Bad Luck Read Free Page B

underneath him. Bugs wasn’t grinning now. Sal was.
    â€œMr. Nashe. Mr. Nashe!”
    Sal glared at the voice coming from the other side of the trailer door. It was that wiseass bodyguard, Mr. Mike.
    â€œAre you okay, Mr. Nashe? Mr. Nashe?” The asshole was pounding on that flimsy aluminum door like he was gonna break it in.
    Joseph looked jumpy. “Who the hell’s that?”
    â€œOne of my bodyguards,” Nashe rasped, holding on to his chest.
    Sal watched Nashe crawl to his knees. The Golden Boy was rubbing his chest, sitting on his heels, staring up at the poster on the wall with fear in his eyes, like he was praying to it for mercy or something. Sal looked at the poster, the challenger and the champ eyeballing each other, nose to nose, muscles rippling, legs like tree trunks. When he looked at Nashe again, the Golden Boy was nodding at the poster. His Bugs Bunny teeth were sticking out, but he wasn’t smiling. Good. Maybe he was ready to get serious now.
    â€œYou know, Sal, I may have an idea for you.”
    Mr. Mike was still pounding on the door, going crazy out there.
    Sal nodded toward the door. “Take care of your man first.”
    Nashe nodded. “It’s okay, Mike,” he called out as he got off his knees and brushed himself off. He unlocked the door and opened it. “What’s the problem, Mike?”
    The asshole bodyguard stood in the doorway, glaring in at Sal and Joseph. Real tough guy. “I heard a big noise, Mr. Nashe.”
    â€œIt was nothing, Mike. I knocked over a stool. That’s all.”
    Mr. Mike looked very suspicious. He was staring at the crushed blueprints on the floor. “You sure you’re okay, Mr. Nashe?” He was eyeballing Sal.
    Nashe clapped him on the shoulder and came up with a confident bunny smile. “You’re doing a good job, Mike. Believe me, everything’s okay. I’ll let you know when I need you. I promise. Okay?”
    Sal stared right back at the guy, right in the eye, but the asshole didn’t flinch. Sal didn’t like this guy at all.
    Mr. Mike looked around the trailer one more time, then finally left. Nashe closed the door and locked it.
    â€œWhat’s his problem?” Sal asked.
    â€œYeah, what the hell’s his problem?” Joseph chimed in.
    Nashe bent over to pick up the stool, squinting a little ashe felt his chest with the other hand. “Mike? Mike’s a good guy. Don’t worry about him. He’s new, that’s all. Eager to please.” Nashe set the stool down behind the drafting table and sat down. “One of your paesans , by the way. Tomasso’s his name. Mike Tomasso.”
    Sal shrugged, unimpressed. He didn’t need any more paesans. He needed the money. “So what’s your idea?”
    Nashe looked up at the fight poster again and flashed his nervous-rabbit grin at Sal. “I think you’re gonna like this, Sal,” Bugs said. “I think you’re gonna love it.”
    Sal glanced at the two fighters on the poster, then tilted his head back and looked at Mr. Bunny. “Oh, yeah? Tell me what I’m gonna love.”
    Bugs showed more teeth. “It’s gonna be a big fight. The biggest there ever was. Two weeks from this Saturday.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œYou a betting man, Sal?”
    He tilted his head to the side, staring at the big rabbit with the chubby cheeks in the expensive suit, and started squeezing the black rubber ball again. “Keep talking.”

BI Special Agent Cuthbert Gibbons looked at his boss sitting behind his big mahogany desk, his upper body framed by the high-backed oxblood leather executive chair, one of the towers of the World Trade Center rising behind him out the window. At the edge of the desk, there was a new brass nameplate with the new title: “Assistant Director Brant Ivers.” Something new—special agent in charge of the Manhattan field office is now automatically an