“Shit,” said Boris appreciatively. “What wasthatlike?”
“Intimidating,” said Jack.
With a snort, Boris said, “I’ll bet.”
“I thought someone would shoot me,” Jack confessed. “Maybe I was a little paranoid.”
“No,” said Boris, shaking his head. “Can’t be too paranoid with the mob. Just paranoid in the wrong ways.”
“Like what?”
“Like thinking they’re gonna shoot you and then finding out they’re just gonna break your legs,” said Boris. “Still shitty. Just the wrong thing to worry about.”
“I guess so,” said Jack, now thinking of all the ways the mob could fuck him over, and how badly they would hurt. “Thanks for the advice.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” said Boris, flashing a winning grin.
Giddy, Jack made his way upstairs. Whether it was the bourbon or Claudia or Boris, he couldn’t say, but there was a bounce to his step, optimism flowing through his veins like toxins in a river.
Maybe things would finally improve.
“My name’s not Claudia,”said Claudia the next day as she opened the door.
Jack stood there with a bottle of Coke and a gas station muffin, satchel at his hip, looking for all intents and purposes like a terrible impersonation of a mobster. His suit was ill-fitting, his hat was too big for his head, his shoes were scuffed. He’d dragged himself up the road like a half-starved animal; slow, ambling, desperate.
“Um,” said Jack. “What is it, then?”
“It’s Carla,” she said. Today, she wore jeans and a black t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into an artfully messy ponytail, and her eyes were kohl-rimmed, the lashes long and dark. In the daylight, she was gentler, carefree, with none of yesterday’s tension in her shoulders.
“Nice to meet you, Carla,” he said, feeling foolish. “You can still call me Jack.”
“That your real name?” She shut the door behind them.
In the daylight, the wallpaper was more ostentatious. The marble floors positively gleamed. The hallway was shorter than he remembered, but the crown molding was even more extravagant. Far beyond, he spotted a foyer, complete with a grand staircase. Carla was quick to lead him past it.
“Yeah. It’s Jack Hazel.”
“Jack Hazel, huh?” she said, shaking her head. “Your eyes are grey.”
“Hazel is my last name. You can’t blame my parents for that.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it,” she said. “I just didn’t notice your eyes last night.”
“It was dark,” said Jack with a shrug.
“That’s not an excuse.”
She led Jack down the long hallway, past the office they’d visited last night, and into a kitchen so enormous that an entire elementary school classroom could have moved in and still had room to spare. The range stove had eight burners. The farmhouse sink had not two but three compartments. Cherrywood cabinets gleamed. A wine rack reached from floor to ceiling, stocked full. The pantry was a walk-in, and the refrigerator was nearly double the size of the one at his parents’ house. Gadgets and gizmos he didn’t recognize were strewn across the counters.
Carla caught his eye and smirked. “Gotta be able to cook enough for the whole family,” she said.
“Do you do all the cooking?”
“We have maids for that. No, I only cook for me and Ronnie. Mostly me.”
“Right,” said Jack, still overwhelmed.
Carla rummaged inside the refrigerator, emerging with a jar of mayonnaise, some deli meat, and cheese. “I wasn’t planning on feeding anybody today, so this is going to have to do.”
