Bad Luck (37 page)

“Let him by, Sal. Do you
want
to go to jail? Have a little faith in your brother for a change. He is older than you, you know.”

Joseph pushed his way through and stepped on Sal's foot getting out. “Don't worry, Sal. I'll take care of this.” He started down the aisle.

Oh, shit! Look at him. Mr. Big Deal. He's a functional idiot, for chrissake. He's gonna make it worse than it already is.

Sal looked all around, trying to figure out where the hell the cameras were. Maybe the feds aren't here. Maybe they forgot to come. Then he spotted the gang of photographers down at ringside. Shit. Any one of them. Maybe all of them.

Sal wiped the sweat off his face with his hand and looked at what was going on in the ring. What he saw gave him instant
acido.
Walker was right in Epps's face, in close, cutting the ring. For such a dumb shit, he was fighting smart. Epps had a four-inch-reach advantage, but with Walker in this close it was useless, actually worked against him. He kept throwing hooks and uppercuts at Walker, but they had no power at this range. Walker had no fucking brains, so he didn't give a shit about taking shots like this to the head. He just kept his head down and pounded away on Epps's body. He was fighting his fight, goddammit, fighting too goddamn smart. He wasn't supposed to be that smart without Gonsalves in his corner. Epps couldn't take more than three, four rounds of that kind of punishment. Not at his age. Oh, man! This can't be happening.

The bell rang, ending round one. The fighters returned to their corners, Walker bouncing on his toes, Epps walking. Sal didn't like the way Epps looked. End of round one and he already looked tired. Not good, not good at all. He looked through the ropes at the bimbos parading around the ring with the round cards and saw his brother standing in the aisle in that roped-off section where Nashe was sitting, waving his hands like some old greenhorn from the
other side, yelling over Sydney's blond head. Nashe was just sitting there with that big fucking smile of his. He don't give a shit. He made his deal with the feds, he don't care. He's not listening to Joseph, he's laughing at him. Joseph's a
jooch.
He's a butcher for chrissake. Why should anybody listen to him? Oh, Christ!

He stood up, nerves jangling in his hands and forearms. “Move, Cil. Lemme out!”

“No!” She stood up and stuck her face in his. “You don't trust Joseph, that's obvious, and you're determined to get caught. If you don't sit down and behave right this minute, something
will
happen. You'll go to jail. This is
my
fault.
I'll
go talk to Mr. Nashe. He'll listen to me. Now you stay here.”

Before he could say anything, she was rushing down the aisle, her veil flapping behind her. She had a point. He'd done time before. He didn't want to go back. But he didn't want to end up in the foundation of some building either. He swiped his face again, he was sweating buckets. He watched her working her way around the ring, saw her glaring at the two bimbos with the round cards. He felt pains in his chest, little pains, but they were in his chest. Jesus Christ, is this how it starts, a heart attack? He was breathing hard and he hadn't done anything since they'd come in, just sat here. He watched her moving through the pack of cameramen, calling to Joseph through the bodyguards, Nashe nodding, letting her into his private section. He glanced over to his left then, toward Mistretta. The old sourpuss was pointing at her, leaning over and telling Frank Bartolo something. He spotted Cil—Christ, you'd have to be blind not to see her with that habit on. There she was, standing next to Joseph, giving Nashe her two cents' worth, Nashe not giving a good goddamn about either one of them. And Mistretta's watching. Oh, shit! He put his hand over his heart. I'm gonna die. Right here. I'm gonna die.

Sal jumped when the bell rang to start round two. Walker leapt up out of his corner, bounced into the middle
of the ring. Epps hauled himself up off his stool, flat-footed. The crowd yelled. Sal sat down, his heart thumping in his chest like it was trapped in there.

Gesù, Gesù!
I'm gonna die!

ozzi was hunkered down at the edge of the ring, holding a 35mm camera, looking across the canvas through the fighters' legs at Gibbons, who was leaning on the skirt on the other side, holding up a camera of his own, shoulder to shoulder with all the real photographers. He wondered how convincing Gibbons really looked, wearing a green nylon windbreaker over his white shirt and suit pants. Gibbons was a good agent, the best man the Bureau had, as far as Tozzi was concerned, but he was from the old school, Hoover's school. No matter how you dressed him up, he looked like a fed. Tozzi hoped nobody was picking up on that.

He looked up at Walker and Epps in the ring. Walker was making Epps look bad, real bad. Lot of red leather smacking Epps's midsection again and again and again. Lot of sweat flying, shining like starbursts in the overhead lights. Lot of lung power hissing out of their noses with each punch—more from the champ than the challenger,
though. If the champ intended to throw this one, it sure didn't look like it. As Gibbons had predicted, it looked like Walker had something to prove. Still, Tozzi wouldn't mind seeing Epps get in a few good shots, maybe tag him one on the nose with that legendary right of his, make Walker see some of those neon-green worms. Tozzi squeezed the swollen bridge of his nose and winced. It hurt like a bastard, had to be broken. He also had one of those little nagging headaches that just wouldn't go away, right behind his eyeballs.

The Nashes were on the other side of the ring where Gibbons was. Tozzi could see Sydney sitting there in the third row in Nashe's private section, sparkling like a little purple star, unruffled by Sal's brother Joseph and his sister the nun sitting next to her, jabbering over her head, pleading their case with smiling Russ, big black bow tie under his chin, butterfly collar, satin lapels on the tux. Russ was smooth, but the smile was for show. The Immordinos were beginning to draw attention, but he couldn't sic his gorillas on them, not on a nun, not here. Sydney, on the other hand, seemed to be getting a real kick out of seeing Joseph and Sister Cil in such a state. That sly little grin, just eating it all up. Tozzi hoped he'd read her right and that she delivered the gossip the way he'd given it to her. He glanced back at Sal Immordino sitting all by himself, rocking back and forth, looking very upset. All three Immordinos seemed pretty shook up about something, and Sydney had been over there whispering in Sal's ear. Seems like she did tell him, but with Sydney you could never be sure. She had her own agenda. He sniffed his shirt. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes. Sydney, Sydney, Sydney . . .

Gibbons was looking at him now, giving him the eye. He nodded toward the seats on Tozzi's side, and Tozzi followed his gaze to Sal Immordino coming down the aisle now. Tozzi moved fast, rushing into the aisle and blocking Sal's path. He could tell right away from Sal's face just how glad he was to see him.

Immordino didn't slow down as he came up to Tozzi Just threw an arm out, intending to push past him. Tozzi settled in, got his one-point, and extended his arms, laying his palms on Sal's big fleshy chest. No muscle, just
ki.
Sal was thrown back, startled. Tozzi kept pushing, wouldn't let him get his balance, pushing the big man back until they were secluded on the exit ramp.

“Get outta my face, Tomasso!” Sal was huffing and puffing, gonna blow your house in.

Tozzi moved closer. “How's it going, Sal?”

“Move, Tomasso!” Sal grabbed Tozzi's forearms, Tozzi grabbed his. The big man tried to toss Tozzi aside, but Tozzi held on.

“Get out of my fucking way, you little bastard!”

Tozzi didn't say anything, just held on while Sal tried to shake him loose.

“I'm gonna fucking kill you, Tomasso. I don't give a shit who you are.” Sal suddenly wrenched his right arm loose and punched Tozzi in the chest. Tozzi held his breath. It wasn't much of a punch, but after the beatings he'd taken from Nashe's gorilla squad and then “Pain” Walker, just the residual vibrations of the punch's impact made the rest of him hurt. Tozzi held his breath, grabbed Sal's lapels, and hung on tight, intent on staying very close. Sal's punches won't have any power this close. He hoped.

“So what's the big hurry, Sal? Aren't you enjoying the fight?” Tomasso the wiseass talking. Had to goad him.

“You're dead, you little shit. Let go of me!”

Tozzi let his body go slack and just hung on Sal. “Come on, Sal, let's go back to your seat and watch the fight. C'mon, we gotta hurry up. It's not gonna last long. Look at your boy Epps. He looks older than you, for chrissake. Next round—you wanna bet? Ten bucks. Walker's gonna knock him out in the next round. Wanna bet?”

“Fuck you!” Sal tried to shake Tozzi off, wrestle him down to the floor, but Tozzi just held on for the ride. “I'm gonna punch your fucking heart out, Tomasso. You think I can't? You think I can't?”

Tozzi shook his head and his nose brushed against Immordino's. A sharp pain shot up to his forehead. “No, Sal,” he said, holding his breath, “I don't think you can do shit.”

“No?” Sal was still struggling. “You ever hear of a coon named Lawson, a pug? I did him that way. I'll do you too.”

“What're you, Fred Flintstone? That's ancient history. Anyway, don't flatter yourself, Sal. That was just a freak accident.”

“Bullshit
it was!”

Tozzi yanked on his lapels. “No,
you're
bullshit. Big mob guy everybody's supposed to be afraid of, so tough. Tough, my ass. You sent your guys after me twice, they couldn't do shit. You try it yourself a couple of times, and you fuck up worse than them, end up shooting a fucking woman. What'sa matter, Sal? You don't know girls from boys? Huh?” Tozzi yanked again. “Huh, Sal? Huh?”

Sal swung his hands up from underneath, slammed down on Tozzi's forearms, and broke Tozzi's grip on his lapels. But Tozzi locked on to Sal's forearms again and held fast. Sal wrestled with him, pushing him this way and that, but Tozzi wasn't letting go. “I whacked tougher mothers than you, Tomasso. With my fists.”

“Whacking guys with your fists—you expect me to believe this? What're you, Bruce Lee now, back from the dead?”

“Fuck you!” Sal squeezed harder on Tozzi's forearms.

Tozzi's fingers were getting numb.

The crowd roared then and Tozzi saw Sal staring at the ring. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on. Epps was down on one knee. The referee was counting. Three, four, five . . . Epps got up. The ref held the challenger's face and checked his eyes. He nodded and let the fight go on.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Sal screamed. His eyes were wild, his face shaking.

“You're full of shit, Sal. You don't scare me. You slap your brother around, that's about it. Yeah, and you beat up old men like Henry Gonsalves, guys collecting Social Security.
That's what you do. Whattaya think you're gonna do to me, huh? I'll tell you what you're gonna do. Nothing, that's what.”

Sal snapped one hand up and grabbed Tozzi's throat. “I'll do worse than I did to Gonsalves. I'll make you wish you were him. At least he lived.”

Bingo!

Tozzi tensed his neck and smiled in the man's face as he reached into his pocket and brought out his ID. He flipped it open, waved the shield in the big dummy's face. “You're under arrest, Sal.”