has to put the crazy bastard on a leash, send him down the hall to cool off before he makes things worse. Gibbons tries to be nice about it then, goes over and asks the head ballbuster, real nice, to please call the doctor at home because this is very important. But she comes up with a new one this time and says to him, You got a warrant? Must've picked this up from some TV show, no doubt. She says unless we have a warrant or something that looks legal, she's not about to disturb a doctor in the middle of the night so that the health of a patient can be jeopardized. Then she threatens to call the cops, and now he has no choice but to back down because he knows how local cops are. They'd be on the horn to the nearest Bureau field office in no time, and that field office would have to call the New York field office to verify and explain the presence of two agents from the Manhattan office in their jurisdiction, and first thing in the morning it would all get back to Ivers, who didn't need to know anything about anything right now.

So that's why they'd spent the wee hours trying, in vain, to get some sleep in this overlit waiting room with the beige plastic furniture and the Holiday Inn landscapes on the walls, waiting for the goddamn doctor to show up at eight so they could ask him if they could talk to Henry Gonsalves for just five fucking minutes.

“I'm gonna sue these damn hospitals,” Tozzi said, staring up at the ceiling. “They killed my nose. I have no sense of smell anymore. I'm handicapped.”

Gibbons closed his eyes. “Tozzi, I don't give two shits about your nose.”

“What is it you gentlemen want here?” A
woman's voice, and not a nice woman's voice either.

Gibbons opened his eyes and sat up. Tozzi took his feet off the couch. She was standing on the other side of the coffee table, no more than five feet even, brunette, hair tied back, bangs, glasses. She was wearing a lab coat, stethoscope draped around her neck.

“I'm Dr. Conover,” she said. “I understand you want to talk to one of my patients.”

Tozzi stood up and unfurled his leather jacket. “Yes. We'd like to ask Henry Gonsalves a few questions.”

The doctor just stared at him, looking stern and annoyed. Now Gibbons understood why the night Valkyries had given them such a hard time. The doctor in question was one of them. It all made sense now. She kept staring at Tozzi with this brutally sour, pissed-off face. She had the hots for him. It was obvious.

“Mr. Diaz—if that's who you're referring to—is in no condition for visitors. He shouldn't be upset.”

Tozzi had that punk-biker posture—knees locked, head tilted back and to the side, jacket hooked over his shoulder. “We have no intention of upsetting him. We only want to ask him a few questions.”

She kept staring at him, real grim. The doctor was kind of cute. Gibbons liked women with glasses . . . some women. Dr. Conover was one of those women who looked sexy in glasses. So did Lorraine when she wore hers. Oh, boy . . . Lorraine. He'd forgotten to call her last night. He didn't even want to think about that now.

The sweet voice of one of the killer nightingales warbled through the PA system and interrupted the standoff between Tozzi and the doctor.
“Dr. Conover, a call on three-two. Dr. Conover, a call on three-two.”

“Excuse me.” She turned and left the waiting room.

Gibbons stood up. “Go follow her. Use your guinea charms on her.”

Tozzi curled his upper lip like Elvis. “Wha'?”

“She's got the hots for you. Go make time with her. Buy her a coffee, take her into the supply closet, use your imagination. Just tie her up for five minutes so I can talk to Gonsalves.”

“What're you, crazy? Women like that don't have the hots for anyone. Believe me.”

“Wrong again, Tozzi. It's women like that who have the kind of hots guys like you are always looking for. Believe
me . . .”

Tozzi looked pissed. “What the hell's wrong with you? I poured my heart out to you last night. Valerie's lying in a hospital with two holes in her, and you want me to go play up to this munchkin MD. I can't do that, Gib. It wouldn't feel right.”