sewed quietly. I knew the routine: catgut to close the deeper layers of the wound, silk to close the skin. When he was done, he wrote a prescription for my old friend Percocet and told me to take it easy for a few days. “No heavy lifting. No running. Come back if there’s any sign of infection, such as redness, swelling or extreme pain. And you might want to pick up a stool softener. Most people experience constipation from Percocet. It’s up to you to decide which is worse, that or the pain. Also, please remember that Percocet is a narcotic and that you may feel giddy-or in your case, giddier-after taking it. You might want to avoid driving.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And Mr. Geller?”
“Yes?”
“Stay away from stemware for a while.”
I got off the elevator at 18 and walked slowly toward my apartment. I listened at my door and heard nothing. Checked the lock and jamb for signs of forced entry. Also nothing. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, then stood back against the outside wall and waited. I reached in and flipped on the light switch, then withdrew my hand and waited some more. If someone was in there lying in wait, maybe they’d get bored to death.
When I felt too tired to stand in the hall anymore, I stepped inside. There was no one in the living room or dining room. No one in the galley kitchen. I went in there and got my big chopping knife and made my way through the rest of the apartment. There was no one in my bedroom, bathroom or closets. No one on the balcony.
I was alone. As usual.
I went back to the front door and was locking the dead-bolt when the phone rang. I almost stabbed myself with the knife at the sound; that would have been fun to explain to Dr. Klein. I set down the knife on the coffee table and answered my phone. Dial tone. Somewhere else a phone kept ringing-the cell Dante Ryan had given me. I found it on a chair in the bedroom where I’d left it while showering.
“Jonah Geller’s armed guard speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“It’s me,” Ryan said. “How’d you make out?”
I gave him the stitch count. “It would have been worse if you hadn’t warned me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Well. I got caught up in the moment.”
“I’m trying to say thank you,” I said.
“I’m the one who should thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“You made him cry,” Ryan said. “He cried all the way home. Whatever else happens, I saw the man cry. The man. Big fucking baby, more like it.”
“His elbow dislocated?”
“Fractured in two places. One of them the funny-sounding one.”
“The humerus.”
“Yeah. The other one I forget. Doctor said he was lucky he didn’t need traction.”
“He’s in a cast?”
“From his wrist to above the elbow. Looks like a fucking salesman, wants to shake hands with everyone.”
“I guess I’ve moved up on his shit list.”
“You are his shit list.”
“He’s lucky that’s all I did to him. Tell me something. If Phil hadn’t been there-”
“No names, I said”
“Okay. If it had been me and the big baby one on one, what would you have done?”
“Given you a standing ovation.”
“Seriously, would you have stopped me?”
“From what, killing him? Can you do that with your kung fu shit?”
“I practise karate, not kung fu, but yes, I could have killed him. You’d be surprised how easy it is.”
“No,” Ryan drawled. “I don’t think I would.” I heard him suck in air and guessed he’d just lit up. “I got to get away from these people. They’re poisoning me. I got to spend more time with my kid. I miss him so much-Christ, I even miss my wife. I want to do things normal people do. Take my boy fishing. To a ball game. Run a hose in the sun so he can see how rainbows are made. But my wife won’t even let him leave the house with me. All this talk of war between the brothers, she’s afraid someone will take a crack at me when I’m with our son. Or maybe I’ll corrupt him just by being with him, like something’ll leach out of me straight into him. All the kids his age, they play with water guns and shit? First time he picked one up, I swear, my wife turned white and ragged on me for fucking hours, how he’s going to end up like me.”
“She should talk to my mother,” I said. “Ever since I got shot, she freaks if I don’t answer the phone on the first ring. Nice Jewish boys aren’t supposed to get shot, unless maybe they own a jewellery store.”
“I’m a little curious about that myself,” Ryan said. “I mean, I’m not generalizing or anything, but growing up in Hamilton, every Jew I ever knew, besides the few that got into our thing, they became doctors or lawyers or dentists or went into the family business. Scrap metal, shit like that.”
“Did my mother put you up to this?”
“Come on. How’d you get to be a PI?”
“It’s way too long a story,” I told him. “The Percocet is kicking in.”
“And I’m in the Aerosuites Hotel with nothing to do but listen to the elevators.”
“All right. Let’s just say school never clicked for me. I could follow what the teachers said on any given day, but I could never put it together like my brother.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a lawyer, like a good Jew is supposed to be. Very successful. Very responsible. Rarely gets shot on the job. The apple of his mother’s eye.”
“Not your father’s?”
“He died when I was a kid.”
Dante Ryan said nothing. I remembered how his father, Sid Ryan, had been killed by the Hamilton mob when Dante was an infant. I was debating whether to ask him about this when a rather large yawn escaped my lips.
“All right,” Ryan said, “I can take a hint. Anyway, given what happened tonight, I’d be careful if I was you. Get a professional in and change the piece-of-shit lock on your door. Check your car before you start it. Watch your back.”
“I can barely watch my side,” I said. “What about your boss? He figure out yet who warned me on the field?”
“Oh yeah. I told him I was warning him, not you. That a ballplayer was getting too close with a bat.”
“Phil say otherwise?”
“Phil never says more than he has to. Frankly, I don’t know what the fuck he saw.”
“He Marco’s regular bodyguard?”
“One in a series.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Me? No. I don’t guard bodies, I generate them.”
“All right. I’m saying good night now. With the cavalry on speed-dial.”
“More likely you’ll need the bomb squad,” he said.
CHAPTER 20
Buffalo: the previous March
Rich Leckie sagged down onto a bench beside Marty Oliver, raising his T-shirt off his belly to wipe the sweat pouring off his bald head. His stomach was white and soft, rolling out over the band of his shorts.
“It’s official,” he gasped. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Marty said.
“You’re right. I’m dead already.”
“That might explain your game tonight.”
