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THIRTY-ONE
When we reached Little Joe's retirement home, Jack parked in the side lot; the one reserved for overflow guests. The regular lot was almost empty, so I didn't know why he chose that one.
To get to the place, we had to take a path through a patch of woods. Jack was at the trail's edge before he realized I wasn't behind him. He waved--as if I might not have understood that I was supposed to follow. When I didn't move, he walked back to the car. I rolled down my window.
"I like my life, Jack. Sure, it's a little screwy, but I'd really like to keep it for a while longer. Going in there, after the last time, doesn't seem the best way to prolong my term on this earth."
He opened the car door. I didn't move.
"You trust me?" he asked.
"Sure, but--"
"Then get out. I'm going to fix this."
"That fix doesn't involve prematurely ending the life of a Mafia don's brother, does it?"
A look. That's all he gave me. Just a look.
I threw up my hands. "Well, I had to ask. The last time I had a run-in with Little Joe, it ended with body disposal, and I like to be prepared."
He headed for the home.
There were three people at the front desk--a nurse, a receptionist and a young man who looked like an orderly. They were so engrossed in their conversation they didn't notice us come in.
"--think he'll do it?" the receptionist was saying.
"Of course he will. He has to. Otherwise, no one will take him seriously." The orderly glanced at the wall clock. "Right now, someone, somewhere is enjoying the last few minutes of their life."
"Someone, somewhere is always enjoying the last few minutes of their life," the nurse snapped. "Hundreds of people will die in the next ten minutes, and if we start panicking over that one, we're giving him exactly what he wants."
The Helter Skelter killer. What else would they be talking about as the clock hands hit noon, reminding me that no matter how close we got, it would be too late for at least one person.
My throat tightened, breath catching, as if the oxygen content in the room had plummeted. Jack's hand tightened on my elbow.
"We're here to see Joe Nikolaev," he said with a standard midwestern accent.
The receptionist and the orderly both glared at him for disrupting their death watch. As the nurse turned off the radio, the orderly looked from Jack to me, then scurried off, probably to find another radio. Jack's gaze followed him.
"I'm sorry," the nurse said. "I'm afraid Mr. Nikolaev is no longer with us."
"No longer--?" I began. "Oh--oh, geez. We hadn't heard. When did it happen?"
The receptionist sputtered a laugh, covering her mouth as she did.
The nurse glared at her, then turned a wry smile on us. "I'm sorry. We need to be careful what we say in this business, don't we? I meant he's not here anymore--at the home. His family took him out yesterday." She lowered her voice. "He didn't seem too happy about it."
"Caused a real uproar," the receptionist muttered.
"Transition can be difficult at that age," the nurse said. "I'm sure Joseph will adjust."
That hitman Joe sent after me had said Boris Nikolaev had had enough of his brother's screw-ups, the same thing Evelyn had heard. If Boris had found out about Joe's slip of the tongue--and the failed hit--well, then the only thing Little Joe would be adjusting to was life at the bottom of a six-foot hole.
"Thank you," I said. "We'll try to stop by his brother's--"
"Toilet," Jack said.
I glanced at him, brows raised.
