Angie and I waved to the Town Car as it pulled away from the curb, taking Mamma and Tino to the airport. The trunk held two suitcases more than when they had arrived—Angie had made sure to take Mamma shopping. Our smiles lasted until the car was halfway down the block.
“I don’t think there is much for us to say right now,” Angie said. “I don’t know why, but I thought you would be more supportive.”
Two more weeks, I reminded myself. Two weeks and she would be gone, back to Louisiana. I could do it. I could make it two weeks.
“I’m going to be busy wrapping up some work things the next few days. Have some fun with the Kid. I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You’re not going to miss his graduation?!”
It wasn’t really a question—more an expression of annoyance.
“It’s not graduation. There’s no ceremony. No awards. It’s his last day of school.”
“And you would miss it?!” She did it again.
There had been a send-off the night before. I should have enjoyed it. The Kid stayed home with Heather and the bodyguards, while Angie and I took her mother and Tino out to Brooklyn—to Peter Luger’s for steak. Pop and his honey met us there. I immediately liked her. They were both a bit formal with each other, but also comfortable—as though they’d been together years instead of weeks. Mamma had had two martinis and declared the creamed spinach to be “sinful.” Judging by how much of it she had put away, “sinful” was a supreme compliment. Tino and my father swapped funny horror stories about the demands of dealing with customers in a retail service business. Angie and I had sat at opposite ends of the table and did our best to pretend we weren’t there. It was the kind of night I would have enjoyed if Skeli had been there. A bit loose, a bit liquid, surrounded by funny, interesting people that I liked. But Angie—by her presence alone—managed to suck every bit of pleasure out of it.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “And listen, I don’t like those bodyguards any better than you do, but they are there to keep the Kid safe. Just let them do their jobs.”
“This is some paranoid fantasy you’ve come up with to interfere with my time alone with my son. I will give this nonsense just two more days, and then I will put a stop to it.”
She gave me a smug, victorious smile and walked back into her building.
I shook my head three or four times, took some deep breaths, unclenched my fists, and went home.
I had just walked in the door when the house phone rang—the front desk.
“There are two men here to see you, Mr. Stafford. I thought I should check before I sent them up.” The concierge sounded nervous.
“Thank you, Richard. Did they give their names?”
“No, but they say they were sent by Vinny. Is this okay with you?”
“Keep them there, Richard. I’ll be right down.”
I saw immediately what had made Richard nervous. While Blake’s thugs were big men, muscle-bound and angry-looking—like giant trolls—these two were slender, wiry, and dark. They were polite, a bit formal, and oozed menace. I could see the trolls beating someone to death in slow motion, taking their time. These two would just get it over with.
“Jason Stafford,” I said, holding out a hand.
They nodded in unison. They both wore expensive-looking light leather jackets, despite the heat outside. The darker of the two stepped forward. His eyebrows met in a single straight line, further defining a face that was all planes and angles.
“You call me Tom,” he said in a coarse Slavic-sounding accent. He smiled without warmth or charm or humor. “Is not my name, but is easy for you to say.” He took my hand and shook. It felt like gripping a boa constrictor—all muscle.
“Vinny sent you?” I said.
“We have mutual friends.” He enjoyed saying the words.
The other man hung back, his eyes occasionally flickering side to side, keeping the entire lobby in view from where he stood.
“Does he have a name?” I asked.
Tom shrugged. “Is not important.” He spoke for a moment in a language that might have been Russian—or any of a half-dozen other Eastern European languages. The other man smiled.
“You call me Ivan,” he said.
They both laughed quietly. I joined in. It seemed the politic thing to do.
“Follow me,” I said.
We talked as we walked up Amsterdam. Other pedestrians tended to move out of our way, but when we overtook and briefly startled a twenty-something couple, strolling and holding hands, Tom and Ivan apologized in an almost courtly manner.
“What do I pay you two?” I said.
“No pay,” Tom said.
I stopped. So did they. “That doesn’t work,” I said. “I need to know you’re working for me. If I’m not paying the bills, how do I know you’re going to be there when I need you?”
Tom looked bored. “No worries.”
“But I am worried. You guys are going to be guarding my son. That tops anything else. I’m no Donald Trump, but I’m ready to pay. Name your price.”
Tom thought while Ivan kept scanning the street and sidewalk. “Okay, Mr. Trump. You pay.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now, how much?”
“One dollar.”
I had the good sense to see that I had been outmaneuvered. This was a gift from Vinny, and I should have the grace to accept it.
“For the two of you?” I said.
Tom almost smiled. “Each.” Then he did smile.
“Are there any more of you at home? I want twenty-four-seven on my son. And I may want someone else guarded.”
Tom rattled off a cell-phone number. “You call. One hour.”
“Same rate?”
He shrugged. Of course.
I explained about seeing the Kid to school, watching out front, seeing him home, and keeping watch in the building. “Maybe one in the hall. One in the apartment. It’s not easy to get by the front desk, but it’s happened. How many shifts do I need?”
“No shifts. You have us. Is enough.”
I believed him.
• • •
THE CHANGING of the guard was awkward—Blake’s men initially refused to leave and I had to call Virgil to order some firm instructions. It was further proof, if I needed it, that Blake’s people didn’t work for me and getting Vinny’s associates to act in their stead was the right move.