Bad Blood by Anthony Bruno

his belly like a beach ball, massaging it with fingers spread as he blinked at the ID.
    â€œ ‘Special Agent C. Gibson,’ ” the fat guy read aloud. “What’s the C stand for?” he asked.
    Gibbons glared at him. “It’s Gibbons, not Gibson, and don’t worry about the C .” Nitwit.
    â€œOkay, okay, okay.” The fat guy started blinking like crazy now. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Gibson? What can I do for you?”
    Gibbons shut his eyes. It wasn’t worth the effort. “I want to look around.”
    â€œUh-huh.” There was a long pause. “Look around for what?”
    Gibbons gave him the stare. Another long pause. “I’m not at liberty to say, Mr . . . ?”
    â€œGianella. Joe, call me Joe.” He smiled and rubbed his belly. When he smiled, his eyes disappeared in his fat face. “Lookin’ for somethin’, huh? So whatta ya lookin’ for? Jimmy Hoffa?”
    â€œYou know where he is?”
    â€œNo, no, course not. That was just a joke. You know, a joke.” Joe looked nervous.
    â€œLook, Joe, let me lay it all out for you, okay? I’m FBI, you’re not. That puts you at a disadvantage because if you don’t get away from me and let me do my business, I can have you charged with obstruction of justice and arrest you as a suspected accomplice in whatever it is I’m investigating that I already told you I can’t tell you about. So you bust my balls now and I’ll really bust yours later. Do we understand each other?”
    Joe started nodding like a marionette, jerking his head and shoulders up and down as he kept saying “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .” Gibbons wanted to punch him in the eye because he knew the fat slob was just trying to stall him.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Gibson, I do believe you are what you say you are. But let’s just suppose you ain’t. I mean for all I know you could be some kind of corporate spy, you know? I mean, other car companies try to sabotage the competition all the time. Put pin holes in the brake lines, a little bit of sugar in the gas tanks to gum up the valves. You know what I’m talking about?”
    Gibbons wanted to coldcock this guy in the worst way, but he knew better. They’d file charges against the Bureau that could invalidate any evidence he might find here. Oh, for the good ole days when J. Edgar ran things, when the law didn’t get in the way of justice. He bit his tongue and reached for his wallet, pulling out a printed business card. “Here. Call this number. It’s the FBI field office in Manhattan.” Gibbons pointed toward the World Trade Center towering over the horizon. Joe looked like the type who needed visual aids. “Ask them for verification.”
    Joe took the card and blinked at it.
    â€œGo ahead,” Gibbons ordered. “Make the call. I’ll wait right here. Hurry up.”
    Joe did that Howdy Doody nod again. “Yeah, good, okay. I’ll dothat. Be right back. Just hang on, Mr. Gibson.” Gradually he turned and headed back to the bunker, studying the card as he walked.
    Gibbons kneaded the back of his neck and glanced at the guard booth. He couldn’t see the kid’s head, only his feet propped up on the little counter in the booth. He was probably dozing. A regular Marshal Dillon, that one. He looked back toward the bunker and saw the Human Beach Ball huffing and puffing to make the quarter mile, running a few steps, then walking, then running a few more steps, then walking again. Gibbons glanced up at the video camera on the light pole staring down at him. He’d have to work fast.
    He went into his pants pocket and came up with a bunch of keys on a ring, universals he’d brought from the field office. He headed for the nearest line of cars, four-door Accords, and quickly found the Honda key in his bunch. He glanced at the feet in the guard booth and fatso in the distance.