“I guess somebody trying to murder me has brought out the best in me,” I joke half-heartedly. “Now get the hell to the airport. I want you to fly commercial instead of taking the Nylo jet. Anything that says Nylo on it is dangerous right now.”
I snap my fingers and one of the new security guards brings me the briefcase full of cash.
“There’s ten grand in this briefcase,” I tell Ben. “You probably won’t need all of it. Just keep the rest or whatever.”
“You don’t really know what things cost anymore, do you? How much do you think an apple costs, for instance?”
“Don’t be a jerkwad. If you need more, just call Nylo and ask for it. They’ll get it to you through the security agency. Don’t use your bank card. Don’t use your credit card. Only use your phones in an emergency, okay?”
26
I hop back on the train, accompanied by Ed and Mel. They don’t quite seem to know what to say to me.
“You guys can sit down if you want,” I suggest. “I don’t think there are any assassins about to target me in this train car.”
“You never know, ma’am,” says Ed.
“You don’t think I’m overreacting, do you?” I ask. “I mean, we have had death threats and stalkers in the past at Nylo. Disgruntled employees, overeager fans. But nothing like this. I mean, my brother is dead, right? Somebody tried to break my daughter’s arm.”
“You are definitely not overreacting,” says Mel. “Anyway, we are providing a service. It’s not our job to figure out whether or not you need our help. We don’t ever think about it like that. If you are using our services, you have a good reason.”
“If it were your daughters, you would do the same thing, right?” I say.
“Absolutely,” says Mel. “What is money for if it doesn’t buy you security and peace of mind?”
“Damn right,” I say. “Listen, my brother Bernard is not returning my calls and he won’t talk to me. But if this person is targeting my girls, then there is every reason to suspect that he is also targeting Bernard’s boys. Is there any way you can get a message to him through the security guards assigned to him? Can you tell him what happened to Olivia and that he should send Phoebe and the boys away for a while? Maybe to her parents’ place?”
Ed and Mel furrow their brows and exchange worried looks.
“He has instructed his security detail not to interact with the rest of us,” says Mel. “But we’ll see what we can do.”
“Great,” I say. “Yeah, see what you can do.”
Incredibly, unaccountably, Little Bologna still exists and is still open. The building is as old as the pyramids and in far worse shape. It is leaning slightly and there are actually giant steel beams at an angle attached to the side and buried in the ground. The beams are holding the building up, keeping it from slumping sideways and crashing down on some lamb-and-rice cart guy. It occurs to me the restaurant should be renamed Little Pisa. It’s funny, but I don’t laugh.
I look around for Gabriella and Alistair, but I don’t see them. I call Alistair.
“Where are you?” I ask when he picks up the phone.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “It’s an extremely long walk. We stopped to get some lunch. I never do this much walking. Actually, stick your hand up in the air.”
I stick my hand up in the air. I see somebody down the avenue waving back at me. I hang up. My brother and sister soon jog up to meet me, trailed by four security guards.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” says Alistair. “My legs are cramping. I don’t even own a pair of tennis shoes. I think there are holes in the bottom of my loafers.”
“Do you even remember this old office?” I ask Gabriella.
“Not really,” she says. “I remember Little Bologna, but not the office.”
The building is essentially condemned and so the street entrance to the upper floors is chained and bolted. We have to go in through the restaurant to get upstairs. Our security detail fans out, covering us from every side.
“Let us check the place out first,” says Ed.
Little Bologna is your basic bad New York Italian restaurant: white tablecloths and an ancient waiter milling around aimlessly, staring out the window with a towel over his shoulder. There is a giant faded picture of St. Catherine on one wall. When he sees us, the waiter grabs a stack of menus and holds them out begrudgingly, but the security guards trudge past him to the service stairwell through the kitchen.
“You aren’t gonna eat?” he asks, astonished to see the six large men disappear behind him.
“We’ll eat,” I say.
Gabriella, Alistair, and I all take menus and sit down in one of the booths. We order coffee and cannoli.
“Our dad’s first office was upstairs,” I tell the waiter. “Nylo Games. Do you remember Prescott Nylo?”
“Ah yes, Mr. Nylo!” says the old man, a smile brightening his solemn face. “He hasn’t been here in ages. Did he forget about me? Did he forget about the good times?”
“He’s dead, unfortunately,” I say. “He died last Saturday.”
“Oh my god,” says the waiter, nearly dropping the menus he’d just collected from us. “He was younger than me. Oh my god!”
“Has there been anybody suspicious in the building lately?” I ask. “Anybody you’ve never seen before?”
The waiter looks up at St. Catherine for a moment, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Nobody new ever comes here. Nobody suspicious, nobody unsuspicious. Mostly nobody at all, you know?” He keeps shaking his head as he plods off toward the kitchen
The three of us sit in silence until the coffee and cannoli arrive. The ancient waiter’s hands are jittery as he sets down the cups and saucers in front of us. I reach for my coffee and take a tentative sip, then a longer one, pleasantly surprised to find it’s not weak and watery, but rich
