Bad Apple (20 page)

“Your friend Bells gave me thirty-two G's this morning to pay off what this guy owed me.” Buddha nodded at Freshy, who kept his eyes straight ahead because he didn't exist. “That money was counterfeit. All of it. Pretty funny, huh?”

Gibbons was rubbing his jaw. The tooth was twitching, but he started to laugh anyway, quietly, to himself at first, but then
he couldn't control himself. His eyes were tearing, and his fingers were clamped on his temples, his shoulders bouncing up and down.

Buddha was not amused. “What the fuck is so funny over there?”

Gibbons wiped the corner of his eye with his finger. “That was
our
money, the Bureau's. It was seized in another operation down in Virginia.”

“What?”

“The agent Bells shot last night? He was carrying counterfeit bills. Bells ripped him off, but what he got was funny money. Serves the bastard right.” Gibbons started laughing again. He knew he shouldn't be laughing because for all he knew Gary Petersen could be near death, but this part was funny. Justice comes in strange ways sometimes, and this was precious. Who would've guessed that Bells would sign his own death warrant by paying off his capo with phony bills? Once in a while, life
is
fair.

Buddha ignored Gibbons and turned his gaze to Freshy, who was keeping his eyes straight ahead, not existing. “This wasn't your idea, was it?”

Freshy shook his head, but he wouldn't look at Buddha.

“You sure?”

“I swear to God, I didn't know nothing about that money. I swear.”

“He was paying off
your
loan.”

“I didn't know nothing about it. I swear.”

“But it was
your loan.
”

Freshy winced as if he expected to get smacked. “I'm telling you the truth. I am. I swear. Really.”

“Then why do you think Bells would give me bullshit money?”

“I dunno, Mr. Stanzione. I don't.”

“Take a guess.”

“I don't—”

“Take a guess.”

Freshy squirmed in his seat. He wished he didn't exist. “I dunno. Really. I dunno, maybe . . . maybe he did it for my sister.”

“Oh, yeah? Why would he screw
me
for your sister? I don't get it.”

“He likes my sister, everybody knows that. But she's—well, you know how broads are. They just try to make you crazy. First it's yes, then it's no. You never know where you stand with Gina. And that's how she is with Bells. I think.”

The monkey frowned. “What the fuck has she got to do with my money?”

“Well, see, Bells probably figured he could get on Gina's good side by helping me out. We're really close, her and me. Brother and sister, you know? She, like, worries about me. She knew I was into you for a big piece, and she wasn't happy about that, so maybe Bells figured he'd be a good guy and pay it off for me. Not for nothing, I mean. I guess I'd have to pay him back. If the money was real, that is. But, you know, maybe Bells figured Gina would be so grateful, she'd straighten out and stop dicking him around, tell him what he wanted to hear. I dunno. They're both nuts. Anything's possible.” Freshy was still too frightened to look at Buddha.

Buddha didn't say a thing. He just stared at Freshy, making him uncomfortable. “Are you lying to me?”

The speaker interrupted.
“I told you, don't touch me. I don't want your goddamn coat.”

“Fine. Then freeze. No use trying to be nice to you. You just end up getting your head bit off.”

“Stop talking. You're giving me a headache.”

“Shhh. I think we're stopping.”

“Like I care.”

“Shut up!”

“Don't tell me to shut up.”

Tozzi didn't answer her.

A faint whining, clanking sound came out of the speaker. It sounded like a truck transmission going in reverse. Buddha stared at the speaker. One eyebrow went up as the other one went down. The monkey was taking this all in.

Buddha eyed all the equipment, then looked at Gibbons. “So where are they?”

Gibbons shrugged. Buddha could drop dead.

Stanley jumped in, afraid to leave the capo's question unanswered. “It's not like radar, Mr. Stanzione. We can't, like, pinpoint them. But they must be around here somewhere. And Bells must be with them, or else they wouldn't still be together. Seeing how much these two like each other.” Stanley looked around for someone to back him up, but as far as Gibbons was concerned, he could go to hell. And Lorraine, like Freshy, was too scared to even move.

The monkey wiggled his eyebrows and thought this over, then he gestured with his head toward Gibbons and Lorraine. “Get rid of them.”

Stanley looked confused. “You mean whack 'em?”

“No. Just get rid of them. Lose 'em.”

Stanley waved his gun at Gibbons. “Get out. Both of youse.”

Gibbons was reluctant to get out. Buddha's primates weren't that far up on the evolutionary chain. They might interpret Buddha's order as including a beating. Gibbons wasn't worried about himself. It was Lorraine. The friggin' boneheads better not touch her.

As he started to get off his seat, the side door of the van slid
open. Two of the gorillas were waiting to escort them out. He stepped out and turned his back on them to help Lorraine out, ready to throw an elbow into anyone who came too close. Lorraine looked scared, but Gibbons was going to protect her. A jackhammer was working on his tooth now, so a little more pain wouldn't make much difference. Besides, he was feeling ornery enough to take on all five of them at once,
plus
the monkey.

“Shut the door,” Buddha ordered as he walked around the front of the van. He walked up to Gibbons and was about eye level with Gibbons's chin. He stayed away from Lorraine. She was a little taller than Gibbons, almost a full head taller than Buddha.

“Tell your people over at the FBI that they don't have to worry about Bells. We'll take care of him.”

“Not if we get him first.”

“You won't.” Buddha walked past Gibbons and got back into the smoke-gray Lincoln blocking the road behind the van. Two of his gorillas followed him. Two got into the black Lincoln, and the last ape took Freshy's place behind the wheel of the van. Three engines started up, one right after the other, and the wiseguy caravan took off, the surveillance van sandwiched in between the two luxury cars. They turned left at the next corner and disappeared.

“Fuck you, too,” Gibbons grumbled at their exhaust.

Lorraine clutched his bicep. “They're going to kill Michael, aren't they?” She seemed more resigned than alarmed.

“They won't kill him now that they know he's an agent. But Bells . . . I dunno.”

She let out a shuddering sigh that was so sad, Gibbons forgot about his aching tooth.

“You okay?” he asked.

She shook her head no, slow and sad. The loose hair around her face swayed like a hula dancer's skirt.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. “I didn't even think to ask. That pill made me so dopey.”

She tilted her head and gave him a weird look. It surprised him. It was the look she wore whenever he was in trouble. But what the hell did he do now? He'd had a feeling she had a bug up her ass about something ever since Macy's, but he figured she was just scared and worried sick about her cousin. But now she had this real end-of-the-world look, like she was standing on the edge of a cliff looking out at a stinky black void, and it was all
his
fault. He decided not to make an issue out of it. Maybe her problem would just clear up on its own.

“You got any more of those pills, Lorraine? My tooth is kicking up again.”

She shook her head. “I lost my purse back at Macy's. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay. It's not your fault.”

She wasn't listening, though. She was frowning at the void again. He thought about saying something but decided against it. Why ask for trouble?

“C'mon. Let's go find a phone,” he said. “I gotta call in and let them know what's going on.”

“What about Michael?”

Gibbons shrugged. “If we had the van, maybe we could've found them.”

“Bells is going to kill him. He took them to that place, the Belfry.”

The look on her face was so sad, Gibbons didn't know what to do: lie to her to make her feel better or tell her the truth. The way he saw it, Bells was too damn unpredictable to say what he'd
do with Tozzi. But Gibbons didn't want to lie to her and tell her everything would be okay, because he wasn't so sure himself. He remembered how shook up Freshy had been when Stanley told him to go to the Belfry. He could just imagine what kind of place that was.

Gibbons pointed up the block. “Let's find a phone. Who knows? Maybe our guys have already located them.”

“You don't really think so, do you?” She was either very depressed or very sarcastic, he couldn't tell for sure. He must've done something wrong. She was definitely in a mood.

He shaded his eyes and peered down the deserted street. Cinder-block factory walls lined the sidewalks on both sides. They were covered with spray-painted graffiti, and not particularly good graffiti at that. Down at the end of the street, two blocks away, a small cluster of very old red brick buildings sat by themselves like an island in the middle of muddy overgrown lots surrounded by Cyclone fencing. A sign hung out over the sidewalk on the closest building, but Gibbons couldn't make out what it said. What he did see was the glow of an orange neon sign in the front window, probably a Bud sign. There was a green and white neon sign in the same window. Probably Rolling Rock.

“There's a bar up there,” he said. “C'mon. I can call in from there. I could use a good stiff drink anyway.”

“Me too,” Lorraine said.

Gibbons looked at her sideways. There was
definitely
something wrong. Lorraine wanting a drink in a sleazy bar before sundown? That wasn't her at all.

“Let's go,” she said, and started walking toward the bar. She cast a long, lonely shadow that reached from the middle of the street all the way over to the graffiti-covered walls. Olive Oyl
walking into the sunset. Olive Oyl in mourning. Olive Oyl royally pissed off.

Gibbons pressed his fingers into his sore jaw. He couldn't figure her out for shit.

“Wake up, my little kumquats.”

The doors swung open, and the back of the truck was flooded with light. Tozzi had to squint against the sudden brightness. He felt a tug on his handcuffed wrist as Gina tried to shield her eyes with her forearm.

Bells was standing outside on a loading dock, gun in hand, beaming at them. “C'mon. Get up. We're home.”

“Whose home?” Tozzi hauled himself to his feet with a groan. His joints were stiff from the cold damp interior of the truck.

He tried to help Gina up, but she shrugged him off. Tozzi's coat was hanging inside out from their handcuffed wrists, like a muff. They'd both refused to wear it.

“What'sa matter? You two kids can't get along?” Bells laughed as he motioned with his gun for them to get out of the truck.

As Tozzi stepped into the sunlight, he gathered up the ends of his coat so Gina wouldn't trip. Then he wondered why the hell he was worrying about her. She was so goddamn nasty—let her trip.

Bells started doing that little voodoo dance of his, moving on
the balls of his feet. “C'mon, Gina. Let's move it. I thought you were dying to see my place here.”

“Go scratch, will ya, Bells?” If looks could kill . . .

There wasn't much to see from the cracked cement loading dock, just a big dirt lot with abandoned cars and dumped stoves and refrigerators poking out of the overgrown weeds. Tozzi squinted at the horizon, looking for big buildings. Maybe he could figure out where they were if he could identify something, but between the overhanging tin roof on the loading dock and the truck in the way, he couldn't see very much.

A freight elevator was already open, waiting for them. With its wooden gate up, it looked like a big mouth ready to swallow them.

Gina was rubbing her arms, inching out into the sun, but the muzzle of Bells's gun corralled her back into the shade. “This way, Gina.”

“Don't talk to me, okay?”

“Why so mean, Gina? What'd you do to her, Mikey? You didn't try to take advantage of her back there, did you? Shame on you.” Bells was getting a big kick out of himself, but there was an edge to his good humor that made Tozzi nervous. “Shall we?” Bells cocked his head and escorted them into the elevator.

When they were inside, Bells dropped the gate and yanked on the rope that started it. It must've been a very old building, Tozzi thought. You didn't see many of these rope-start elevators anymore. Bars of light and shadow passed over their faces as the rickety elevator moaned and groaned its way up. No one spoke, but Bells whistled softly to himself. It took Tozzi a second to recognize the tune. “Would You Like to Swing on a Star?” The elevator was so slow, Bells had time to go through two verses and then some.

It stopped with a jolt, and Bells threw the gate up with one
hand. Jiggling the gun barrel, he indicated that they should get out. “Go on in. Go on. Don't be shy.” He grinned at Tozzi. “‘Or would you rather be a pig?'”

Tozzi scanned the large loft space. It was nothing special. The walls were crumbling, open-faced brick, and the hardwood floors were grimy and scarred. A room had been made out of a corner of the space, but the wallboard walls had never been painted. A dingy kitchen had been set up in the opposite corner from the room: cheap metal cabinets, Formica counter in an imitation wood-grain pattern, a square table with five mismatched chairs. The stove was old, but the big refrigerator looked fairly new. Two imitation-leather sofas—one black, the other green—and two burgundy imitation-leather lounge chairs were grouped near the kitchen. Newspapers, magazines, and full ashtrays were scattered all around. The place had the feel of a men's clubhouse where guys hung out, drank beer, ate pizza, played cards, made coffee, and shot the shit.