Bad Luck Read Online Free PDF Page B

stare at her. Hecould 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.
    â€œHey, 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 . . .
    â€œSee? 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 buildup 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.”
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œYeah, yeah, even him. So don’t make a move unless Mr. or Mrs. Nashe are directly threatened. You got it?”
    â€œI 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