“I haven’t talked to you unless it was on a burner in more than a year. I haven’t got a clue what’s been going on in your life, and I was okay with that because I knew that you were protecting me. And that you’d get out of the grift soon, and when you did, you’d show up on my doorstep with your arms open wide and tell me everything’s going to be okay.”
He cleared his throat and took a bite of cookie, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t look me in the eye.
“And now here you are,” I continued, “and your arms were wide, but what’s wrong with the rest of the picture?” I didn’t mention that I knew something was wrong just by looking at him. He was putting up a good front, being all smiley and jolly. But underneath the facade, he looked tired and worried and just a little off his game.
“This is the one, Kitty Cat. I swear to you, I’ve got it all set this time. Nothing’s gonna knock your old man back now. Nothing at all. At least not once I get just one tiny detail sorted out.”
I stood, feeling a little numb, and moved to the sink. I didn’t want my dad to see my face, so I busied myself with rinsing out and refilling the coffee carafe. One little detail didn’t sound good. One little detail sounded like code for I’m a walking dead man.
“What detail is that, Daddy?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Did the man not remember who trained me? Was he really trying to set me up like a mark? Plant all the pieces so that I’d offer my help just like he wanted, and all the while I’d think it was my idea? Just how gullible did my dad think I was?
More important, how scared was he that he’d put his own daughter at risk? Because no matter how far off true north my dad’s moral compass might be, I knew one thing for certain: There was nothing in this world he valued more than me, with one simple exception—his own neck.
He had me in a pretty crappy position at the moment. I didn’t know if whoever he’d screwed was days or hours behind him. I didn’t know if we were dealing with an organization or a single pissed-off man. On the cheap or well funded? Was this the kind of deal my dad could fix, or did they want him to go down on principle?
And, for the love of all that is holy, I needed to know if there was even the slightest chance they knew about me.
Forget prancing around the mulberry bush. If someone was playing Pop! Goes the Weasel in my house, I was damn well going to be in on the game.
The carafe was full to overflowing now, so I poured water into the machine’s reservoir, added the grounds, and started a pot brewing. Then I went back to my seat across from my dad, put another cookie in front of him, and said one simple word: “Tell.”
“Kitty, sweetheart, I—”
“Stop it, Daddy. I have a life here. I have a roommate, who you may have put in danger. I have a house here, too. Or I will next week. I’ve got a real job and I’m getting settled. Putting down roots, you know?” And there’s a guy, and maybe it’ll go somewhere. I wanted to add that, but I hardly saw the point.
“Good for you,” he said, and I could tell that he meant it. “My little girl. Who would have thought it?”
“Daddy,” I said sternly, “did danger follow you here?”
He shook his head. “No. Swear to god,” he added, drawing an X over his chest with his forefinger. “I won’t deny I may have gotten in over my head, but I still know how to watch my step and my back.”
I believed him. For now, anyway. “So tell me the rest,” I said. “Why don’t you start with exactly how you got in over your head.”
He took another bite of cookie, and this time even the confection didn’t make him look happy. “Have you heard of Ilya Muratti?”
“Sure,” I said. “Some big mafia type, right? Owns casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City, and I’m sure he has his fingers in dozens of other pies, too.” I exhaled. “Daddy, no. Tell me you’re not involved with him.”
He waved my words away as if they were gnats. “Just a little thing. One little thing in the grand scheme of his world, but it’s gonna make your daddy a rich man.”
My stomach twisted unpleasantly, and I regretted the cookies. “Just spit it out. Tell me.”
And, god help me, he did.
He told me all about how he’d wheedled himself in tight with some of the men in Muratti’s organization. He started out playing the role of a fine art broker, then dropped enough hints so that the guys could “discover” that he didn’t worry about all those pesky laws any more than they did.
Eventually a job came up, and when they contacted him to see if he wanted a piece of the action, he jumped at the chance.
“Daddy, you didn’t.” I had my elbows on the table and my fingers twined through my hair. “You did exactly what you taught me never to do. You got mixed up in organized crime.”
“Just on the periphery, sweetie. Just around the edges.”
Except that was bullshit, because the more he talked, the more I realized how deep he was.
“They just needed a document. One tiny little document.”
“What kind?”
“A will. A holographic will, they call it. Handwritten, that means.”
“I know what it means, Daddy,” I snapped. “Keep going.”
He did, and it kept getting worse and worse and worse. Apparently one Frederick Charles intended to leave three hundred acres of prime Atlantic City property to his niece, Marjorie Calloway. And that would do Muratti no good.
The living Frederick wouldn’t negotiate with Muratti, believing him to be a no-good mafia prick. But a dead Frederick couldn’t argue if his will showed that he’d changed his mind about dear Marjorie and decided to leave the property to a distant cousin who just so happened to be neck deep in gambling debts to Muratti. And who would, in settlement thereof, sign over the land.
Muratti, of course, would seed the land with casinos that would grow into thriving money trees.
“They’re going to kill the old man,” I said after he’d told me all of that. “As soon as the will is forged, they’ll take him out.” I met my father’s eyes. “You got mixed up in a deal where someone is going to end up dead.”
He’d gone completely pale. “I didn’t know, Kitty Cat. I swear I didn’t know.”
I believed him. My dad had the stomach for a lot of things, but killing people wasn’t one of them.
“You couldn’t forge your way out of a paper bag,” I told my father. “Who are you working with?”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I lined up Wesley. You remember him?”
“Sure. How is he?” Wesley had mad skills—and what cemented him in my childhood memory was a seemingly endless supply of Tootsie Pops. I’d adored him.
“Passed away,” Daddy said. “The big C.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, it was a pisser.”
“But if he’s dead, he can’t do the job. So what’s the problem?” I asked, then turned right around and answered my own question. “Jesus, Dad. You were going to screw Wesley?”
“Not screw him,” my dad said indignantly. “His share was going to be perfectly reasonable. But I’d found the deal and I’d brought him in. I was taking all the risk. Gotta be some compensation for doing the legwork.”
He cleared his throat and took a bite of cookie, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t look me in the eye.
“And now here you are,” I continued, “and your arms were wide, but what’s wrong with the rest of the picture?” I didn’t mention that I knew something was wrong just by looking at him. He was putting up a good front, being all smiley and jolly. But underneath the facade, he looked tired and worried and just a little off his game.
“This is the one, Kitty Cat. I swear to you, I’ve got it all set this time. Nothing’s gonna knock your old man back now. Nothing at all. At least not once I get just one tiny detail sorted out.”
I stood, feeling a little numb, and moved to the sink. I didn’t want my dad to see my face, so I busied myself with rinsing out and refilling the coffee carafe. One little detail didn’t sound good. One little detail sounded like code for I’m a walking dead man.
“What detail is that, Daddy?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Did the man not remember who trained me? Was he really trying to set me up like a mark? Plant all the pieces so that I’d offer my help just like he wanted, and all the while I’d think it was my idea? Just how gullible did my dad think I was?
More important, how scared was he that he’d put his own daughter at risk? Because no matter how far off true north my dad’s moral compass might be, I knew one thing for certain: There was nothing in this world he valued more than me, with one simple exception—his own neck.
He had me in a pretty crappy position at the moment. I didn’t know if whoever he’d screwed was days or hours behind him. I didn’t know if we were dealing with an organization or a single pissed-off man. On the cheap or well funded? Was this the kind of deal my dad could fix, or did they want him to go down on principle?
And, for the love of all that is holy, I needed to know if there was even the slightest chance they knew about me.
Forget prancing around the mulberry bush. If someone was playing Pop! Goes the Weasel in my house, I was damn well going to be in on the game.
The carafe was full to overflowing now, so I poured water into the machine’s reservoir, added the grounds, and started a pot brewing. Then I went back to my seat across from my dad, put another cookie in front of him, and said one simple word: “Tell.”
“Kitty, sweetheart, I—”
“Stop it, Daddy. I have a life here. I have a roommate, who you may have put in danger. I have a house here, too. Or I will next week. I’ve got a real job and I’m getting settled. Putting down roots, you know?” And there’s a guy, and maybe it’ll go somewhere. I wanted to add that, but I hardly saw the point.
“Good for you,” he said, and I could tell that he meant it. “My little girl. Who would have thought it?”
“Daddy,” I said sternly, “did danger follow you here?”
He shook his head. “No. Swear to god,” he added, drawing an X over his chest with his forefinger. “I won’t deny I may have gotten in over my head, but I still know how to watch my step and my back.”
I believed him. For now, anyway. “So tell me the rest,” I said. “Why don’t you start with exactly how you got in over your head.”
He took another bite of cookie, and this time even the confection didn’t make him look happy. “Have you heard of Ilya Muratti?”
“Sure,” I said. “Some big mafia type, right? Owns casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City, and I’m sure he has his fingers in dozens of other pies, too.” I exhaled. “Daddy, no. Tell me you’re not involved with him.”
He waved my words away as if they were gnats. “Just a little thing. One little thing in the grand scheme of his world, but it’s gonna make your daddy a rich man.”
My stomach twisted unpleasantly, and I regretted the cookies. “Just spit it out. Tell me.”
And, god help me, he did.
He told me all about how he’d wheedled himself in tight with some of the men in Muratti’s organization. He started out playing the role of a fine art broker, then dropped enough hints so that the guys could “discover” that he didn’t worry about all those pesky laws any more than they did.
Eventually a job came up, and when they contacted him to see if he wanted a piece of the action, he jumped at the chance.
“Daddy, you didn’t.” I had my elbows on the table and my fingers twined through my hair. “You did exactly what you taught me never to do. You got mixed up in organized crime.”
“Just on the periphery, sweetie. Just around the edges.”
Except that was bullshit, because the more he talked, the more I realized how deep he was.
“They just needed a document. One tiny little document.”
“What kind?”
“A will. A holographic will, they call it. Handwritten, that means.”
“I know what it means, Daddy,” I snapped. “Keep going.”
He did, and it kept getting worse and worse and worse. Apparently one Frederick Charles intended to leave three hundred acres of prime Atlantic City property to his niece, Marjorie Calloway. And that would do Muratti no good.
The living Frederick wouldn’t negotiate with Muratti, believing him to be a no-good mafia prick. But a dead Frederick couldn’t argue if his will showed that he’d changed his mind about dear Marjorie and decided to leave the property to a distant cousin who just so happened to be neck deep in gambling debts to Muratti. And who would, in settlement thereof, sign over the land.
Muratti, of course, would seed the land with casinos that would grow into thriving money trees.
“They’re going to kill the old man,” I said after he’d told me all of that. “As soon as the will is forged, they’ll take him out.” I met my father’s eyes. “You got mixed up in a deal where someone is going to end up dead.”
He’d gone completely pale. “I didn’t know, Kitty Cat. I swear I didn’t know.”
I believed him. My dad had the stomach for a lot of things, but killing people wasn’t one of them.
“You couldn’t forge your way out of a paper bag,” I told my father. “Who are you working with?”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I lined up Wesley. You remember him?”
“Sure. How is he?” Wesley had mad skills—and what cemented him in my childhood memory was a seemingly endless supply of Tootsie Pops. I’d adored him.
“Passed away,” Daddy said. “The big C.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, it was a pisser.”
“But if he’s dead, he can’t do the job. So what’s the problem?” I asked, then turned right around and answered my own question. “Jesus, Dad. You were going to screw Wesley?”
“Not screw him,” my dad said indignantly. “His share was going to be perfectly reasonable. But I’d found the deal and I’d brought him in. I was taking all the risk. Gotta be some compensation for doing the legwork.”
