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I crossed my arms and frowned.
“It’s fine,” Dad said. “She’s my daughter. She’s also my lawyer if I need one. She’s graduating from Harvard next month.”
I traded a small grin with Dad—he couldn’t help but brag about my education, even when his face was so beat up he could barely speak. Zola’s gaze flickered back at me with obvious, if wary, curiosity. I was the definition of inexperienced, of course, but at least he understood I could follow the conversation. Without asking, he took a seat in the second chair facing the bed.
“All right, sir,” he said, although now his appeal was clearly being directed at both of us. “I work at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, and we’re preparing a case against the Messina crime family.”
“What are the charges?” I asked.
“Oh, they’ve got their hands in all sorts of things.” Zola eluded the question easily. “I’m sorry to bother you, but when I caught wind of what had happened, I thought you might have something to say.”
“And what would that be?”
My response was cold—this was highly irregular. Dad had flat-out refused to give a statement to the police called upon his admission to the hospital. I suspected Dr. Carraway had been involved with their appearance, but why would the D.A. connect a basic assault to the Messina family?
“It’s your hand that made me think of it,” Zola said, answering my unspoken question. “It’s sort of Victor Messina’s calling card when dealing out the, ah, consequences to people who don’t meet their end of a bargain. Very painful to have your hand messed up, as no doubt you know, Mr. Crosby.”
All three of us stared at the bandages mummifying Dad’s hand. Dad still didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes as if incredibly fatigued. I turned back to Zola, who just kept looking squarely at my father as if he could stare a response out of him.
“I was wondering if you could say anything about the after-hours gambling operations the Messina family has been running out of Brooklyn nightclubs,” he said. “Specifically, a jazz club called Nick’s over on Ditmas Avenue.”
I could feel, rather than see Dad freeze—whether it was at the mention of gambling, the connection between him and Nick’s, the idea of being a witness against Victor Messina, I didn’t know.
“My father doesn’t know anything about how the Messinas run their businesses,” I said, summoning up as much authority as I could muster. “He’s a sanitation worker, not a hustler.”
“He’s also a musician and has been seen several times handing envelopes of cash to Victor Messina and his associates in and around Nick’s,” Zola shot back calmly, keeping his eyes trained on Dad, who winced. “Mr. Crosby, I’m not looking to cause trouble for you; I was just curious if you could shed any light on the situation.”
“Did you have a record of the gambling, sir?” I interrupted Zola as sweetly as I could. Hestillhadn’t looked directly at me, and I was getting tired of being treated like a piece of furniture when it was clear my dad didn’t want to talk. “Or anything illegal beyond sharing mail?”
Zola’s brown eyes blazed with irritation, but the rest of his admittedly handsome features settled into a blasé expression. He studied me for a moment.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if I offended. We’re not…you’re not in any danger from us here, Mr. Crosby. But Victor Messina has done you a very serious wrong, and saying something about it might help us make sure he can’t do it to anyone else.”
When Dad remained silent, Zola gave an audible sigh. He stood up, and the hospital chair creaked. Zola set his business card down on the bureau by the door. “If you think of anything you’d like to share, please give me a call, day or night. Mr. Crosby. Ms. Crosby.”
With a curt nod at each of us, he left. I turned to Dad, who was staring at the empty doorway with a look of pure terror.
“Are you okay?” I patted my dad’s leg to pull him out of his trance.
Dad shook his head, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply out of his nose. “I…it’s been a long goddamn weekend, Pip. I just want to go home. Would you mind turning off the TV?”
“Sure.” I did as he asked.
But something was bothering me. On a whim, I grabbed a small cup with a few hurried words about getting some ice and jogged to the elevator.
“Mr. Zola!”
As the young attorney turned from the elevators, I was momentarily reminded of the opening scene of the James Bond movies where Bond turns and shoots toward the barrel of a gun. He had that look of the classic Bond actors—the dark, shiny hair, and the slight smirk on his chiseled features.
“Yes?” he asked.
I stopped as the elevator door rang open. Zola motioned for the people to leave and allowed the doors to close before looking at me.
“You mentioned that Messina has a calling card that’s reserved for the people who don’t pay their debts. You’re right—he needs to be behind bars. But you saw my father, Mr. Zola. Did you really think he would speak up two days after he had his stuffing torn out? If a busted hand is his late fee, what do you think Messina does to a rat?”
Zola rubbed a hand over his chin.
“He won’t necessarily know it’s your dad,” he said weakly, to which I responded with an eye roll.
