Bad Luck (5 page)

Tozzi was bored. He pushed the sunglasses up his nose and stifled a yawn as he watched Russell Nashe's back. Nashe was at the mike, blowing his own horn again. So what else was new?

He snuck a glance at his watch. He'd been standing there behind the rostrum for the past half hour, a row of backs sitting at the long tables on each side, facing a restless mob of reporters and cameramen, lights shining in his face, trying his absolute best to tune Nashe out. Thank God for the back of Sydney Nashe's head. It was much more interesting. Tozzi wondered how she got her hair that way, a long pageboy that just touched her shoulders and rested so nicely on her collarbone, not a hair out of place. And that white-blond color—it was hard not to stare at her. He
could make out the contours of her back through the sheer lavender silk blouse, the delicate bones, the slight, little twisting movements she made with her body as she sat there. He could picture her small turned-up breasts. Irish-nose tits. Tozzi suppressed a grin. She didn't like it when he'd called them that. He stuck his hand in his pants pocket, fingered the foil condom pack, and sighed. Unbelievable.

Tozzi still couldn't get over the fact that a woman like Sydney had actually pursued a guy like him. For him, Sydney was like a hot little sports car, a lipstick-red convertible—the kind of car you look at and imagine yourself driving, even though you know it's totally impractical, too rich for your blood, out of the question for a guy like you. But then you look inside at the genuine leather upholstery and you see a note with your name on it taped to the wood-grain steering wheel that says, “Come on. Take a spin. I
want
you to.” Very hard to resist. How often does the average guy get a ride like this? Unbelievable. Tozzi ran his finger round and round over the foil-wrapped condom in his pocket, staring at her hair, getting off on the whole incredible situation.

“Hey, Tomasso! Stop checking out the boss's wife. That's not what you're paid for.”

Tozzi looked straight ahead. He knew the voice all too well—friggin' Lenny. “I gotta look at her to protect her,” he said in a loud whisper.

Just then Sydney looked over her shoulder, smoothed the pageboy away from her profile, and stared at him for a long second. Green eyes, green like Sucrets. Plum-colored nails on that white-blond hair. She lowered her lashes then and turned back.

Oh, man . . .

“See? Now you're in trouble.” Lenny Mokowski, the head bodyguard, had Tozzi by the elbow now. A retired cop from The Bronx, Lenny was a tough little bastard, built like a bowling ball, with arms like Popeye. Tozzi could usually smell him coming from the hair oil he used to build
up the Ronald Reagan pompadour in his two-tone gray hair. “Just do your effin' job and stay out of trouble, Tomasso,” Lenny said under his breath. Lenny never used the f word. He was proud to tell you that he was a good Catholic.

Tozzi took his hand out of his pocket. “I'm doing my job.”

“Don't give me any lip,” Lenny spat in his ear. “Just listen to me now. This is a news conference, you understand that? So there may be a little action up here. People are gonna yell at each other, start making threats. The fighters may even try to take a poke at each other maybe. But that's all for the cameras, you understand? So don't overreact. This is all part of this fight thing here. It's just publicity. It's just a big act.” Lenny pointed with his pompadour at the champ, Dwayne “Pain” Walker, who was sitting on one side of the podium, and the challenger, Charles Epps, who was sitting on the other. “Don't get nervous, okay? These two guys know what they're doing.”

Tozzi nodded at the champ. “Even him?”

“Yeah, yeah, even him. So don't make a move unless Mr. or Mrs. Nashe are directly threatened. You got it?”

“I got it, Lenny. Don't worry, be happy.”

Lenny gave him the Popeye squint as he rolled off to Frank, the other bodyguard on duty, who was standing on the other side of the stage behind the Epps camp. As Nashe kept going on and on about himself, Tozzi studied the challenger. Charles Epps was a big, fleshy, light-skinned guy with an expensive, confident attitude that seemed to take up two seats. Sort of a black Babe Ruth. With his shaved head and his elbow resting casually on the back of the next chair, he surveyed the scene like a sultan. He was an old man—by boxing standards—thirty-nine years old, and this fight marked his third comeback. But boxers never stay retired. They keep coming back, hoping for miracles, begging for humiliation.

Couldn't blame Epps for coming back this time though. Eight and a half million balloons, guaranteed, just to get
into the ring with Walker is nothing to sneeze at. Hey, so what's a little brain damage? Epps had fought all the top heavyweights back in the seventies—Ali, Holmes, Norton, Frazier, Foreman—and here he was again. Unbelievable. No one thought Epps had a prayer, but there was something about him, something about the way he sat there that made Tozzi believe the guy might still have something. Everything he did—the way he wiped his face with the palm of his big hand, the way he rotated his shiny head like a gun turret to scan the crowd, the way that sly grin stretched across his face and just kept on going—seemed deliberately slow and ominous. The man looked like a Tyrannosaurus rex waking up for a meal.

Tozzi looked over at Walker on the other side of the podium. He looked like the kind of guy you'd find locked up on Rikers Island, the kind of guy who mumbled and brooded and called everyone “motherfucker,” a bad kid with a lot of attitude and empty eyes. If he had a good side, Walker made sure no one ever saw it. He was twenty-six years old with a twenty-five and oh record, all knockouts but one. A real nasty temper. He made you believe he actually despised every man he'd ever fought and that he genuinely wanted to kill the guy in the ring. The boxing commissions were constantly reprimanding him for the shit he pulled outside the ring—punching out reporters, trashing camera equipment, causing scenes in restaurants, hassling women in bars, shit like that—and the purists had made it plain a long time ago that they'd love to see someone beat the shit out of him and drive him from the ranks. The champ was good with the gloves, though. You couldn't deny that. He was tough and efficient. He could take a punch and he had a talent for finding the openings. Tozzi zeroed in on the back of Walker's head where he'd had his nickname shaved into his close-cropped scalp: PAIN.

Sitting next to Walker was his trainer, Henry Gonsalves. He was the animal trainer, there to keep Walker from going berserk. Gonsalves was an ex-pug himself, and he looked it—flat nose like a glob of Silly Putty pressed to his
face, eyes slightly out of line like an iguana's, lumpy head, crouched posture, even when he was sitting. But the man had been training fighters for years, and his efforts finally paid off with Walker. Gonsalves was supposedly the only one who had any influence over the champ—some said he had a
lot
of influence over the champ—and Walker supposedly always called him “the father I never had,” but Walker mumbled and spoke hard-core “ghetto,” so no one was ever sure what the hell he was saying. But on top of being the champ's trainer and surrogate father, Gonsalves's other job—some say his primary job—was apologist. He was constantly making excuses for his man, and he had a rap that Tozzi must've heard at least a dozen times on TV about how Walker had been abused and confused as a child, how he'd been brought up by the state, how the media have misconstrued him, how he's basically a good kid trying to work things out for himself, yada-yada-yada . . . Every time Walker fucked up, Henry would get up in front of the cameras and deliver the rap, and most of the time people bought it. People wanted to. Walker was a son of a bitch but he made headlines, and people love to see celebrities self-destruct in public. It makes them feel superior, the way Tozzi figured. That's what made Walker big box office. If it weren't for Gonsalves, though, Walker would fade away like a phony-looking, rubber-suit monster in a low-budget horror movie. No one cares about an asshole. But Gonsalves made Walker human and that's why people stayed curious. Whatever Walker was paying his trainer, it wasn't enough.

As the reporters started yelling out questions for Nashe, Tozzi went back to staring at the back of Sydney's head. She was so fine, with that hair of hers, the kind of classy woman most guys don't even consider, because they know they wouldn't stand a chance. Tozzi grinned to himself. Nothing at all like Valerie. His grin widened. Oh, what a naughty boy.

“Mr. Nashe! Mr. Nashe! Tell us the truth.” One reporter overrode the shouts of his brethren. “We aren't supposed
to take this matchup seriously, are we? This is a Nashe event, a patented Nashe extravaGANza.” The reporter mimicked the billionaire's ringmaster delivery. His brethren snickered behind their notepads. “You don't
really
expect us to take this matchup seriously, do you?”

Nashe started to answer, but Epps stood up and leaned into his microphone to interrupt. “
I
don't take it seriously. That joke sitting over there has never had a real fight in his entire life. He's the only one who should take this seriously, because he's gonna be in
serious condition
after he meets me.”

Walker stood up in a shot. He shouted over Nashe's head. “Suck my dick, cocksucker!”

Gonsalves pulled on Walker's sleeve. “Sit down, Dwayne. Come on, sit down and be good.”

Epps turned his head slowly, looked the champ in the eye with a mocking little grin on his face. He moved up right next to Nashe. Camera flashes strobed the room. Everyone wanted to get this shot: Billionaire extraordinaire Russell Nashe sandwiched between the champ and the challenger.

Epps wrapped his big hand over the mike. “Pull down your pants, son, and I'll
bite
it off. If I can find it.”

Walker's face bulged and contorted in fury, like his brain was bouncing around in his head, trying to break out. He lunged, swung wild with his right, and caught the back of Nashe's head in the crook of his elbow. Nashe's forehead bashed into the mike as he was thrust forward. Tozzi jumped, rushing to grab Walker from behind before he could throw another punch. In the meantime Nashe slid down the podium and scuttled out of the fray.

“Lemme go, mothahfuckah,” Walker growled at Tozzi, swinging his shoulders to get free. “Lemme go!”

Tozzi tightened his bear hug on the champ, and Walker glared at him out of the corner of his eye like a wild horse. Tozzi strained to keep his grip on those massive arms, but it was like trying to hold down Lon Chaney as the full moon came out. Walker started ramming his head back,
trying to butt Tozzi in the face. Tozzi arched his head back out of the way, but Walker still caught him on the chin. The shaved scalp scraped Tozzi's skin like heavy-duty sandpaper. Tozzi made a face. Sharkskin is supposed to feel like that.

“Let the chump go,” Epps bellowed. “He ain't gonna do
nothin
'.” He came around the podium and stuck his face in Walker's.

Tozzi frowned. Thanks a lot, Charles. I need this aggravation.

Walker was going crazy, hopping up and down, trying to shake Tozzi off. Tozzi didn't dare let him go now, afraid of what this mental case might do. He glanced over his shoulder. Why the hell wasn't anybody helping him? Where the hell was Frank? Where was Lenny?

“Let him go!” Lenny was suddenly yanking on his arm, trying to break his grip. “Let him go, Tomasso.”

“What're you, crazy, Lenny?”

But Lenny wasn't about to discuss it. He slapped his hand over Tozzi's face, thumb under the earlobe, fingers pressed over the nose. Tozzi knew what was coming, an old police move for subduing uncooperative suspects. Shit. Before Tozzi could react Lenny dug his thumb into the pressure point where the jawbone met the ear. The pain zinged through Tozzi's molars and he was instantly nauseated. Unconsciously he loosened his grip and the werewolf broke free. Lenny grabbed Tozzi's elbow and pulled him away.

“Tomasso! What the hell did I tell you? I told you not to do nothin' unless you absolutely had to. Isn't that what I said? What the eff is wrong with you?”

Tozzi was rubbing his jawbone. “What're you, blind? Walker took a swing at Mr. Nashe.”

“I don't want to hear about it. I told you these guys know what they're doing.” Lenny pointed with his greasy pompadour at the fighters standing toe-to-toe. They were barking at each other, but they weren't throwing punches. Gonsalves was shouldering his way in front of Walker, and
Epps's manager was trying to do the same. It definitely wasn't enough interference to keep them from slugging it out if they really wanted to. Lenny was right. This was all for the cameras.

“You know, Tomasso, you're more trouble than you're worth. I'm gonna have to have a little talk with Mr. Nashe—”

“About what, Lenny?” Russell Nashe was suddenly standing over Lenny's shoulder, grinning around his big buckteeth at Tozzi. Sydney was standing next to him, a head shorter, even in heels. She was grinning at him too.

“He messed up, Mr. Nashe. I'm sorry. I told him to stay put and let the fighters do their thing for the press, but no, he had to jump right in there. This guy's got a hard head, Mr. Nashe.”

Nashe nodded, still grinning. “Hard head or not, I have to thank this man. Dwayne wasn't supposed to throw any punches—he knew that. Christ, my face would've had a big hole in it if he'd had a chance to follow up on that right with a left hook. You did the right thing, Mike. Good work.”