treating it properly now. And remember, the body doesn’t heal as quickly at your age.”
Gibbons rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Oh, boy.
“What do you mean, at my age? I’m thirty-nine. What’s that? Is that supposed to be old?”
“You’re going to be forty in two weeks, Michael. Face it, you’re not a kid anymore. This martial-arts stuff is for young people.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lorraine. You don’t know the first thing about aikido.”
“I may not know anything about aikido, but I do know you. You’re dying to test for your black belt, and you’ll risk anything to do it. Including the use of that leg. For God’s sake, Michael, you have nothing to prove.”
“I’m getting mad now, Lorraine. You know why? Because you and my mother both belong in a nuthouse. You must think I’m stupid. You think I don’t know I’ve got nothing to prove? I’m a goddamn street agent, for chrissake. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, kicked, clubbed, beaten up, pistol-whipped, stomped. I’ve had guys try to run me over. A crackhead tried to chop me up with an ax in East Harlem one time. Another time some union goon came at me with a circular saw. I’ve even had to put up with attack dogs. Not just once, three times. So I know I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve already proved it, a hundred times over. What I get out of aikido is something else entirely. Something I don’t think I can make you or my mother understand.”
Lorraine folded her arms. “Try.”
Tozzi’s nostrils flared. “Well, for one thing, it brings me peace. Which is something I’m not getting from you right now.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, Michael. Why don’t you arrest me for disturbing your peace?” Lorraine’s voice was back up in the chicken-screech range.
Gibbons screwed a pinkie into his ear. This was getting boring.
“Am I disturbing something?”
Gibbons glanced at the doorway. Brant Ivers, Assistant Director in Charge of the Manhattan FBI field office, was standing on the threshold. The boss was here to visit the fallen soldier. Gibbons sat up. This ought to be moving.
Ivers’s square frame filled the doorway just about right. His head was square, his jaw was square, and his shoulders were square. He was artfully gray at the temples, and Gibbons always wondered if he had that done at some fancy men’s salon somewhere uptown. He probably thought it looked commanding on camera, gave him a glint of wisdom and authority. A powerful enhancement for the figurehead. Now that Gibbons thought about it, Ivers was sort of like the hood ornament on a fancy old car—silver and stiff.
Ivers nodded to Lorraine and Gibbons, then fixed his authoritative gaze on Tozzi, who was sitting there with his sock hanging off his bare foot like a wool cap on one of Santa’s elves. “How are you feeling, Tozzi?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
Tozzi snapped the sock off his foot and lowered it tenderly to the floor. “Fine. It’s still sore and a little stiff, but I can get around. A couple of days home on the couch and I’ll be functional.”
Lorraine shot him the death-ray stare, but she knew enough to hold her tongue in front of Ivers.
“I’ve spoken with your doctor,” Ivers said. “They think it’s a bit more serious than that.”
Lorraine beamed. She had her argument ready for when Tozzi told her he didn’t want to recuperate over at their place.
Ivers spoke with stern authority. “The doctor wants you off that leg for more than just a few days. I told him there’d be no problem. I’m putting you in for four weeks’ sick leave. If you need more time, you can have it. But I want you to use the time to rest. Do you understand?”
Gibbons could see the muscles working in Tozzi’s jaw. The same muscles were working in Ivers’s. To say these two didn’t see eye-to-eye on certain things would be like saying Jews and Arabs tend to have differences of opinion.
Tozzi
Gibbons rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Oh, boy.
“What do you mean, at my age? I’m thirty-nine. What’s that? Is that supposed to be old?”
“You’re going to be forty in two weeks, Michael. Face it, you’re not a kid anymore. This martial-arts stuff is for young people.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lorraine. You don’t know the first thing about aikido.”
“I may not know anything about aikido, but I do know you. You’re dying to test for your black belt, and you’ll risk anything to do it. Including the use of that leg. For God’s sake, Michael, you have nothing to prove.”
“I’m getting mad now, Lorraine. You know why? Because you and my mother both belong in a nuthouse. You must think I’m stupid. You think I don’t know I’ve got nothing to prove? I’m a goddamn street agent, for chrissake. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, kicked, clubbed, beaten up, pistol-whipped, stomped. I’ve had guys try to run me over. A crackhead tried to chop me up with an ax in East Harlem one time. Another time some union goon came at me with a circular saw. I’ve even had to put up with attack dogs. Not just once, three times. So I know I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve already proved it, a hundred times over. What I get out of aikido is something else entirely. Something I don’t think I can make you or my mother understand.”
Lorraine folded her arms. “Try.”
Tozzi’s nostrils flared. “Well, for one thing, it brings me peace. Which is something I’m not getting from you right now.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that, Michael. Why don’t you arrest me for disturbing your peace?” Lorraine’s voice was back up in the chicken-screech range.
Gibbons screwed a pinkie into his ear. This was getting boring.
“Am I disturbing something?”
Gibbons glanced at the doorway. Brant Ivers, Assistant Director in Charge of the Manhattan FBI field office, was standing on the threshold. The boss was here to visit the fallen soldier. Gibbons sat up. This ought to be moving.
Ivers’s square frame filled the doorway just about right. His head was square, his jaw was square, and his shoulders were square. He was artfully gray at the temples, and Gibbons always wondered if he had that done at some fancy men’s salon somewhere uptown. He probably thought it looked commanding on camera, gave him a glint of wisdom and authority. A powerful enhancement for the figurehead. Now that Gibbons thought about it, Ivers was sort of like the hood ornament on a fancy old car—silver and stiff.
Ivers nodded to Lorraine and Gibbons, then fixed his authoritative gaze on Tozzi, who was sitting there with his sock hanging off his bare foot like a wool cap on one of Santa’s elves. “How are you feeling, Tozzi?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
Tozzi snapped the sock off his foot and lowered it tenderly to the floor. “Fine. It’s still sore and a little stiff, but I can get around. A couple of days home on the couch and I’ll be functional.”
Lorraine shot him the death-ray stare, but she knew enough to hold her tongue in front of Ivers.
“I’ve spoken with your doctor,” Ivers said. “They think it’s a bit more serious than that.”
Lorraine beamed. She had her argument ready for when Tozzi told her he didn’t want to recuperate over at their place.
Ivers spoke with stern authority. “The doctor wants you off that leg for more than just a few days. I told him there’d be no problem. I’m putting you in for four weeks’ sick leave. If you need more time, you can have it. But I want you to use the time to rest. Do you understand?”
Gibbons could see the muscles working in Tozzi’s jaw. The same muscles were working in Ivers’s. To say these two didn’t see eye-to-eye on certain things would be like saying Jews and Arabs tend to have differences of opinion.
Tozzi
Similar Books
