Bad Blood (29 page)

“Put that down. I'll carry it.”

“I can do it.”

“
Madonn
,' what a hardhead!”

“Can the guinea dramatics, will ya? Let's go.”

“Hold on a minute. Tomorrow's Saturday. Where are you gonna go back to work?”

“I'm not stupid, Tozzi. I know I'm not working on all cylinders. I'm not gonna push it.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Gibbons sighed in annoyance. “I'm gonna sit in my car with a pair of binoculars and watch D'Urso's house, that's what I'm gonna do. I'll have my collar, I'll bring some pillows—it'll be just like being home on the couch. Given all that you've told me, I think there's a certain degree of urgency here and someone ought to make at least a token effort to check out the domicile of the guy who's got sixty slaves locked up behind his factory. Wouldn't you say so?”

“I agree one hundred percent. I think we
should
put a plant on D'Urso's place.”

“Not
we
, Tozzi.
Me
.”

“Pick me up at eight. I'll buy coffee.”

“If you intend to get something to bring to Ivers by next week, you better get your ass in gear and start looking. Forget about keeping me company.”

Tozzi grinned. “What better place to start looking than D'Urso's house? Just blow the horn when you get to my place. I'll be right down.”

Gibbons hated it when Tozzi kept his cool. Actually it wouldn't
be so bad having some company tomorrow, and anyway he might not feel like driving the whole day. Tozzi could come. As long as he shut up about Lorraine.

“I'll spring for the donuts, too,” Tozzi said. “Honey-dips, that's what you like, right?”

Gibbons finally exhaled in resignation. “You're a real pain in my ass, Tozzi. Be ready at seven. And I don't like goddamn honey-dips. Get cinnamon crullers.”

“Right.”

“And remember the deal. If you don't track down anything new on the slave thing by Wednesday, we take it to Ivers as is.”

Tozzi closed his eyes and nodded.

Just then a short little guy with round, wire-rim glasses came into the room pushing a wheelchair. “Okay, Mr. Gibbons. Time to go. Hop on.”

Gibbons pivoted on one foot and turned around stiff-legged, like Frankenstein. He looked down at the orderly, the neck brace pushing the flesh up around his jowls. “Get out of my way before I throw you
and
that wheelchair out the window.”

The orderly froze, mouth open, glasses glimmering.

Gibbons stepped around him and Tozzi followed, snickering behind his fist.

“But, Mr. Gibbons . . .” the orderly called after him weakly.

Gibbons kept walking, swinging the suitcase by his side. “Don't sweat it, pal. I'll be okay. And have a real nice fucking day.”

TOZZI MOVED THE phone to the other end of the bed and sat with his back up against the wall. “Lorraine, listen to me.” He shifted the phone to his other ear. “I told you. I tried to convince him, but he didn't want to hear anything about it.” He glanced at his watch. They'd been on the phone for twenty minutes now.

“But you promised me, Michael. You told me you would get him to come down here.”

“I'm telling you I tried, but you've got to understand he's very touchy right now. He doesn't want to be treated like an invalid, and frankly I don't blame him.”

“I'm not treating him like an invalid. I just want him to rest, goddamn it. He has to give this time—the doctor said so.”

“Yeah, I know all that, but Gib has been a special agent his whole life. This is a guy who's never once had desk duty. He works the streets, that's what he knows, that's what he does. He's worried that he might not be able to do that much longer.”

“Did he say that?”

“No, but I know him. That's what he's thinking. He doesn't want to make his exit before his time.”

“What is it with you two? You're two of a kind. Stubborn and proud, and all for what? The greater glory of the FBI?”

“No, no, you don't understand.” Tozzi pulled the phone away
from his ear. Now this one was getting sweaty. “He thinks you want him to retire. That's what's bothering him.” Why was he telling her all this? Gibbons should be having this conversation, not him. Gibbons should've told her this a long time ago. Part of him thought his cousin was absolutely right, for chrissake. So why the hell was he arguing Gibbons's case? Shit.

“I gave up hoping that he'd ever retire a long time ago. All I want him to do is recover before he re-injures himself. And would it really be such a tragedy if he sat this one out? Tell me the truth. If that karate nut finds out Gibbons is out walking around, won't he try to finish the job he started?”

“I'm not a psychic. I can't read minds, Lorraine.”

There was testy silence on the line for a moment. Tozzi could hear his own breathing in the phone.

“Answer me this, Michael. Are we in agreement that he should rest, that he shouldn't be working at least until the doctor says it's okay?”

“Yes, I think he should rest.” He wasn't going to say for how long. They'd already gotten into it over how long Gibbons should recuperate, a few days versus a few months.

“Then if we agree that he should rest,
why the hell are you taking him out on a stakeout tomorrow?
”

“You don't have to yell, Lorraine. I can hear you.” Why are you busting my balls with this? I'm just trying to keep the two of you happy.

“
Why, Michael? Tell me why you are taking him to work one day after his release from the hospital.”

He couldn't believe how much she sounded like her mother when she got mad. It was just like talking to Aunt Philomena, another real ball-buster. “First of all, Lorraine, the plant on D'Urso's house was his idea, not mine. I invited myself to come along so that I could watch him and make
you
happy. Okay?” As if I have nothing better to do.

“Well, I'm
not
happy.”

“Listen to me. All we're going to do is sit in his car and watch this Mafia guy's house, that's all. He'll be wearing his neck brace, he'll bring pillows. He can lie down in the back seat if he gets tired. It'll be the same thing as sitting home on the couch.”

“That's bullshit, Michael, and you know it. You're going to be down in some god-awful neighborhood in Newark or wherever, looking for trouble.”

“Not true. We'll be in a nice wealthy suburban neighborhood where you don't even see people walking their dogs it's so ritzy. Believe me, nothing will happen to him. I guarantee it.”

“How can you guarantee anything? You promised to get him down here and you didn't do that.”

Yes, Aunt Phil.

“Where exactly will you be tomorrow?” she continued. “I want to know.”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

“Goddamn you, Michael. How can you be this way to me? I used to change your shitty diapers, for God sake. Why are you doing this to me?”

I don't know, Aunt Phil. I must be just plain bad.

“I blame
you
for this, Michael. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have all these reckless macho ideas. He's trying to keep up with you. You realize that, don't you? But at his age he shouldn't be working out in the field at all.”

I dare you to tell him that to his face. “Lorraine, I think you're blowing this way out of proportion.”

“I'm done talking, Michael. I've done all I can. All I can say is that if he gets hurt tomorrow, I'm going to hold
you
responsible. That's all.”

Wonderful. “Don't worry, Lorraine. He'll be okay.”

“I'd really like to believe that. I really would.” She hung up the phone.

He stared at the receiver and sighed. “Good night, Aunt Phil.”

Great. Now they were both mad at him. Gibbons thought he agreed with Lorraine about taking some time off to recover and reconsider retirement. Lorraine thought he didn't give a shit about Gibbons's health, that all he was concerned about was playing cops and robbers again with his old buddy. You try to be a good guy and you end up the bad guy. Shit.

He laid back on the new bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was nice and firm, but it smelled new. He was really getting sick of that new
smell. He looked at his watch. It was just six-thirty. Roxanne went back to her office after the bed arrived. She'd left a note inviting him to come over to her place this evening to watch the Miss Galaxy Pageant. He called her up to say he'd pass on Miss Galaxy but promised to pick her up around eleven and take her out for a sandwich or something. He still couldn't believe she was into watching beauty pageants.

He stared at the shadowy walls and stretched his feet until he heard his ankles crack. His ankles were still sore from sitting
seiza
. Some people can sit that way indefinitely. Neil Chaney could. This guy Mashiro probably could, too, and on a bare floor, no doubt. That's probably what he does when he practices his sword techniques or whatever. A real hard-ass, this guy. Gibbons never takes shit from anyone, but Mashiro apparently made short work of him. Tozzi looked at the growing darkness outside his window and wondered what he'd do if he had to take on Mashiro. Shoot the bastard, of course. But Gibbons didn't get a chance to shoot him. Mashiro took his gun away first. How could you beat this guy if you had to fight him one-on-one, no weapons? He thought about Gibbons's pale, lifeless face as he lay semi-conscious in the hospital, the monitor beeping over the bed. Tozzi could feel it then, in the pit of his stomach, like a small invading virus entering his system. Fear. He wasn't used to the feeling and he didn't like it being there. He looked at his watch again, then sat up and reached for his Loafers on the floor. He decided to go for a walk.

Tozzi recognized the lone pair of tan rubber sandals at the edge of the mat as soon as he walked into the
dojo
. Neil Chaney was there, practicing alone with his wooden sword, the
bokken
, standing in one spot, turning in all directions as he sliced down with his sword. Tozzi realized this was similar to another exercise they did in aikido where you thrust your hands up, then dropped them to your side, repeating this motion as you faced eight different directions. He'd heard the Japanese name for this exercise but he couldn't remember it.

Tozzi couldn't tell whether Neil noticed him standing there in the doorway because he didn't stop what he was doing. Instead he picked
up his pace, calling out the eight-count faster and faster until he was just a blur of chopping motion. It almost seemed unnatural, the speed he was doing this, but Tozzi knew it came from staying relaxed. At least that's what he'd been told.

When Neil finally stopped, Tozzi walked over to the edge of the mat before he had a chance to start up again. “Hi. I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

Neil shook his head and just looked at him as if he were waiting for him to explain himself. Tozzi had observed that Neil only talked as much as he had to and often left long awkward pauses, just like this one. He was weird like that. Maybe this was all part of being
sensei
. Or maybe he was just weird. It was hard to tell.

“I saw the lights on,” Tozzi explained. “I was sort of hoping I'd find you here.”

Neil nodded, a funny little half-smile on his face.

“Well—I told you I was in law enforcement, didn't I?”

Neil nodded.

“Well . . .” Tozzi wasn't sure how to word this. “There's this person I'm investigating. He's pretty aggressive and very dangerous, and I . . . I have a feeling I'm going to meet up with him sooner or later. I was, ah, thinking that maybe you could show me a few moves that I could use on him. Nothing esoteric, just some basic practical aikido.”

Neil closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Look, I realize this must sound pretty offensive to you. Here I am, a beginner, I've only taken two classes so far, and I'm asking you for shortcuts. That's stupid, I know. But I really need your help.” If you saw what Mashiro did to Gibbons, you'd understand.

Neil shook his head.

“You don't know what I'm up against, man. This guy is a . . . a samurai when you come right down to it. He's a fifth-degree karate black belt and a formally trained swordsman. He's already hurt my partner, and I have this gut feeling that it's only a matter of time before he finds me. I need something if I'm going to go up against this guy.” Come on. Don't let me down. Please.

Neil nodded thoughtfully. “How fast can you run, Mike?”

“Come on, I'm being serious here.”

“So am I. Because unless you can run away from him, you haven't got a chance against a trained
bushi
.”

“What's that?”

“A ‘martial man.' A samurai.”

“Isn't there
something
you can show me?”