Bad Luck (41 page)

The phone rang again. Tozzi was rubbing his temples. “Hey, Gib, don't yell. My head.”

Ivers sucked in his breath, pointed his finger at Gibbons,
and was about to start screaming when the intercom buzzed. Ivers stabbed the button. “What is it?”

The secretary's voice came out of the intercom.
“The Director on line two, sir.”

Ivers's face was like a fistful of raw meat. His eyes were a little crossed too. Gibbons had never actually seen that, except in a comic strip. “Get out, both of you.” The headmaster was shouting.

“Shall we reschedule this?” Gibbons was trying not to grin, but he wasn't trying very hard.

“Just get out! Now!”

Gibbons looked at Tozzi. “Come on, let's go. The man's got work to do.” They got up and went to the door. Gibbons looked back at Ivers with his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, waiting for them to leave. “Give 'im my regards.” He followed Tozzi out and shut the door behind him.

The printer was zipping away on the secretary's desk. She was making herself look busy, scribbling something on a yellow legal pad. Nice-looking girl, in her thirties. The nervous type, though. Look at her. Oh, me! Oh, my! The Director's on the phone! Calm down, honey. It's not your ass that's gonna get reamed. Gibbons smiled and waved to her as they went out the door into the hallway.

Tozzi was over at the water fountain, getting a drink. He was wincing a lot. Maybe it hurt for him to bend over like that. Poor bastard.

“Why don't you go home, Toz? Give yourself a break.”

“Actually I was thinking of taking off to go to the hospital.”

“You in pain? I'll take you.”

“No, not for me. The hospital down the shore. To see Valerie.”

“I thought she gave you your walking papers.”

Tozzi shook his head. “I never said that.”

“Oh . . .”

“Yeah, I thought I'd go down for visiting hours, ask her if
she'll come to the wedding with me. I think she'll be on her feet by then. It's June ninth, right?”

“What?”

“Your wedding,
stunade.
Did you forget?” Tozzi was grinning under his bandages.

“No. I didn't forget.”

“You better not. I'll tell Lorraine you forgot. She'll hit you over the head with a frying pan.”

Ha-ha-ha, a frying pan. Real funny. “I didn't forget. Why don't you just get the fuck outta here before you cause any more trouble?”

Tozzi started walking backward down the hall. “So is it the ninth or not?”

“Yeah, it's the ninth.”

“That's what I thought.” Tozzi waved. “See you tomorrow.” He disappeared around the corner.

The ninth. Less than a month away. Gibbons looked down at his shoes, the black wingtips, the ones he'd bought for the wedding. Tozzi's inviting Valerie. Nice girl. A lot like Lorraine . . . in some ways. He kept looking at the shoes. No, not really. Only Lorraine's like Lorraine. He stuck his head in the water fountain built into the wall and took a drink. The water was icy cold.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down at his wingtips, then headed for the Organized Crime Unit's section where his cubicle was.

When he got to his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed her number again. It rang four times, and he knew from the static on the line that it was gonna be the goddamn machine again.

“I'm sorry, but I can't come to the phone right now. If you'll leave your name, number, and a short message after the beep, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Beeeep.

Gibbons bit his upper lip. His face was hot. The tape was hissing, waiting for a message. Shit.

“Hey, listen, Lorraine. If you think I'm gonna apologize and tell you how I feel about you on this goddamn machine,
then you've got another think coming. I'm sorry I ran off the other night. I am. And I do want to marry you. Even though you've been driving me nuts with all this wedding crap.
I
still want to get married, but if you wanna call it off, you gotta tell me to my face. You know, you're not the only one who can give ultimatums here. So if I don't hear from you soon, you can forget it. You can take your goddamn fish mousse and—”

“I'm here.” Lorraine picked up, the real Lorraine. She was there.

“Oh . . . hi.”

“Well,” she said, “does this beat your ultimatum, G-man?” He could hear the sly grin in her voice.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“So are we still on?”

“Yeah, sure . . . I'm willing if you are.”

“But what about the wedding reception? Shall we scrap all the plans? Just go down to the courthouse?”

“No, no, no. Italian girls gotta have big receptions. I think it's the law. Anyway, what's a wedding without a celebration?”

“You sure that's what you want? Fish mousse and all?”

Gibbons put his feet up on his desk and looked at the toes of his wingtips. “Yeah. I'm sure.” He smiled like a crocodile then. “Just as long as I don't have to eat there.”

BAD LUCK

All Rights Reserved © 1990, 2008 by Anthony Bruno

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