“No.”
“You don’t come closer, I ain’t telling.”
“Jesus fuck me sideways,” I sigh. “Listen. I’m not going anywhere near you. These jeans cost more than your fucking car, friend. I don’t wanna get yourfluidson them.”
He actually laughs at that, and I hate that he laughs. I don’t want to be funny. I just want to know what he wants, and then I want to leave. Conversations with dead men are not supposed to be fuckingfunny.
“Your Boss didn’t wanna let you in here. Guess he had the same concerns about your jeans. Anyways, I don’t have a car.”
There’s something weirdly familiar about his voice, but I don’t know whether it’s just the lack of teeth making it strange.
“He’s not my Boss. He’s my husband. You should know that, unless you’re trying to make out you don’t even know who you were sent to kill.”
“Oh, I know better than most. He’s made a name for himself, your Boss. And you might be married to him, but he ain’t your partner, kid. He’s your Boss. He makes the decisions, doesn’t he? Like whether or not he’d let you come in here?” One of those horror-film eyes is trying to open, peering at me across the room.
“Just tell me who sent you.”
He laughs again. “Don’t you know already?”
It hits me then, why his voice sounds familiar. It's not that I know him. It's thewayhe talks.
Anyways, I don't have a car.
Cah. Not ‘car’.
It's not the missing teeth, or the broken nose, or the blood making his mouth cottony. What I'm hearing is his accent. At the start of our canal-ride he was putting on a fake Italian accent, and at the time I thought it was part of his role. Maybe it was. Or maybe he was just having a private joke.
“You're from Boston,” I say stupidly.
“Boston pride,” he coughs. “You get me?”
“I really don’t. Did Maggie send you?”
He grins, leans forward to spit more blood on the floor. “You really think I’m gonna answer that? I'm no rat.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Wanted to ask a favor.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You must have nuts the size of Jupiter, my friend, to try and kill me and then ask afavor.”
He lets out a giggle and then a groan. “Shit. My ribs. Listen, all I want is for my body to get sent back to Boston.” His head rolls back on his neck. He’s close to losing consciousness, I think. “Don’t let those assholes cut me up and leave me out in the desert, will you?”
I laugh then, my loud laugh, and at the window Luca frowns when he hears it. “I don’t owe you anything, buddy.”
“We’re Boston boys, aren’t we?” he pleads. “Come on. Send me back there so my family can bury me.”
I get it now, why he wanted to askmefor this favor. I know those important traditions around funerals, wakes, mourning. I walked into an enemy stronghold just to honor those traditions. I guess he sees me as an easy mark in that sense. Part of me wants to tell him I don’t care what happens to him, but I can’t make my mouth say those words.
“I’ll do it,” I sigh at last.
He chuckles softly, the fight gone out of him. “Then do me one more favor and kill me now. Do it quick. I’m tired of these Italians.”
I raise the gun and he gives a sigh of relief, starts muttering a Hail Mary.
Luca barges in the door. “Don’t—”
“You know what,” I say, dropping the gun. “I think I’m just going to send you back to Boston alive. Let my sister deal with you.”
