Bad Apple (32 page)

“That's bullshit,” Gina snapped. “I don't believe it. Freshy's a jerk, but he's no killer. Believe me.”

“Believe
you
? Why the hell should I believe you? You've been jerking my chain right along. Why didn't you tell me you were with Bells last night?”

Her eyes flashed hot. “I wasn't
with
him last night. He just showed up at my place at midnight.”

“Why? Who goes visiting people at midnight? Tell me that.”

Gina started screaming. “You think I slept with him? Is that it? You think I'm his girlfriend?”

“You're on the right track.”

Bells's voice on the answering machine sliced through the madness all around them and rang in Tozzi's ears:
“Gina, it's me. Gimme a call.”

“You're a jerk, you know that? I knew it right from the start, right after I took you back to my place. I saw you snooping around, checking out my things, looking for clues, looking for signs of another man. And you were sneaky about it, too. You were jealous before you even had anything to be jealous about. Jealous and clingy. Just like him.”

“Him who?”

“Bells. Who the hell're we talking about?”

“You're crazy.”

“No,
you're
crazy. You and Bells are two of a kind. That's why he came to my house last night. That's why he comes buzzing around me all the time, bugging me at home, at work, everywhere.
He thinks he owns me. Are you thick or what? Don't you get it?”

Tozzi's face was burning. “No! I don't get it.”

She pulled out the chain around her neck. Margie's gold wedding band dangled under her chin. “He came by last night to give me this. He wants me to marry him.”

Tozzi was stung, but he wasn't really surprised. “Congratulations,” he shouted.

“You don't understand,” she shouted back. “Margie had told him about the Sicilian girl I found to have their baby. He told me this last night. But he thinks
I'm
the Sicilian girl. He's sick in the head. He thinks Margie's cuckoo plan worked, and I'm pregnant with his kid. That's why he won't leave me alone.”

Tozzi's face was burning. He'd thought that she was the “Sicilian girl,” too. “You really expect me to believe this?”

“I don't give a shit what you believe. It's true.”

“So, are you?”

“What? Pregnant?”

“Tozzi! Tozzi! Behind you.”

Tozzi looked over his shoulder to see who was shouting to him. About three arm-lengths away, a young redheaded guy in a suit was waving to him. There were three other young guys in suits with him. It took Tozzi a second to realize who they were. The redhead's name was Connell, from the FBI's Newark office. They all had their weapons drawn, pointed at the sky, as they fought their way through the crowd. Connell was carrying a shotgun over his head.

“We followed Buddha and his goons here,” Connell shouted. “They were following Gibbons in the surveillance van. But we lost them in the crowd. Have you seen them?”

Tozzi nodded toward the advancing gorillas on his other flank. “They're over—”

Lorraine shook his shoulder and screamed. “Michael! Look!” She was pointing ahead toward the museum.

Tozzi squinted, trying to see what the hell she was getting hysterical about. Then he spotted them, and his jaw dropped. He couldn't fucking believe it. Freshy, Bells, and Gibbons were climbing up the partially inflated Bart Simpson balloon. Freshy was frantically clawing his way up. Bells was right on his heels with his knife in his hand. And Gibbons was bringing up the rear, cursing and screaming and waving his gun at Bells's backside. They were on Bart's striped shirt, climbing up his gigantic body like three ants in a row.

Tozzi glanced back at Buddha's gorillas, who'd spotted them, too. They were all pointing at Bart with their guns, and they all had automatics. The agents from Newark only had revolvers. Tozzi had nothing. Except for Gina on his wrist. He glared at Bells, the second ant in line, and wished to Christ he had a rifle with a scope so he could blow that mother's ass to kingdom come.
Shit!

“Michael! Do something!”

“My brother! They're gonna shoot my brother! Do something!”

Tozzi squinted at Bells. Goddamn you . . .

“Stop, you sons of bitches. You're under arrest.” Gibbons crossed another blue stripe in the big balloon kid's shirt. He was starting to lose his footing now, sliding back into the depressions created by his own weight. He was falling behind, but he wasn't about to let these two dirtbags get away, not after what they'd done to him, to Lorraine, to Petersen, to the Bureau, and worst of all, to his weapon. He shoved Excalibur back into his shoulder holster and grabbed two fistfuls of balloon canvas, hauling himself up.

Bells slashed a wide arc at Gibbons. “Back off, old man.”

“Stick it up your ass.” Gibbons kept climbing.

“I said, back
off.
” Bells slashed again, forcing Gibbons to stop and lean back.

“You're under arrest, Bells.” Gibbons pulled out his gun again. “Drop the knife on the count of three, or I'll plug you one. I mean it. One . . .”

“Whatta'ya after me for? I didn't shoot that guy up on the Turnpike. He did.” Bells pointed with the knife at Freshy.

Freshy's legs were dangling off Bart's drooping bottom lip like a cigarette as he struggled for shelter in the big open mouth. “I heard that, Bells,” the legs shouted. When Freshy made it into the mouth, he poked his head over the side. “I didn't do it, Gib. He did.”

Gibbons cocked the hammer and pointed Excalibur up at Freshy. “Who did it?” he barked.

“Not me. It was h—”

Crack!

Freshy ducked back into Bart's mouth as Gibbons fired and hit the big bottom lip.

The crowd down below screamed en masse.

“Whatta'you, crazy?” Freshy screamed.

Bells nodded down to Gibbons. “That's right. He was the one who did it.”

Gibbons snarled. “You shut up. Freshy,” he shouted. “Who did it, Freshy? Tell me the truth right now, or I'll hit you next time.”

Freshy's voice came out of Bart's mouth. “Gib, I swear to God. I didn't—”

Crack!

Helium rushed out of a second hole in Bart's lip. Freshy peeked over the side, and his hair was blown to one side by the
escaping gas. “All right! All right!” Breathing in the helium, Freshy sounded like Donald Duck. “Don't shoot, don't shoot. It was me, it was me. I did it. But I had a reason, Gib, a
good
reason.”

Gibbons exploded. “I don't wanna hear it.” He was itching to empty his load and do to Freshy what
he'd
done to Gary Petersen.

“No, listen, Gib, really. You gotta listen to me. I had a reason. I had to frame this prick over here before he killed my sister.” He pointed down at Bells.

“What!” Bells glared up at him. “Kill your sister? I wanna fucking marry her.”

“Yeah, then kill her like you killed Margie if she can't get pregnant. You're a sick fuck, Bells. I wasn't gonna let you do that to my sister. No way. You don't know how to take no for an answer, Bells. You were bothering her all the time, she told me. I figured the only way to get you off her case was to get you in jail, man. On death row. It's the only way to get rid of a sicko like you. I swear to Christ, Gib, that's why I did it. I didn't wanna kill that guy Petersen, I just wanted to wing him.
Attempted
murder, you know? All I wanted was for Bells to take the fall for it. I swear to God.”

Bells's eyes were glowing. He stabbed the balloon with the knife and pulled himself up by the handle, reaching out for Bart's lip. Helium rushed into his face, making him squint like a mad Chinaman. He yelled like the bad Donald Duck, “You're dead, you little fuck! You're dead!”

“Stop!” Gibbons was peering down Excalibur's barrel, drawing a bead on the back of Bells's thigh, intent on stopping him, when suddenly he heard the hiccuping crack of automatic gunfire coming from down below. Three bullet holes appeared in Bart's shirt right next to Gibbons's arm. He lost his footing and
spun completely around, dangling by a handful of canvas. A gush of helium rushed into his face.

“Shit!” he yelled in Donald Duck's voice. He gritted his aching tooth. Shit!

“Get 'im,” Buddha yelled to his gorillas. “Get Bells.”

Muscle-bound arms, each one holding an automatic, rose above the crowd, firing up at the balloon.

“Michael,” Lorraine screamed, “do something.”

Gina chimed in from his other side. “Yeah, do something.”

“Stop hanging on me, the two of you,” Tozzi shouted as he shrugged them off. It was worse than a freestyle aikido attack where everybody gets a piece of your
gi
jacket and tries to drag you down. Christ, testing would've been a piece of cake compared to this. He glanced up at Bart Simpson, Freshy in his mouth, Bells on his chin, Gibbons dangling from his shirt. Gina was clutching his hand with both of hers. He couldn't stop staring at Bells. His gut was churning, his face on fire, thinking about him and Gina.

“Gina, it's me. Gimme a call.”

“Connell,” Tozzi yelled over his shoulder, “gimme the shotgun.”

“Right.” The redheaded agent passed the shotgun to Tozzi over the crowd, extending it by the barrel. Tozzi reached out for the butt with his fingertips and finally pulled it in.

“What're you going to do?” Lorraine screamed. Her eyes were wild, hair all over her face. She clutched his arm again, but he shrugged her off before she could latch on.

Tozzi pumped the slide. “What the hell're you doing?” Gina was hanging on his arm again, but he out-muscled her this time. “What're you doing? You're gonna kill somebody with that thing. You're crazy!”

He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and squinted down the sights.

The tape played in his head, over and over.
“Gina, it's me. Gimme a call. . . . Gina, it's me. Gimme a call. . . .”

“You're crazy!” Gina screamed. “You're not gonna hit Bells. Bells is like the devil, he can't die. You're gonna hit my brother. You're gonna hit Freshy!”

Lorraine shrieked in his ear. “That's a shotgun, Michael. You'll hit everybody. You'll hit Gibbons!”

Tozzi shrugged Lorraine off with his left elbow and fought Gina for the use of his right arm.

“Don't do it,” Gina screamed, her face contorted as she strained to pull his hand away from the trigger.

But Tozzi was determined. He was motivated.

“Gina, it's me. Gimme a call. . . . Gina, it's me. Gimme a call—”

Gimme a call, my ass, he thought.

Ka-BOOM!

The crowd was rocked by the explosion, screaming and scattering in fast forward.

Tozzi pumped the shotgun again.

Gina strained. “No! Stop!”

Tozzi took aim. Call this, asshole.

Ka-BOOM!

“Noooooo!” Gina was doing pull-ups on his arm, but there was no stopping him.

“Oh, my God!” Lorraine pointed up at the balloon.

Bart Simpson had a ragged four-foot hole in his side and a matching one in the middle of his forehead. Helium whooshed out of the huge holes like a hurricane, and Bart started to collapse. In less than ten seconds, Gibbons, Freshy, and Bells were covered in folds of canvas, hidden from view.

“The balloon,” Tozzi shouted to the young agents. “Get the guys on the balloon. Arrest them. Go!”

Tozzi whipped around, shotgun pointed up but at the ready. He scanned the scene, looking for Buddha and the gorillas in the dwindling crowd, but all he could see were the soles of people's shoes as they ran for dear life. The wiseguys were gone. He looked back toward Seventy-eighth Street just as the headlights of Buddha's gray Lincoln flashed on and the car went into reverse, braking and blowing its horn at fearful pedestrians as it backed up the block toward Amsterdam Avenue.

The corners of Tozzi's jaws were pulsating. He could feel Gina next to him, but he couldn't look at her. He was too angry, too hurt, too angry at himself for being hurt.

“You could've killed them,” she squawked, but her bitchy heart wasn't in it. “God!”

Tozzi still wouldn't look at her. Even if he could've thought of something to say, he couldn't have gotten the words out. He just wanted her off his wrist and gone.

The street cleared out fast, and NYPD squad cars zoomed in, bubble lights flashing, sirens blaring. Uniforms came running, but the show was over. In the distance, Tozzi watched Gibbons pulling himself out from the heavy folds of canvas, refusing help from the cops. Connell and the boys from Newark had Freshy and Bells in handcuffs. Bells stood erect, as smug as Dracula. Freshy bent over and hid his face like the punk that he was. Looming over them all, Bart Simpson's giant head lolled over on its side, slowly melting into the puddle of balloon that had been his body.

A kid on a skateboard rolled up next to Tozzi. He must've been about ten or eleven, scrawny, with long dirty blond hair under a backward baseball cap. He gazed up at the sad billowing balloon head, mesmerized by the sight.

Gibbons stomped across the street toward Tozzi, his eyes locked onto his partner's. His face was swollen, and he looked mad as hell. Worse than the Grinch who stole Christmas.

The kid on the skateboard looked up at Tozzi. “Hey, man, you killed Bart. Cool.”

Gibbons walked up to Tozzi and snatched the shotgun out of his hand. “Yeah,
real
cool . . . dickhead.”

Tozzi sat slumped down on the couch in Gibbons's living room, staring blankly at the TV set. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade was on, and a bunch of leggy cheerleaders from Oklahoma were doing high kicks down Broadway in the cold drizzle. Lorraine was in the kitchen working on the turkey. Gibbons was in there with her, getting in the way.