Bad Apple (33 page)

Tozzi was having a hard time paying attention to the parade. The hallway off the living room that led to the bedroom kept calling to him. He knew there was a phone in there, on the end table next to the bed. He couldn't stop thinking about that phone and the fact that he could just go in there and use it. It was like knowing there was a ticking bomb in the next room, and he still had time to do something about it . . . if he knew what to do.

The problem was: Would he end up disarming it or setting it off? He wasn't sure. The possible detonator was in his wallet in his back pocket. A scrap of paper with Gina's phone number on it. He'd copied it from the phone book before he'd left his apartment that morning, but he wasn't exactly sure why.

Well, actually he did know why. Unfinished business, that's why. Unanswered questions that were keeping him from making up his mind about her. She baffled him. He liked her, but he
despised her, too. She could be a total bitch, but he admired her for not taking any shit from anyone. She was a street-smart, smart-mouthed, second-generation Italian, as hardheaded as any greenhorn right off the boat. She had balls, chutzpah, spirit, something. She was a lot like him.

Last night, after “the Bart Simpson Incident,” he didn't say a word to her. He was too pissed off about her not telling him that she'd been with Bells the night before. As soon as they got to the local police precinct, and that NYPD sergeant had unlocked the handcuffs with a master key, and he and Gina were free of one another, he'd just walked away, afraid of what he might say to her if he got started. He assumed she'd gone off to tend to her brother's legal needs, which were going to be considerable despite the fact that Gary Petersen had pulled through and was going to be all right. Naturally, Freshy was a fuck-up as a killer, too. He'd shot Petersen three times at point-blank range, but missed all the vital organs. The worst injury Petersen sustained was a partially collapsed lung.

Tozzi stared down the hallway that led to the bedroom. The smell of roasting turkey was all over the house, but he wasn't very hungry. He couldn't stop thinking about that ring, Margie's wedding band. He could see why Bells had given it to Gina. As sick as it was, it was just the kind of thing he'd do. But why was Gina wearing it around her neck on a chain? That seemed even sicker. Tozzi had been up most of the night thinking about all this, and it was driving him nuts. It was also driving him nuts that he was letting Gina drive him nuts like this.

A commercial came on the TV then, and of course, the volume doubled, demanding Tozzi's attention. The Keebler elves were making cookies in their tree house again. This was the second time they'd run this damn commercial. Tozzi stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the obnoxious little elf voices.

This was stupid, he thought. He stood up and self-consciously arched his back. The damn couch was so squishy, it was giving him a backache. Of course, he'd been sitting on it for more than an hour, brooding, just getting more and more pissed off.

This really was stupid. He glanced down the hallway, then glanced at the kitchen doorway. He thought about it for a second and almost changed his mind again, then called out to his cousin before he did. “Lorraine, I have to make a phone call.”

Her voice sailed out of the kitchen. “Go ahead. You don't have to ask.”

“It better not be long distance.” Gibbons's growl stopped him in his tracks.

Tozzi didn't want them to know who he was calling. “I'll charge it to my phone.” He hoped he didn't sound too suspicious.

“Don't worry about it,” Lorraine said, canceling out Gibbons's warning. “Use the one in the bedroom.”

“Okay.” Tozzi was already heading for their bedroom, pulling out his wallet to get the phone number.

But when he got to the bedroom, he stood on the threshold and stared at Gibbons's and Lorraine's bed. He'd never thought of them sleeping together. Not making love, just sleeping, every night, together. It sort of shifted his perspective on them all of a sudden. They'd been a couple a long time, but Tozzi had never thought of them as
together.
But they were. Gibbons came on like a tough guy, all alone on the mean streets, but he wasn't. He had Lorraine. And she had him. And this was where they had each other. Suddenly Tozzi felt like he shouldn't be here.

He looked at the slip of paper in his hand and read the number. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What was he gonna say to Gina? How was he gonna start the conversation? He didn't know what he wanted to say. What he really wanted was for her
to do the talking. He wanted answers. He wanted her to have one of those automated telephone systems. Press one if you want to know why I'm wearing Margie's ring. Press two if you want to know more about the Sicilian girl. Press three if you want to know who I really care about. . . .

Stupid.

Tozzi grabbed the receiver and started to punch out the numbers. He was an FBI street agent, for chrissake. He'd just been involved in a major arrest. And a kidnapping. He was calling her to follow up on the case, see if she was all right, what her condition was, if she needed anything. A courtesy call, that's all. It was the professional thing to do. Don't make a big deal about it. He'd do all the talking. If she had anything she wanted to say to him, she'd say it. He wasn't gonna pull teeth to get it out of her.

He punched out the last digit and sat down on the edge of the bed, listening to the first ring, ignoring the Keebler elves running around in his nervous stomach. He was just calling to see if she was all right. Just keep it professional, he told himself.

It rang twice.

Keep it professional.

Three times.

Don't even try to drag it out of her. If she wants to talk, she will.

Four times.

Forget it. She isn't home. It's Thanksgiving, and her brother's in jail, and—

“You have reached 555-7846. I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you. And don't forget to wait for the beep. Bye.”

Tozzi frowned. The answering machine. She sounded friendlier on the machine than she was in person. At least toward him.

His heart was slamming as he listened for the beep. He was about to hang up—

Beeeeep.

“Gina, it's me—” he started, then suddenly remembered Bells's voice on her machine.
“Gina, it's me. Gimme a call.”

He started again. “This is Mike Tozzi. I was just calling to see how you were doing . . . I mean, how you are . . . your condition, that is, after the . . . the incident yesterday. Ah, please feel free to call me if you have any questions.”

He hung up the phone fast. His face was red. He sounded like an ass. What kind of questions was she gonna have? He was the one who had the questions. She was gonna have a real good laugh when she heard this.

Then he realized that he hadn't left his phone number on the message. Shit.

The FBI's number is in the book. If she really wanted to talk to him, she'd find it.

But does she know that he's with the Manhattan field office, not the Newark office?

Newark will just tell her to call New York, right? Sure. Probably. He couldn't call her machine again to leave the number. That would sound even more stupid. And desperate. He didn't want her to think he was desperate because he wasn't. He was just being professional.

He stood up, looked down at the phone, and sighed.

Of course, the professional thing to do would be to call back and leave his number, right?

He sat down and punched out her number again before he lost his nerve. He listened to her message, then waited for the beep.

Beeeeep.

“Gina, it's Tozzi again. I forgot to leave my—”

“What do you want?” She picked up. She was there. She sounded really bitchy.

He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to—” He stopped himself short. He was tired of the bullshit, tired of playing games. “I just have one question, Gina. The wedding ring. Why are you wearing it?”

“What? You're sick. I'm hanging up.”

“Just tell me that. That's all I want to know. I won't bother you anymore if you just tell me.”

“You're nuts.”

“Yeah, I know. We've established that. Now just give me a straight answer about the ring. What is it, like an engagement thing, wearing a wedding band like that?”

She sighed into the phone. “I told you. Bells gave it to me. It was Margie's.”

“Yeah, but why were you wearing it?”

“Margie was my best friend, you stupid dickhead. I loved her. And I miss her. What was I supposed to do with it? Stick it in a drawer and forget about it?”

“Oh. . . .”

“You happy now?”

“I was just curious. Sorry to bother you.”

“Oh, now you're gonna apologize? Spare me.”

“All I said was that I was sorry to bother you. It is a holiday. I'm not apolo—”

“Just shut up. I'm not in the mood. I'll call you.” She hung up the phone.

Tozzi stared at the receiver. “I'll call you”? What did she mean by that?

He hung up the phone and furrowed his brow. Nah. She's not gonna call. She didn't mean it that way.

He went back into the living room and returned to his place on the couch.

That's not what she meant. She won't call.

The Goofy balloon was drifting down Broadway on TV.

So what
did
she mean?

Gibbons leaned back from the kitchen table and glared at the TV through the doorway. The camera switched from Goofy to that perky little brunette from the
Today
show. She was holding a microphone, and you could see her breath as she spoke.

“And for those of you just joining us here in Herald Square, New York City, for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, we regret to tell you that one of our big balloons met with tragedy last night. The Bart Simpson balloon was the apparent victim of a mob rubout. Sources tell us that Bart sustained extensive punctures from heavy gunfire while he was being inflated for the parade, and we're told that the damage may be irreparable. A sad loss for fans of the hit cartoon program—”

“Will you turn that off, for chrissake?” Gibbons yelled at the back of Tozzi's head. “At least put on some football if you're gonna watch that thing.”

Tozzi turned around and stared at his partner through the doorway. “I don't like football.”

“What're you, a friggin' communist? Everybody likes football.”

“I don't.”

“Well, you're screwed up anyway.”

“Guess so.” Tozzi turned back to the parade.

Asshole.

Gibbons was still steamed up about Tozzi using the shotgun to deflate the balloon.

Lorraine was over at the counter, pulverizing potatoes in the food processor. She never made mashed potatoes because she
didn't like them herself, but she was making them today. For him.

She dropped a glob of margarine into the hopper. “How's the tooth?”

“What tooth?”

“You know what I mean.”

Gibbons stuck his tongue in the space where his molar had been. “It's better than it was, I guess.” He'd been in so much pain this morning, he begged his dentist to open up the office and yank it. It was still very sensitive now, even with the painkillers, and the sutures smarted whenever he touched them. That's why Lorraine was making mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and cream of carrot soup—that was going to be his Thanksgiving dinner. That and the inside of the pumpkin pie. He figured he'd have the runs for a week on this meatless diet. Either that, or he'd turn into a liberal.

“How's your chest?” Her back was turned to him as she worked the food processor.

“Ugly.” A big yellow and purple bruise covered the left side of his chest where the bullets had hit him, but the crushing chest pains never came back. They took an EKG at the hospital last night, and the doctor told him not to worry. He hadn't had a heart attack. Residual muscle spasms caused by the impact of the bullets after the pain-killers and the booze wore off. He hadn't told Lorraine anything about the chest pains or the EKG. Why worry her?

Lorraine shut off the food processor. “I'm sorry.”

“About what?”

Lorraine turned around. Her face was red. “I'm sorry that I didn't cry for you.” She sniffed and wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “When you got shot yesterday, and you were lying on the floor in Macy's? I didn't cry. It just
wouldn't come. I just stared at you and accepted it . . . that you were dead. I couldn't cry. I'm sorry.”

Gibbons swallowed hard. His stomach sank, weighed down by that feeling of dread he always got whenever Lorraine sprang one of these emotional discussions on him, the ones where she aired her feelings and expected him to do the same. He always felt like he was being put on the spot whenever she did this. He believed in people being honest with each other, but these kind of deep confessionals weren't for everyone. Christ, if everyone started confessing what they really felt about each other, there'd be more domestic violence than there already was. God made people repressed for a reason.

Silent tears brimmed in Lorraine's eyes as she stood there, wringing her mashed-potatoey hands on a dish towel.

Gibbons really felt cornered now. Shit.

He got up and went to her, starting to give her a hug, which was always a good way to get out of these situations. Give her a hug, let her cry it out, and hope it passes quick. But as he went to put his arms around her, she raised her hand to push him away, and he froze, afraid that she'd touch his sore chest.

“What'sa matter?” he said.

“I don't want to be comforted. I want to tell you how I feel.”

Gibbons sighed. There was no way out.

“What happened yesterday really opened my eyes to a lot of things. I guess the biggest shock is that we're getting old.”