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“I got other information.” He slams his laptop lid, grinning up at me. “Any little bit helps.”
“Glad I could be of service then.” I unplug my phone and shove it into my pocket. “Actually, scratch that, no, I’m not.”
Lanzo hops to his feet. “Come on then, let’s head out for real this time. We have a couple stops to make before you meet Carmine.”
“The gangster boss, Carmine?”
“The one and only.” He walks to the door, looking happier than I’ve seen him so far. Which puts me in a sour mood. Anything that makes this guy happy is going to be trouble.
“Where are we headed first?”
“Your home,” he says, glancing back at me as he opens the door. “You’re going to need clothes, right? You’d better get packed.”
Chapter9
Renata
Idon’t know why I’m so nervous to head inside.
I linger at the back door, toying with my key for longer than I should, thinking about Grandpop in there going through his afternoon routine, probably worried sick about me. The home nurse isn’t coming for another hour, and if I’m lucky, I can be in and out.
I push inside, poking my head into the back foyer. I hear the TV on in the living room, playing a Western. The house I share with Grandpop, the same house I’ve lived in my entire life, is a simple three-bedroom rancher with two full baths and a kitchen dying for an upgrade. Everything works, but barely—I’ve been the maintenance man around the house ever since Grandpop got sick. It drives him nuts, but he can’t climb ladders, spackle, drill, hammer, whatever, the way he used to, so it all fell to me. I learned a lot in those first few months.
“Grandpop?” I call out, feeling anxious. Dirty dishes are stacked in the kitchen sink. He must’ve managed to make dinner on his own. Guilt hits me hard. Normally, we eat together every night. I do the cooking, the washing up, while he rests in his big easy chair. Instead, the poor guy fended for himself.
“In here,” he calls out. Voice a rasp, followed by a cough.
I grimace at the painful hacking noise.
Grandpop looks at me from beneath his mop of thick gray hair. He’s sunk down into his chair while some guys shoot at each other in black and white on the TV. He’s smaller in person than he is in my memory, like the cancer’s eating more than his lungs, it’s eatinghimtoo. When I was a little girl, Grandpop was a giant, so deeply alive. Now, he’s like a whisper of his former hearty self.
The soft whoosh of the oxygen machine’s a familiar white noise. I walk over, bend down, and kiss his cheek.
“Hi, Grandpop. I’m home.”
“You were out all night.” He doesn’t say it in an accusing way, only stating a fact. Grandpop’s like that, been like that my whole life. I never do anything wrong, exactly, but I do plenty that disappoints him.
Sometimes I wish he’d get mad.
“Sorry. I had a job run long then I crashed with a friend.” Half-truths. I hate lying to him.
“Glad you’re okay,” he mumbles, frowning at me. “Call next time.”
“I will. Promise. How was last night? You manage all right without me?”
“Eh,” he says, waving me away. “You hover too much. I’m fine.”
“Yeah? You look fine. Is that the same sweatshirt you were wearing when I left?”
He grunts, picking at himself. “Nah, can’t be.”
“Pretty sure that’s the same paint stain on the shoulder.” I nudge him. “You’re sure you’re fine?”
His eyes narrow for a moment, but he breaks out into a grin. “Fine, okay, you caught me. Can’t sneak past you.”
“I’m like a hawk.” I crouch next to his chair. “Want help getting changed?”
“Nah, Mary will do it.”
