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The last time I'd set foot in one of death's holding pens--sorry, "retirement homes"--I'd been thirteen, visiting my great-aunt Anna. The same Aunt Anna who'd sworn she'd die if her kids ever put her in a home. She didn't belong in a retirement home. First, she'd never retired, having run a cake-decorating business right up to the minute her kids stuck the For Sale sign on her front lawn. Second, though she was ninety-one, her brain was as sharp as ever, which was part of the problem. With her body wasting, she needed live-in help and she could be difficult. When the third nurse quit, Aunt Anna's children gave up and put her in a home. Two weeks later, the old woman's prediction came true. She died. There's a moral in there somewhere. I think it's "don't have kids."
Evelyn came to collect me about ten minutes later.
"Now, he knows what you are," she whispered as she steered me down the main hall. "But I didn't give a name. Don't use Dee. That'll be your official name and we don't want him knowing that." She stopped outside a room and grasped the handle. "We could go with--"
"I've got one," I said and pushed open the door.
The door opened into the living room area of a hotel size suite. A couch, a chair, a coffee table and art prints on the wall, all very Holiday Inn, reasonably new, but definitely bargain-basement quality. A decent enough place to spend the night...but the rest of your life? I fought back a shiver.
A man sat in the chair, his back to the door, affording only a view of a liver-spotted bald head. He stood as we came in. I blinked, and hoped my surprise didn't show. He was three inches shorter than me, and I was only wearing one-inch heels. With a name like Little Joe, maybe this doesn't seem surprising, but blatant irony is the favored form of criminal nickname humor. Any guy with the words "tiny" or "little" in his moniker was certain to be six feet plus. Obviously the Nikolaevs didn't share the usual sense of mob humor.
Like many undersized criminals, Little Joe had over-compensated in the weight room. He'd pumped iron for so many years that even now, stuck in a rest home, his biceps would be the envy of a man a quarter his age. He had, however, neglected the lower half of his body, which left him looking like a balloon character squeezed from the bottom, a massive chest topping spindly legs. His eyes were sunken brown dots that glittered when he saw me. He smiled, revealing a perfect set of fake pearly whites.
"Is this her?" he asked, his gaze dropping to my chest and staying there.
"Jess," I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. "But my friends call me Jezebel."
He wheezed a laugh. "I bet they do." He vice-gripped my hand. I squeezed back and he fairly licked his lips, eyes never rising above my neckline. "I bet you are very good at your job, no?"
"The best. No one ever complains."
I extricated my hand from his and sashayed to the sofa. Evelyn tried to take the seat beside me, but Little Joe slid into it with the speed of a twenty-year-old.
"Now this, Evelyn, this is how a hitwoman should be," Joe said, waggling a finger at her. "Not dressing up like a man, running around, shooting people. She must be subtle. Use her assets." A sidelong look at my "assets." "Yes, this is how it should be."
I wriggled like a praised puppy. Joe sidled closer.
"Evelyn tells me you're a very important man," I said.
My use of the present tense didn't go unnoticed. Joe preened and regaled me with a few glimpses into his former life. As he talked, I was aware of time ticking past, but also knew this wasn't someone who could--or should--be rushed into answering questions. I took my cue from Evelyn, who settled into her chair as if not expecting to rise for a while.
Little Joe was the older brother of Boris Nikolaev, long-time head of the Nikolaev family. To hear Joe tell it, he'd voluntarily abdicated his role as heir because he didn't want the responsibility. My guess was that he'd been passed over, like a Fortune 500 CEO's screw-up son--given a big corner office and invited to all the meetings, but never asked to actually do anything.
After about a half-dozen surprisingly boring mob stories, Joe made the segue himself.
"So you girls need help, you come to Little Joe. This is good. I may be old, but I can still help. You said it was about a former associate of my family?"
"A man who worked for you. Leon Kozlov."
"Kozlov?" Joe's face screwed up and I expected him to make the connection with the Helter Skelter victims, but instead he said only, "From the seventies?"
"Late seventies, maybe early eighties. He seems to have parted ways with the family. Kicked out, probably. His fortunes didn't exactly improve after he left you."
"Kozlov. Leon Kozlov."
Joe's eyes rolled back, as if searching his mental files. Then he turned his head and spat. Didn't just make the motion. Actually spat. Fortunately, in the opposite direction. He muttered something in Russian. I didn't need to know the language to know it wasn't a compliment.
"The Fomin hit," he muttered. "Sasha Fomin."
Evelyn frowned. "Kozlov was a hitman? I don't think--"
"No, no. Kozlov, he was not a hitman. He was security. A bodyguard. Not for the family, but for our associates, people we wanted to protect. Only he didn't do so good a job."
"So this Fomin got whacked on Kozlov's shift?" I said.
Joe squeezed my thigh. My upper thigh. Upper inner thigh, to be precise. I resisted the urge to squirm back into the sofa cushions...or break his fingers.
"Smart girl," he said, kneading my thigh. "I said she was a smart girl, no?"
