by Paula Cox
“You think I do drugs? I can’t even smoke a joint without my lungs practically caving in on me.”
“I don’t know what you do, and as long as you don’t wind up killing yourself, I don’t care either.”
Maya goes thoughtfully quiet. Whatever she’s got running through her brain, I betcha right now she’s considering whether or not to tell me about it. Please, no. The less I know about her, the easier this will be.
“Daddy’s got connections a hundred miles in every direction outside Portsmouth,” she says. “Sometimes, you just want a little privacy.”
“You don’t think your father would understand if you just told him you wanted to get away every once and awhile?”
“He hired you, didn’t he? What do you think that says about what he thinks?”
“What he told me is that he wants you safe. That’s not the same thing as keeping you in a prison.”
I slow the car at Maya’s direction and stop in front of one of the Queen Anne-style apartments. The paneling is the color of salmon, and it sprouts these little turrets like smokestacks you see in pictures of London in the 1800s. A big porch sits out in front like a second house, raised up by these big Roman pillars. I bet ten grand a piece for those pillars, just judging by their handiwork.
“You think that now. Get to know my father a little longer than three days, and you’ll see they’re one and the same for him. Stop here.”
I stop behind the black BMW, the only other car on the street.
“You can turn it off. I’m not going to be gone long.”
I don’t like the sound of this, and so I keep the door locked so that she can’t jump out on me. “ ‘Not going to be gone long’ is too vague. You need to tell me something better before I let you out.”
“I’ve told you enough already.” She tries to unlock the door, but I reach over and smash the knob back down.
She rounds on me, strands of her bottle-blonde hair whipping about her face. “Have we got a problem?”
“That depends. I’ve already told you who I work for. Now you’re trying to act like it’s a choice.”
“You’re gambling, Quinn.” It’s the first time she’s used my name, and I do not like how she said it, like a curse. “All it takes is one word from me, and you’ll be out on the street. You’re not in a position to demand anything.”
“You’ve already threatened me once today, Miss Butler.”
“It’s my birthday. I can damn well do what I want.”
“Then do what you want,” I say. “Just know that if at any point I think you’re in danger, it’s my job to make sure you have as much protection as possible. That may include calling your father. And if you’re hiding out an hour from the city in a place I’ve never even seen before, how am I supposed to know you’re safe?”
That’s a risky mouthful, but it gets the job done. She takes her hand from the door. Her mouth curves into the shape of a pout. When she talks again, her voice is quieter: “This is where I used to come when I was younger. Six-seven years ago. None of these apartments existed back then—they were just a bunch of abandoned buildings. Big fire twenty years ago. They only just got around to cleaning up everything and making it all nice again. I used to come here with my old boyfriends to fool around. Now I like walking around so I can get a moment’s rest. That’s everything. Happy?”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have just said something in the beginning. I still don’t get why you have to keep this a big secret.”
“Because the only reason I ever came here in the first place was to get away. How do you think he’d take it if I told him that?”
“I don’t think he’d care. He’s got to let you go at some time.”
“Right.” She smears a hand over her mouth. The gesture’s rougher than anything else I’ve seen her do. Usually, she’s such a princess. “Like I said, wait more than two days, and you’ll see what kind of man he really is. I’m his little princess, and he wants to keep me locked up in his tower for the rest of my life. He’d kill me if he found out where I was right now. And he’d kill you if he found out you took me here. So you’d better not breathe a word if you know what’s best for you.”
I can’t decide if that last sentence is supposed to sound like a corny mobster’s threat or a legitimate one. I spend a whole second waiting before I unlock the doors.
“As long as you don’t get yourself killed, no one has to know anything. Far as I’m concerned, your father has better things to worry about than the fact you were walking around in some old apartment.”
Maya gives me a look that is half doubtful and half relieved. Then she opens the door. But there’s one more thing I’ve got to say before she leaves. “I’m not an expert or anything like that, but have you tried just telling your father you want to live away?”
She hangs her elbows on the door and gives me a stare like I’m some kind of indescribable moron. “You think after everything I just said, if he thought I was even considering it, he’d let me out of his sight another moment? Does a mob lord—one of the most feared and respected men in New England—strike you as the kind of person who’d let the most precious thing in the world to him just slip away and do what she pleased? Are you an even bigger idiot than I took you for?”
“So you’ve never even mentioned it? You’ve snuck around for six years and never said a word.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple, far as I can see. You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be,” I say, getting bold. “And I’ve got a feeling that the longer you do it, the more you’re putting yourself in danger.”
There’s a dewy rain coming in from the direction of the bay. Briny winds. Salt that sticks to the roof of your mouth and stays there like a glob of peanut butter. I’m wondering if Maya feels cold standing there without a coat, giving me the blackest look I’ve ever gotten from anyone before. It’s amusing but also unsettling. That’s a new experience for me.
“No, Quinn. It’s not.” The car door slams shut with a sound like thunder. Maya takes a few steps up towards the enormous porch, stops, faces me again, and comes back to the car, planting her elbows on the frame of the open window. “Kirill’t you ever talk to me about this ever again. We’ve never had this conversation, you understand?”
She turns around before I’ve got a chance to say anything and whisks up to the porch. Then the door of the black BMW opens and a man gets out, tall and lanky, with a long blue coat that goes down to his knees and a sweep of feathery-light, blonde hair combed all to one side. He doesn’t turn around when he climbs the steps, and I don’t have a chance to see his face. Then, Maya embraces him for a second, and they walk up the steps together and disappear into the house like two happy newlyweds.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door. Then I close it right back again. It’s obvious enough she knows the guy. There isn’t any need to go chasing after them. And some of her spiel has sunk in, enough that I can understand if she wants a few moments privacy. Hell, I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to have a mobster watching over me all the time.
The man already keeps all his birds cooped up in his house like he’s running his own private zoo. He’s probably got Maya stuck right in the middle of all that, like she’s his prize pig or something. It doesn’t help either that she’s short as a runt and helpless as a newborn.
More cloud mash overhead. Thunder is rolling in, heavy but in the wet, thick sense of thunder. The rain patters a few times against my windshield, but these are just the scouts. A few seconds later the clouds open up, and the next thing I know, the Mercedes and I are swimming in a hail-fire of cold rain pellets. That’s a thing about these New England storms. They come down hard and heavy for about ten minutes, throwing nothing but punches, but any more time than that and the only reminder of a storm you’ll have is the smell in the air and the wet smear near the gutters.
Early Talking Heads are on the radio, but I turn it down so that I can hea
r the storm better. Maya’s on my mind, but weird as it is to say it, not the same Maya I started out the day with. Ditzy, small, and Barbie-like, sure. But not just that. The more I think about it, the more I see that image being replaced by another. Not the spoilt brat that I met the first day or the one I was towing around the whole morning buying a whole new wardrobe she’d probably never have enough events to wear to. Not just the spoilt brat. Daddy’s trophy. His pride and joy. His property. Christ. She’s practically a grown woman, and here she is sneaking around like a freshman scared stiff she’s gonna get caught and grounded by her parents. That was no kind of situation for a girl her age to be in.
Something else I’m thinking, too. All those guys that surrounded her at the shopping malls… What the hell kind of guy problems is she experiencing in that she needs to surround herself with an army to keep them away? Plus me to protect her as well?
The rain goes on pounding for another ten-twenty minutes. Then, it just stops. Like someone shut off the power. Simple and quick. The clouds unstick themselves and from over the gable of one of these Old Dutch houses the sun peeks through with heavy, late afternoon light the color of pages from old books, burnt, and dense.
I spend so much time watching the sun I don’t even hear the tap on the window. “You gonna let me in?” Maya is holding her designer coat in both arms instead of wearing it for some reason. There are goosebumps all over her shoulders.
I start the engine and crank the heater and get out to open her door. She slides in without a word, keeping her eyes locked in front of her like she’s watching a tiny, private T.V.
“Where to?”
“Home.” It’s like a worm has edged down her throat and sucked all the power out of her voice. She sounds lifeless, weak and tired. What the hell went on inside that apartment?
I consider asking her, but common sense tells me that’d be a terrible idea and I shut my mouth. We pull out of the Sunrise Apartments Complex, swing a left and chase the shore of the gray-slate bay, away from the sun. Maya makes a quiet, choking sound and begins to breathe harder. I think I hear a sob, but I don’t break eye contact with the road.
There’s no mistaking the second sob. Maya doesn’t even try to hide it, just scrubs away at her eyes like she has shards of glass in them. She doesn’t say she’s fine, like every other girl who has ever cried in front of me. She’s the kind of girl who’ll deceive everyone else, but not herself. Finally. Something about Maya Butler that seems genuine.
Chapter 6
“Hello?’
“Mr. Tolliver. I’ve woken you?”
“No,” I lie, throwing off the covers and looking at the alarm. Who the hell makes business calls at six in the morning?
“There’s an old friend of mine here at the estate I’d like you to meet. How soon can you be here? I understand of course if it’s an inconvenience.”
“None at all. Give me twenty.” I cup the phone against my shoulder blade and buckle on my jeans before sliding my feet into the boots by the bed. Then, I take the glock from the bedside table and tuck it into my belt before throwing on my coat.
“Take your time,” says the old mobster, his voice husky and dry. I hear another voice in the background, talking over a few strains of what sounds like Italian opera. Then the squawk of a parrot. “We’ll be here awhile, Mr. Tolliver. Feel no need to rush on our account.”
“Okay.”
The line goes dead. I slip my phone back into my pocket and stow away my hotel key card—Astoria room 237. Theo’s rigged me up at this place as it’s not far from his estate, so I don’t have to beat it across town from the docks every time he shouts my name. Which means I’m on call 24/7. There are worse things, though. I’d sooner live this way than in the dung heaps where most of the other guys are staying.
***
Eighteen minutes later and I find myself in a scene a whole lot like the one from before, down to the position Andrei and Ikov stand in when I walk inside the estate.
“How’s business?” I give them a nod, which is not returned. Andrei knuckles Theo’s door a couple of times, leans in and whispers something to his partner I don’t catch. Ikov nods, crosses his arms and makes a ‘harumph’ of a laugh I’m not sure what to do with.
Theo and whoever he’s with in the office are laughing like devils, and I’m made to wait outside again, which truth be told I don’t really mind. The butler comes up, and when I tell him I’ll have an orange juice, he scoffs. A real, pretentious and exaggerated scoff, with the eyes turning up and the mouth opening just a little.
Kit Holcomb—the shaky, thin kid—he’s here too and talking in whispers to another guy I’ve never seen before. The guy is a tall type with pale skin, thin arms, and an expensive coat. He shoots me a glare but says nothing.
Ten minutes I wait, and I’m on my second orange juice when Theo calls me in. The butler directs me to the same stunted wooden dwarf chair I sat in before.
As usual the room’s baking. Not a minute after I step inside the place I can feel the sweat spots forming themselves on my back. I unzip my coat but don’t take it off—I don’t want Theo to see the gun even if chances are he probably doesn’t give a damn I’ve brought it with me. A guy like that knows no one would be stupid enough to try and make a move on him in his own home.
The top layer of the room is covered in expensive-smelling clouds of cigar smoke, but I can see through it, to all the empty birdcages. I can just imagine a $100,000 worth of foreign parakeets turning tail and choking on the clouds.
“So good of you to come, Mr. Tolliver.” Theo’s eyes go all grandfatherly wrinkly as he smiles up at me. “Would have been a shame to miss you while my friends are still in town.”
I’ve got the feeling I’m still not supposed to say anything yet and that there are still introductions he wants to make, so I stay silent and take the rickety seat. The butler whisks out and reappears seconds later with three new glasses filled with an eyeball of ice and three fingers of Scotch. It’s not even seven a.m., and this is how we’re starting the day.
“You haven’t made Mr. Kroll’s acquaintance yet, have you?”
“No.” I take a sip. It’s only then I turn away from Theo and look at the other guy in the room with us. He’s sitting immediately to Theo’s left—an ancient type with a shriveled granny face, hair like lint, a stuffy gray three-piece, and a cane set neatly across his lap. Looks like a regular cane to me but part of me can’t help but think that if the man were to give the end a twist, a sword would pop out.
“Mattias, my associate,” Theo says. Mattias Kroll turns his trembling face to mine and raises his scotch in salute, conveying whatever words of introduction he’d say with the spell of his eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, a little confused. I’ve definitely heard this name before, even if I can’t remember where it was.
“We’ve been friends since childhood-” Theo relights his cigar. “-in New York City. My father was a tailor. Mattias’s father worked as a shoe shiner. You couldn’t imagine two men more dissimilar. The elder Kroll was very genteel. He played the violin and never touched a drop of alcohol. My father died when I was fourteen from cirrhosis of the liver. He was forty-three. I was amazed he made it that far. They never met, but I can imagine they would have carved each other up if they had. The Irish and the Italians were neck-deep in territory wars. Of course, this was no surprise, not in in 1952, or was it ‘53?” He shrugs helplessly at Mattias. “It all seems so long ago. And still so recent. That’s the strange part about getting old. I still haven’t decided if everything changes, or nothing at all.”
“I know you,” I say to Mattias Kroll. “I know your name. You’re the head of the Ceallaighs.”
Mattias raises his glass again, again saluting me. “Kee-lay,” he corrects my pronunciation. “We’ve made our mark in these parts.” There’s a trace of brogue in his accent. Probably something he picked up from his father that has stuck around for all these years.
“So you guys
aren’t kidding around when you say everything’s changed.”
“You’d have come here fifteen years ago you wouldn’t have recognized the place. Every week or so another man was found tangled up in the nets. No fingers. Toes chewed off. Teeth decayed. I’m sure most of us still sleep with a gun beneath the pillow.” He laughs.
“And you lost the spark and decided to call it a day?”
“We were doubling our losses,” Mattias says. “And then there was the competition. Sicilians. Greeks. Russians. Other Irish. Everyone trying to show how much tougher he is than the other guy. It was anarchy. We were all desperate for allies, but no one wanted to partner up. Afraid of looking weak. In some ways, it was stronger than being afraid of dying. Then it all changed.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that,” Mattias repeats.