Bad Luck (34 page)

“Go fuck yourself.” Gibbons moved the paper plate out of his reach.

“My partner, real nice guy. Thanks a lot.” I just got my ass kicked, and you won't even give me half of your cheesesteak.

“The place is right over there.” Gibbons pointed to the Philly Cheesesteak concession. “Get your own.”

“No, I don't want it now.” He went back to playing with the saltshaker.

Gibbons raised the coffee to his lips. “You gonna sulk now? Big fucking baby. Here. Take it.” He pushed the paper plate in front of Tozzi.

“I don't want it.”

“Go 'head, take it now. You wanted it.”

“No, you eat it.”

“No, I don't want it. You're gonna tell Lorraine, and I'm gonna end up getting the cholesterol lecture again from Miss Mazola Margarine, the goodness of corn and all that shit.”

Tozzi looked down at the melted cheese oozing over the mess of meat and fried onions. Wasn't really good for him either. But they did taste good. He picked up the sandwich. Just one bite. “You know what the problem is, Gib?” He took a bite, chewed a little, then wiped his mouth. “Everything's going their way. It's working like clockwork for them. At this point they can't go wrong. We gotta make something happen. That's what we have to do. Fuck up their plans a little so somebody slips up and gives us a chance.”

Gibbons put down his coffee and scowled. “Here we go. So how should we disregard the Bill of Rights this time,
goombah?”

“No, seriously. Nashe and Immordino think they're home free. We gotta shake them up, make them think—”

Gibbons was shaking his head no when Tozzi suddenly spotted them over Gibbons's shoulder. They were leaning on one of those stand-up counters, coffees steaming in front of them, both of them trying not to be obvious about it, but they were looking right at him. It took a minute for Tozzi to be sure, but he remembered the blond guy's hair, how it was shaved around the ears and wavy on top like a Hitler
Jugend.
And the other guy, the greaser, he was still wearing that herringbone jacket, the sleeves too long. That was them, the two torpedoes Immordino had sent to ambush him in the parking lot at the Epps camp. They were hunched over, talking, taking turns looking at him. Tozzi rubbed his ankles together, wishing he had his weapon. Shit. Crowded room, lots of confusion. They were here to make a hit. Finish the job they'd screwed up two weeks ago, the job Immordino fucked up the other day. Shit.

Tozzi kept his eye on the torpedoes. “Come on, Gib. Let's go.”

“I haven't finished my lunch—”

“Fuck lunch. Let's go. Now!”

Gibbons wiped his fingers, serious now. “Who is it?”

“Two of them. A blond German-looking guy in a tan suit, and a greaser—herringbone sport jacket, designer jeans, black dress shoes—you know the look, guinea collegiate. Immordino's guys.”

“Too many people here. Take it outside.” Gibbons stood up, picked up what was left of his lunch, and carried it to the trash, nice and easy.

Tozzi walked ahead, wondering whether they should take the escalator or the stairs. Either way was bad. Too many people. He turned to face Gibbons, glanced back at the torpedoes. They were taking their last sips and dumping their coffees. “They're coming.”

“Take the escalator down,” Gibbons said. “Turn left when we get out on the boardwalk. Go to the first stairway down to the beach. Take it there.”

They got on the escalator and started to glide down. A giant banner was suspended from the ceiling, swaying gently over the moving stairs:
THE WAR DOWN THE SHORE—NASHE PLAZA.
Walker and Epps, twenty feet tall, glaring at each other. Tozzi leaned against the rail, put his foot up on the higher step, and caught a glimpse of Blondie and the greaser getting on up top. A bunch of giggly Chinese kids and a lot of retirees were between them. He glanced up as they passed under the giant boxers, followed them with his eyes. Fee-fi-fo-fum . . .

They stepped off the escalator on the ground floor and headed for the front doors, walking through the mall fast but not too fast, weaving through the strolling crowds, keeping track of each other, Gibbons lagging behind a little, jacket unbuttoned, ready to go for Excalibur if he had to. They passed a salt-water taffy shop. The warm, sugary smell reminded Tozzi of when he was a kid and he used to watch them make taffy on the boardwalk in Asbury Park. Ladies in white aprons and hairnets twisting these giant wads of taffy—like an elephant's foot on one end, tapering down to a pencil point on the other—feeding it into a clacking machine that cut off pinkie-sized pieces and wrapped them in waxed paper. He glanced into the store's window, but there was no one working a big wad inside. In the reflection off the glass he could see Blondie behind him, closer than he thought. He walked faster. Gibbons followed.

“I don't like this,” Tozzi said, looking straight ahead.

“Why?”

“Because I don't have a gun, that's why.”

“I do.”

Tozzi rolled his eyes toward Gibbons. “And who're you, Rambo? Forget it. The odds stink.”

“So what do you wanna do? Split up?”

“Yeah. They want me, not you. How about if I go down to the beach alone, see if they follow me? You know those columns in front of Convention Hall? Get there ahead of
us. You can get the drop on them from up there, pick 'em off easy if they don't want to surrender.”

Gibbons scowled at him. “Get the drop on them? What're you, the Cisco Kid?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Not really.”

“Then?”

“All right, go ahead. Do it.”

They pushed through the front doors simultaneously. Gibbons dodged in front of boardwalk strollers, getting lost in the crowd. Tozzi sprinted for the stairs that led down to the beach. As he ran down the wooden steps, he could see them coming, Blondie and the greaser, knocking people down left and right to get to him. Great.

Tozzi hit the sand and started running up the beach. His shoes sank into the dry sand, slowed him up, reminded him of yesterday, running back to the beach house, to Valerie. He couldn't run fast enough. He glanced back over his shoulder. The greaser already had his gun out, holding it out in front of him as he ran. Good. Gibbons would have good cause to plug the stupid fuck without bothering too much with the formalities.

He looked up at the boardwalk as he ran. He could hear people up there yelling and screaming, probably the ones who saw the greaser waving the pistol. By now Blondie probably had his weapon out too. Tozzi glanced at the people up there, the crowd whizzing by. He hoped to hell Gibbons could run. Then he remembered the cheesesteak, the cholesterol. Fuck. Why the hell couldn't he have had a salad instead? Why doesn't Gibbons ever listen—

A spurt of sand appeared a few feet in front of him, then he heard the crack of the shot behind him. He glanced back at them. Blondie did have his gun out. Goddamn them. Tozzi scanned the beach for innocent bystanders. It was mostly deserted, except for a couple of sunbathers willing to brave the stiff spring winds. Someone up on the boardwalk actually stood a better chance of taking a stray bullet. Wonderful. Tozzi was panting, breathing through
his mouth. His legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to keep pumping. His head was throbbing again, and he was beginning to wheeze. He was angry with himself for punking out so soon. He blinked back the grit in his eyes and ran, forcing himself to focus on what was up ahead. You better fucking be there, Gibbons.

That's when he spotted them. In front of the columns. Kids. Girls in matching pink bathing suits and white sneakers—nine, ten years old. Skinny little girls with batons. And a woman in sweats, the instructor. Baton twirlers. Right in front of the columns. Of course.

“Get down!” he yelled. “Get down!” Wheezing for air. Head pounding.

Another shot hit the sand, the report following. Then two more shots, one right after the other.

“Get down!”

They just stood there, gawking at him. What the hell's wrong with that woman? Make those kids get down flat, for chrissake. Stupid girls. Where's Gibbons?

They were thirty feet in front of him, just standing there like a bunch of stupids, gawking at him, just like everybody else up there. Tozzi looked up, spotted Gibbons in front of one of the gray stone columns. He was shaking his head.

Yeah, right, genius. I know that! Can't fucking shoot with a bunch of stupid little girls hanging around, can we? Goddamn idiot instructor.
She
ought to be shot.

Tozzi considered taking a sharp left and heading for the waves, but then changed his mind and ducked under the boardwalk. Dark and cool under there, herringbone pattern of light beaming through the planks overhead, thundering herds above, the gambling hordes pounding the boards. Easier on the legs under here, the sand not so dry. But these mossy black timbers—you had to dodge around them like a Porsche on a goddamn road test.

He stopped behind a timber to let his eyes adjust to the dim light so he could see where they were. He squinted out toward the bright sand on the beach, and—
zing!
—a bullet tore a chunk out of the timber just above his head.
He dropped to his knees, covered up, scrambled to the next timber. He peered out at the rows of black uprights, whalebones seen from the inside. A dark silhouette breathing hard clung to one of them. Where was the other son of a bitch? Shit. Tozzi turned and ran—legs aching, head splitting—wondering where the other guy was, where the hell Gibbons was. It got darker, colder. What the hell was down here? Couldn't see shit. He felt trapped all of a sudden—no weapon, no escape, couldn't outrun them much longer—

But then he saw it, a light. A cheapskate twenty-five-watt bulb over some kind of entranceway, a stairway, it looked like. Concrete steps. He zigzagged toward the light bulb. He didn't have much choice.

It was cold in the concrete stairway, but the cold didn't help his pounding head. He leapt up the steps, three at a time, his chest about to explode. At the top of the stairs he could see there was a door, a warped wooden door, the laminate split and curling at the edges, a rusty padlock in the hasp. Shit. Tozzi didn't stop, he just kept going, shoulder first, and
crash!
He bent over, gripping his shoulder. The pain was incredible. It felt like he'd been hit with an electrified ax. Then he heard their voices, remembered Blondie's nasal whine from the parking lot that last time. Tozzi stood up and kicked the door, kept kicking it again and again, splintering wood until there was a crack right up the center. The torpedoes were at the bottom of the stairs, he could hear them. He rammed the ruined door with his back—once, twice—then fell through, losing his balance, shocked that the door had given up without more of a fight. He was on his back, on a concrete floor. He rolled over and got to his feet, ran on without thinking, clutching his shoulder, down a dark corridor, green-painted cinder-block walls, dim light bulbs on the ceiling in little red cages, a few closed doors on either side. The shoulder was hot with pain. He squeezed it as he ran up to a metal staircase at the end of the hall. There was another door at the top, but this one wasn't locked. He could see a sliver of
light beaming through, more than a sliver. Thank God for small favors. Tozzi pounded up the metal steps, struggling for breath, stumbled through, closed the door behind him. A brick wall was on his left, a curtain—plum-colored velvet—on the right. Folding chairs, a big standing fan, and a flock of music stands were blocking his way in front. He stopped and tried to listen for Blondie and the greaser over his own rough breathing, see if they were coming up the metal stairs after him. But what he heard was coming from somewhere else. The other side of the curtain.

Tozzi dropped to his knees and looked under. It didn't make any sense at first. Rowdy crowd of people in the audience, lot of cameras flashing, couple guys onstage with no shirts on, lot of other people crowding around them. Somebody yelling at somebody else, some black guy. Then he saw the scale and he knew what this was. It was the weigh-in for the fight, Walker and Epps stripped down to their trunks, getting weighed, last chance to scream at each other and make the news. Of course. He was backstage inside Convention Hall. Son of a bitch.

He shut his mouth and forced himself to breathe through his nose to get his wind back. He took off the Yankee cap, wiped his brow with his sleeve, put the hat back on, then bent over with his hands on his knees and took deep breaths. Then he heard them—felt them first—the vibration of feet pounding up the metal stairs on the other side of that door. Abbott and Costello.

Without thinking, Tozzi ducked under the curtain and stumbled out onstage into the bright lights. He froze for a second, squinting to see past the lights, but then realized that no one was paying any attention to him. There were a lot of people onstage, a lot of hubbub. “Pain” Walker was up on the scale, muttered and cussing like a soup-kitchen psychotic. Epps was off to the side, pointing at him and snickering. Tozzi moved toward the crowd gathered around the fighters, worried that Blondie and the greaseball might start shooting through the curtain.

He peered into the audience, looking past Walker's well
defined back, wondering if Gibbons was out there. Then it came back to him, what he was telling Gibbons before he'd spotted Immordino's torpedoes in the food gallery. The only way they could nail Immordino and Nashe now was to shake things up, upset their plans, make
them
do the scrambling. It was the only way.