“How’s Stevan?” Jimmy mimicked the question, rolling the words on his tongue as if tasting them. “His brother’s a traitor and his father is dying. How do you think he is?”
“I think he’s making mistakes.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Where was he at five o’clock this morning?”
Jimmy rolled his shoulders, turned his lips down. “Stevan has offered to forgive you, Michael- how many times, now? Three times? Four? All you have to do is repent. Come back to us.”
“Things have changed. I want out.”
“Then you leave him no choice.”
Michael pictured the bullet holes in the door of Chez Pascal. Two double-taps. Head height. “Nothing personal, right?”
“Exactly.”
“And the wishes of his father? The man who built this from nothing? Who built you from nothing? What about him?”
“The son is not the father.”
A moment’s irony touched his eyes. At fifteen, the old man had made Michael Jimmy’s student, and in that capacity he became a mirror to Jimmy’s vanity, something Jimmy could point to and say, “Look at this instrument I’ve made.” The old man’s business had thrived with the two of them on the street, for as effective as Jimmy had been by himself, it was nothing compared to what they’d done together. They’d killed their way from one river to the other, north to south and over into Jersey. Russian mob. Serbians. Italians. It didn’t matter. If somebody crossed the old man, they took him down. But after all these years, that’s all Michael was to Jimmy, a weapon.
Disposable.
Michael looked from Jimmy to the man he’d never met. He stood three feet behind Jimmy’s right shoulder, a spare man in linen pants and a golf shirt tight enough to show straps of lean, hard muscle. “Who’s he?” Michael asked.
“Your replacement.”
Michael felt a pang that was neither loss nor hurt, but one more broken strand. He looked the man over and noticed small things he’d missed. Fine white scars on both forearms, one finger that lacked a nail. The man stood six feet tall, and looked vaguely Slavic, with wide-spaced eyes and broad planes of cheekbone. Michael shrugged once, and then dismissed him. “I would never turn on people who trust me,” he said to Jimmy.
“No? How long have you been with this woman of yours? Three months? A year?”
“What does it matter? It’s personal.”
“It matters because you only told us about her eight days ago. You kept her a secret, and keeping secrets from us is one step away from spilling ours. It’s two sides of the same coin. Secrets. Lack of trust. Priorities.”
“I said I would never turn.”
“And yet, you made your choice.”
“So did the old man. When he let me go.”
“Maybe the old man’s gone soft.”
That was Michael’s replacement-a crisp voice with a slight accent-and Michael could not believe the disrespect, here in the man’s own house. He held the man’s Slavic gaze, then stared hard at Jimmy and waited for him to meet his eyes. “I’ve seen you kill a man for less,” Michael said.
Jimmy picked daintily at the nail of his smallest finger, then said, “Maybe I don’t disagree.”
“I want to see him.” Michael’s voice grated. Every man here owed his life to the old man. What they had. Who they were. Honor the old man and the old man honors you. That’s the way it was done, old school and proper.
In some ways, Jimmy agreed. “Nobody walks away, Michael. That’s how it’s always been. The old man was wrong to tell you that you could.”
“He’s the boss.”
“For now.”
Michael’s heart beat twice as he considered that. “You were in the car last night. With Stevan.”
“Pretty night for a drive…”
“You bastard.”
Jimmy saw the anger and rolled onto the balls of his feet. It had long been a question between them, who could take who. Michael watched the glint come into Jimmy’s eyes, the cold and narrow smile. He wanted it, was eager; and Michael knew, then, that there would be no easy out, no graceful exit from a life he no longer desired. For too many people, the matter was personal.
Fingers tightened on holstered weapons and the moment stretched; but before it broke, there was movement on the stairs, a nurse on the landing. In her forties, she looked like a smaller version of Jimmy, but vaguely female. When Jimmy turned and lifted his chin, she said, “He wants to know who’s here.”
“I’ll be right there,” Jimmy told her, and cold touched his face when he looked back at Michael. “Stay here.” He motioned to the young Slavic man. “Watch him.”
“Where’s Stevan?” Michael demanded.
Jimmy offered a second slit of a smile, but otherwise ignored the question. He mounted the stairs on light feet, and when he came back down, he said, “He wants to see you.” Michael moved for the stairs, but Jimmy stopped him. “Not yet.” He twisted a finger like he was stirring tea, so Michael lifted his arms, and let the man pat him down. He checked Michael’s legs to the groin, his arms to the wrist. He smoothed fabric over Michael’s chest and back, then fingered the collars of his jacket and shirt.
“None of this is necessary,” Michael said.
Jimmy’s gaze moved from low to high, and the gaze lingered. “I don’t know you anymore.”
“Maybe you never did.”
A hand flapped on his wrist. “Enough. Go. Up.”
On the second floor Michael saw a nursing station filled with monitors tinted green. Cables snaked down the stairs and under the table that held the equipment. The nurse sat with her feet flat on the floor, eyes glued to the monitors. In a small room behind her, an iron-haired priest sat in a comfortable chair, eyes slightly closed, fingers crossed in his lap. He wore shined shoes and black clothing with a white collar at the throat. When the nurse looked up, Michael asked, “Are we that close?”
She glanced at Jimmy, who nodded in permission. “We’ve resuscitated him twice,” she said.
“What?” Michael’s anger flared. The old man
She glanced at Jimmy. “The son-”
“It’s not up to the son! He made his wishes plain. He’s ready.”
The nurse raised her hands and looked horrified. “I can only-”
Michael cut her off. “How bad is the pain?”
“The morphine can barely touch it.”
“Can you give him more?”
“More would kill him.”
“Is he lucid?”
“In and out.”
Michael stared at the priest, who stared back, terrified. “How long does he have?”
“Hours. Weeks. Father William has been here for five days.”
“I want to see him.” Without waiting for a response, Michael moved to the next landing and stopped beside broad, double doors. Jimmy leaned a shoulder against the frame and flicked a piece of lint from his
