Bad Apple by Anthony Bruno Page B

lot of people whose family members have no problem breaking the law, Gina didn’t want to know anything about it. She didn’t participate, but she didn’t preach to them either. She loved her family because they were her family, and she was devoted to her screwy little brother because he was her screwy little brother, but if they sold stolen turkeys, or they knew where to get stolen cars, or they smoked cigarettes that didn’t have the federal tax stamp on the pack, she didn’t want to know anything about it. That was their business, not hers.
    Supposedly.
    In his head, Tozzi kept hearing Bells’s voice on her answering machine. “Gina, it’s me. Gimme a call. ” At the time, she’d picked her head up off his shoulder, rolled her eyes, and made a face at the machine, but she didn’t offer an explanation, and Tozzi didn’t ask for one. But now he was starting to wonder about her and Bells.
    The first thing Gina unpacked from the second grocery bag was a cellophane package of bread stuffing. Tozzi’s stomach growled. It wasn’t crispy-edged home fries, but it was food. He stood up and ambled over toward the counter.
    She looked at him warily over her glasses, like a dog eyeing a cat coming too close to her bowl. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. Her eyes didn’t leave him.
    He glanced down at the package of stuffing. He knew this was probably for the DeFrescos’ Thanksgiving dinner, but he wasstarving. He was dying to rip the bag open and shove a handful of the dry bread cubes into his mouth, but that wouldn’t be right. Of course, he wasn’t Mike Tozzi, he was Mike Santoro, and Santoro was a bad guy as far as Gina knew. So why shouldn’t he open the bag and take some? It would be consistent with his character. And anyway he was hungry.
    He reached for the bag and the sound of rustling cellophane invaded the quiet kitchen. The steely glint in her eye made him freeze.
    â€œYou like that hand?” she asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    She looked down at his hand on the bag. “You like that hand?”
    â€œYeah. I like it.”
    â€œThen keep it to yourself before I cut it off.” There was a knife rack on the counter behind the bags of groceries.
    Tozzi looked her in the eye and grinned, but she was serious. The DeFrescos were Sicilian.
    â€œC’mon,” he said. “Just lemme have a few.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œC’mon. You’re not gonna use the whole bag.”
    â€œNo.” She pulled the bag of stuffing out from under his hand, threw it in the cupboard, and slammed the door shut.
    Tozzi shrugged and gave her a helpless look. “Gina, why so mean? What’d I ever do to you?”
    â€œYou don’t know?” She was weighing a can of cranberry sauce in her hand.
    â€œOh, c’mon, will ya? You make it sound like I forced you.”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œWell, then what are you saying?”
    She put the can on the counter and pulled another one out of the bag. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    She sighed, exasperated. “Why don’t you just go away?”
    â€œWe had fun. It was great. Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
    â€œBecause I don’t.”
    â€œWell, I do.”
    â€œThen go outside and talk to yourself.” She pulled out a package of walnuts, and Tozzi’s stomach growled out loud.
    She looked down at his gut and shook her head.
    Tozzi frowned. “You know, Gina, I don’t get you. I bend over backward to be nice to you, and you treat me like shit. For a while there I thought maybe we coulda had something together, but I guess I was wrong.”
    â€œYou’ve got that right.”
    â€œSee? You’ve always gotta be nasty. Why? I’m nice to you, but you’re nasty to me. That’s not right.” This was Mike Santoro talking, but Tozzi was getting into