Bad Apple (16 page)

“Liar.”

“Gina, I'm telling you the truth. I didn't rat on anybody.”

Bells was hysterical again, getting a real charge out of their arguing, but Tozzi was shitting bricks. He never liked being on the defensive, having to make excuses. It made you sound like a liar even if you weren't. He had to give her a direct answer, and denial was his only choice.

She let go of his hand and tried to pull it away, forgetting that they were cuffed. “You're a real jerk, you know that? You sweet-talked me and fed me all that bullshit about liking me, when all you really wanted was information about my brother. You came up to my apartment that day just to see if you could get something on my brother. You didn't give a shit about me. I can't believe this.” There was venom in her eyes.

The sweat was dripping down Tozzi's back. Oh, shit . . .

Bells stopped laughing. His mouth was a straight line, his eyes were dull and flat. Tozzi could feel his motor revving. “You screwed her?”

“Bells, listen to me—”

He looked at Gina. “You slept with this guy?”

She turned her face away and didn't answer.

Bells was nodding. His face was like a dark house. “This is nice. You're sleeping with this rat, and he's trying to fuck me over. Very nice, Gina. I like this.”

“It was only once,” she snapped.

But Bells wasn't listening. He was talking to himself, running it down out loud. “They got my face on TV, and a million cops are out there looking for me, and you went to bed with this guy. Wonderful.”

The back of Tozzi's shirt was drenched under his coat. “You're jumping to conclusions, Bells. It's not what you think. Talk to me.”

But Bells didn't hear. His face was empty; he was in another world. Tozzi followed his gaze to a Korean grocery store on the corner across the street. A truck driver was unloading crates of lettuce from the back of an open panel truck.

“Hey!” Gina yelped as Bells suddenly grabbed a fistful of her hair and pushed her across the street. His gun hand was still in his pocket, and Tozzi could see the bulge of the barrel through the fabric. They moved toward the cab of the truck like a dysfunctional conga line. Keeping his grip on Gina's hair, Bells stepped up on the running board, glanced inside, then stepped down all in one motion.

“Leggo,” Gina yelled, but he shoved her toward the back of the truck, dragging Tozzi along with them.

Tozzi didn't resist. The gun was pointed at Gina's back, and he knew that Bells wasn't shy about shooting in public.

The Korean man unloading vegetables glanced up when he heard Gina's complaining. The automatic flew out of Bells's pocket and was in the man's face, making him cross-eyed.

“Keys,” Bells ordered.

The man sputtered in Korean.

“Keys to the truck.”

The man shrugged and jabbered. He didn't understand English.

Bells backhanded him across the temple with the gun barrel. The man staggered back, and suddenly another Korean in a white apron rushed out of the store with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. Bells let go of Gina and moved right into his face, jamming the automatic into his throat and beating him to the
punch. The trembling man raised his arms in surrender, and Bells slapped the shotgun out of his hand.

“Keys. I want the truck keys.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, okay, okay,” the Korean grocer said. His accent was thick, but he understood what Bells wanted. “In pocket.” He pointed to the stunned truck driver who was sitting on the sidewalk, tendering his head. “In pocket.”

Bells tipped the grocer's chin up with the gun barrel. “Get them. Get the keys.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I get for you. I get.” The grocer hunkered down and fished the keys out of the driver's jacket. He dangled them in his fingers, holding them up at arm's length, straining his neck muscles against the muzzle digging into his throat. “You want money, I get money. No shoot me. Please. I get money for you.”

Bells ignored the offer and knocked the squatting grocer to the ground with a bump of his hip. He turned the gun on Tozzi and Gina. “In,” he said, nodding into the back of the truck.

Tozzi couldn't believe what he'd just seen. It had flashed by him as if it were on a movie screen. The way Bells had moved was unreal. His focus and execution were extraordinary. There was no emotion or hesitation in his attack. Bells didn't think, he just acted. It was the kind of spirit Tozzi had seen only in the very best aikido practitioners, the real masters. The whole incident had taken fifteen, twenty seconds tops, but it wasn't until it was over and Bells was ordering them into the back of the truck that Tozzi realized that he'd been mesmerized by the spectacle. If he'd had the presence of mind to act, he might have been able to do something to get Bells's gun away from him while he was threatening the Koreans. But Tozzi hadn't done a thing. He'd just watched. It gradually materialized in Tozzi's mind, like a Polaroid developing as he watched, that despite all his FBI training
and all his aikido training, he was probably no match for Bells.

“In.” Bells pointed into the back of the truck with the gun.

Gina looked totally put out, but she started climbing in, crawling onto the edge on her knees. She jerked Tozzi's handcuffed wrist. “C'mon!” Her voice was like new chalk on a blackboard.

“Go 'head, Mikey. Get in.” Bells was smiling again, back under control. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Reluctantly Tozzi climbed up onto the tailgate. He jerked Gina's arm without meaning to, and Gina jerked back, tit for tat. They stood up together and looked down at Bells, Tozzi feeling stupid and helpless.

“Have fun,” Bells said as he grabbed the hanging strap and pulled the overhead gate down with a rattle and a crash.

Standing there in the dark, they could hear the clatter of Bells padlocking the gate.

Tozzi looked around as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A sliver of sunlight penetrated the emptiness from a crack in the seam of one of the side walls. It was uncomfortably cool and damp back there, and there was a faint smell like something about to go bad.

“Shit,” Gina said. “This is all your fault.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, yours. You got him mad.”

“
I
got him mad?”

The truck engine turned over then, and Tozzi heard the parking brake being released. The truck took off with a jerk, and they both were thrown back.

“Sit down,” Tozzi said, squatting down and feeling around for something to sit on.

“Don't tell me what to—”

The truck suddenly braked hard, and Gina was thrown forward, nearly yanking Tozzi's arm out of its socket.

“Sit down!” he repeated, annoyed with her hard head.

“Don't tell me what to do.” She settled down without his help and found a place for herself, keeping as far from him as possible. “Now what?”

“Whatta'ya mean, ‘now what'?”

“Now what? That's what I mean.”

“I don't know.”

“Great.”

They didn't say anything. Only the sound of gears grinding and whining filled the gloom. Tozzi was thinking about what Bells had done to those two Koreans back there, how smooth and efficient his movements were, how detached and unemotional he was when he was hurting someone. It was terrifying.

“God
damn
it!” Gina suddenly yanked his arm again as she tried to get up. “Yuck!”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm sitting in tomatoes, dammit.”

“Oh.”

As she shifted her position, Tozzi felt around to see what he was sitting on.

Potatoes.

Lorraine stared at the speaker, lulled by the soft hiss of the static. The interior of the van was dim and solemn. Traffic was backed up inside the Lincoln Tunnel, heading toward New Jersey. Craning her neck, she could see through the windshield. The taillights of the cars up ahead reflected off the tile walls, like long unfurling neon-red streamers. It made her think of Chinese New Year.

Traffic slowed, and brake lights flashed on, one after the other. The red glow gave Freshy's pale face some color. He looked anxious, but Lorraine suspected that this might be his standard expression.

Gibbons was leaning against the wall in the rear of the van, his head tipped back, face shrouded in shadow. His eyes shimmered through the dark. He was staring at Stanley.

Half of Stanley's face was shaded, the other half tinged with red. His huge jaw made him look like the Tin Man, only stouter and more menacing. His eyes shimmered, too, under half-closed lids as he stared back at Gibbons. He held his gun on the flat of his thigh.

No one had said anything since they'd slipped into the tunnel. The strange light and shadow had hushed them. Even the static coming out of the speaker seemed more subdued.

Lorraine looked at Gibbons, hoping to catch his eye, but he kept his stare leveled on Stanley as he rubbed his chest in slow rhythmic circles. She wished he'd look at her, acknowledge her, acknowledge that he wasn't angry with her, even though it infuriated her that she was feeling guilty like this. He was the one who had been acting like an ass, using his toothache as an excuse for being Attila the Hun. But she did feel guilty, and she couldn't help feeling that way because after he'd been shot and he was lying there and she thought he was dead,
she did not cry.
She wasn't distraught; she wasn't sad. She was simply resigned and, in her heart of hearts, maybe even relieved. Not happy that he was dead, but relieved that something she'd been secretly dreading had finally happened, and now she could let her breath out and get on with the next phase, whatever that was. Widow? Widowed professor? Old schoolmarm widow? Fifty-ish white widow, Ph.D., seeking stimulating companion for chess, Chaucer, long walks on the beach, fine wine, and low-fat cheese at sunset. Smokers and men likely to be shot to death in the line of duty need not respond.

Lorraine thought back to when she was kneeling over him on the polished floor in Macy's between the cosmetics counters. Had she really filed him away like an obituary cut out of the newspaper, right on the spot? It was humiliating to have to admit to herself that she'd actually thought about “the next one.”

She could feel her face getting hot. Christ, if Gibbons had really died, she could've hopped up on a stool and had one of the counter girls do a makeover on her. After all, she would have to start “dating” again, as those old gaudy divorcees always say on the TV talk shows. The thought of a postmenopausal woman using the word
dating
had always seemed idiotic and embarrassing to her, but now she was ashamed to admit that she'd secretly believed all along that someday she'd be “dating” again herself.
Because deep down she believed that her husband would inevitably be killed in the line of duty.

She stared at Gibbons's hand rubbing circles into his shirt. She didn't want to apologize to him. Feeling what you feel isn't a crime, and besides, he didn't deserve an apology. But she did want to connect with him, talk to him, figure out what was going wrong between them. Of course, she knew what he'd say if she tried to discuss her feelings. “What is this, a support group, Lorraine?” He always avoided real emotion with his snide humor. But this she had to get off her chest. She had to know why she was so ready to accept his death, why she couldn't cry when she saw him lying there. Maybe that said something about their relationship, something neither of them was willing to face. She needed to talk to him about this, but the evil Tin Man was sitting right there, and moonfaced Freshy was up front in the driver's seat. And Gibbons was furious with the whole situation, she could tell. He was definitely in no mood to talk. As if he ever were.

The van suddenly jolted, and everyone lurched forward as Freshy hit the brakes hard.

“Hey!” Stanley shouted. “Whatta'ya doing, jerkoff?”

“Sorry.”

“You're driving like an idiot. What'sa matta with you?”

Freshy turned around and gave Stanley a dirty look. “What'sa matta with
me
? Bells has my sister in fucking handcuffs, and he's taking her back to his place. That's what'sa matta with me. He's fucking crazy, that guy.”

Stanley glared at him, like an unamused largemouth bass ready to swallow something whole, just out of spite. He clearly didn't like anyone saying anything bad about Bells.

“Watch out!” Stanley yelled.

Freshy turned back to the road and slammed on the brakes.
Tires screeched as the van came up fast on the car ahead. They stopped inches from the car's bumper.

“Will you watch what the fuck you're doing? You're gonna have an accident.”

“I'm nervous,” Freshy shouted back. “You guys got me all nervous.”

Lorraine glanced at Gibbons. Her heart was pounding. She was certain he would've taken advantage of the diversion to pounce on Stanley. But he didn't. He just sat there, not moving, staring out of the shadows, his eyes glimmering. Her heart pounded harder. She couldn't help thinking that his anger was all directed at her, not Stanley or Freshy, at her. For not crying. But that was ridiculous. She was being absurd. He wouldn't want her to cry. He hated it when she got emotional.

She looked away to avoid Gibbons's accusing stare. “I don't think you really have to worry about your sister,” she said to Freshy, hoping to break the tension. “Wiseguys don't hurt women, do they? La Cosa Nostra rules of honor forbid it, no? Especially an innocent woman.”

The largemouth bass coughed up a laugh. “An innocent woman . . . I like that.”

“Shut up!” Freshy snapped.

Lorraine wrinkled her brow. She was confused.

Gibbons's voice came out of the shadows, like the oracle of doom. “Nobody's innocent, not with these people.”

Freshy was pouting and scowling at the windshield.

Lorraine looked at Stanley. “Did Freshy's sister do something wrong? Why did you say that?”