Mortal Bonds

by Michael Sears

  “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.

  | 26 |

  There was one other person whom I had talked to who might still be in danger. The next morning I walked over to Central Park West and Ninety-sixth Street and took the subway downtown. If someone was following me, I planned on making their life difficult.

  The subway stations and connecting tunnels underneath Rockefeller Center were where I headed. There are more exits and entrances than in one of those meerkat villages on Animal Planet. I came up to street level twice, and ducked back into the next entrance I came to before making my way back to track level, where I rode the express downtown for one stop, crossed the platform and came back uptown, exiting at Lexington and Sixty-third. By that time, I was sure I had either lost anyone trying to tail me or convinced them that I was thoroughly lost myself.

  It was a short walk from there to my destination.

  The cats all welcomed me back—each in its own way. Orange stripe caressed my ankles, gray thought about it, and the light brown stalked in front of his mistress, warning me off. Mistletoe must have cleaned the kitty litter box because the apartment smelled less like cat and more like chai tea.

  “I knew you’d be back, you know.” Mistletoe had changed out of her black T-shirt into a white one. I sat in the same armchair. She folded her legs into a yoga pose and perched on the couch.

  “I guess that’s because you didn’t tell me everything last time I was here, Missy.”

  She smiled. “Paddy called me Missy.”

  That was not a good start for what I had to say. “Mistletoe, I am worried about you.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Willie told me not to be afraid.”

  “He had a plan for you?”

  “He said I shouldn’t worry.”

  “Right. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  “No. Willie said not to talk to anybody about the plan.”

  “He must have said it was okay to talk to somebody. Did he say Paddy was going to help you?”

  “No.” Her eyes were blinking rapidly and she was looking everywhere but at me.

  “Because Paddy’s not coming, Mistletoe. Paddy’s hiding from some bad people. Very bad. There’s something they’re looking for, but Paddy doesn’t have it, does he?”

  “I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her head down. She really couldn’t lie.

  “Who is it, Mistletoe? Who did Willie say was coming?”

  “I don’t think Paddy liked me.” The change was abrupt—jarring. She had switched to a coy, flirtatious child. “I can tell you like me. You said I was pretty.”

  “Yes, I like you. And I want to help you. Who is supposed to help you?”

  “But he didn’t come,” she wailed, now the hysteric again. “Willie’s been gone for months and months and he didn’t come!”

  “Mistletoe, you are not a good liar. You are a sweet person, and you’re not very good at lying.”

  “I can keep a secret.”

  “Yeah, well, three can keep a secret . . .” I stopped there.

  She shook her head in incomprehension.

  “. . . if two of them are dead,” I finished. “There was a lawyer. In Zurich. Is that who is supposed to come? Please, Mistletoe, help me out.”

  “Stop it! Stop it! Willie said not to tell. Can’t you understand? It’s a seeeecret!” She stretched the last word out in another wail of frustration.

  “I’m so sorry your Willie is dead. But things are getting a lot scarier out there. We need to make some other plans for you.”

  She rose up and threw herself at me, kissing me hard, her tongue thrusting into my mouth, her hands groping at my crotch. It was an assault—ugly, pathetic, nearly psychotic, and, I was ashamed to realize, a turn-on. Synapses were firing up, directing blood flow into the appropriate vessels.

  She gave a moan in my ear and a soft laugh. “See. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not. I . . .”

  She covered my mouth with hers again, stopping the words.

  I tried pushing her away—gently. I did not want to hurt her. But she was stronger than I could have imagined. And fiercer. She grabbed my hand and pulled it to her crotch, grinding herself into my palm. She moaned again, louder and deeper.

  There was nothing else for it. I was either going to get raped in that cat-fur-covered easy chair or I was going to have to risk hurting her. I pushed her away—hard.

  She tumbled back against the couch and lay still for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. My voice was harsh with fear, anger, and a mix of powerful hormones. “Are you all right?”

 
; She mumbled something into the floor.

  I leaned forward, careful to keep my distance in case she attacked again. “I missed that, Mistletoe. What did you say?”

  “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do like you.”

  “And I could tell—you liked it.”

  I bent down and took her in my arms. “I like you. Just not like that. Okay?”

  She shook her head slowly—either in confusion or denial. Then she began to cry. Soundlessly.

  “I miss Willie so much,” she said.

  I pulled her to me, her face against my chest, and let her cry. Slowly, in the tiniest increments, I felt her body soften and melt into mine. Her crying stopped and she was asleep.

  My body was twisted and strained, but I let her rest. I shifted slightly until my back rested against the front of the sofa. It wasn’t a comfortable position exactly, but it was an improvement.

  There was no doubt in my mind—if the “goons” that scared Randolph’s wife showed up at Mistletoe’s door, she would fall to pieces. Of all the fragile people I had met, she was the star. She made soft mewling noises, like a kitten, while she slept. They may have been tiny cries of grief. Or maybe I was projecting. Maybe it was just her way of snoring.

  There were about a thousand things I should have been doing right then, but letting Mistletoe Evans sleep on my chest seemed important—and I wasn’t going anywhere without waking her. And across the room beckoned the giant television.

  I felt around the couch cushions. The remote was there. I hit power and followed it with mute immediately. The system woke up quickly. Channel 53. A YES Classic was showing. The Yankees–Red Sox opener from 2005. Boomer Wells throwing for the bad guys, wearing Babe Ruth’s number 3, thumbing his nose at Steinbrenner and Cashman for trading him away. Randy Johnson’s debut in pinstripes. Matsui went three for five. Great game. A good time in my life. Angie and I had watched it together—she still watched baseball with me then. I moved the volume up just enough to hear the crowd’s roar as a whisper. All three cats snuggled up against me and I could feel them purr through my clothes. A cold beer would have been nice. When Matsui hit his two-run homer in the eighth, Mistletoe whispered a soft “Yes!” and gently pumped her fist.

  “How long have you been awake?” I said.

  “Not long.” She tapped my chest gently with her fingertips and stood up, unfolding with the odd grace of a heron. The cats followed her into the back of the apartment.

  My back only hurt when I tried to move. I took my time getting up and stretching out. The game was winding down. 9 to 2 final. I heard a toilet flush farther back in the apartment and the sounds of opening and closing doors and the soft slap of bare feet on polished floors. I heard the refrigerator door opening and the cats began an insistent chorus, which ended abruptly as Mistletoe placed their bowls on the floor. A moment later, she entered the room with a tray of tea things.

  “I’m having some green tea. Will you join me?” She was gracious and in control.

  I hit the power button and the screen went black. “Thank you. No. I should go. But I need to know that you are going to be safe.”

  “Sit down, please.” She had changed to an ankle-length Indian-print hippie dress. I hadn’t seen anything like it since the last time I went to a Grateful Dead concert.

  I perched on the arm of the easy chair, not quite trusting her—or myself—to sink back into it.

  “Can I persuade you to go away for a few days? I’m worried for you. Someone is following me—and people I talk to are being threatened. It could get worse.”

  “I have not stepped foot outside of this apartment in months,” she said, while pouring herself some of the pale green liquid. Her movements were both languid and elegant—like someone practicing tai chi underwater. “Everything I need is delivered. My therapist gives me a forty-five-minute telephone session every day at four. I have no need to go out. I do not want to go out. I don’t do well in crowds. I will go out again someday, but not today. Or tomorrow.”

  Again, I was talking to an entirely different human being. This version of Mistletoe was calm, in control of herself, direct and firm. But still as nutty as a protein bar.

  My mild post-prison claustrophobia gave a discomforting twinge at the idea of being cooped up in that space. The room seemed much smaller. Weren’t we a matched set of neuroses?

  “I understand. Then I want to have some people come here and keep an eye out for any trouble. Just for a few days. I hope I can make some arrangements by then that will take care of all this.”

  She sipped her tea, and her gaze went inward. Had she taken a pill? Or was this serenity the aftermath of a good cry and a nap?

  “I’m not good at making friends.”

  I could believe that.

  “I doubt that will be a problem. I don’t think these guys are very good at it either. I don’t even know if they’ll speak English. But they will make sure you stay safe.”

  She looked up, and her eyes were quite clear. “Why do I need them? I don’t really understand.”

  “I know. I’m doing a lot of guessing right now, but if I can figure this out, so can someone else.”

  She put down the cup and saucer. “Stay here.” She glided down the hall, the sack of a dress billowing, accenting her thin, curveless frame. She was back in seconds.

  “You’ll need this,” she said, holding out a black-enameled socket key. Short, stumpy, with a sturdy-looking flange. The type of key that might operate one of those U-shaped bicycle locks. Or a safe-deposit box?

  “Did Willie leave you this?”

  “He said if anything ever happened to him that a man would come, and if I showed him this, he would take care of me.”

  “I don’t think he meant me.”

  “No. An old man, he said. A lawyer.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “No. Only he never did come. I don’t think he’s going to anymore.”

  “No. You’re right. The lawyer isn’t coming.”

  “Did she kill him, too?”

  I was confused for just a moment. “Mrs. Von Becker? The wife?”

  “She killed Willie. I know it.”

  “I don’t think so. I still think Willie killed himself.”

  She gave a pitying smile. She expected people to lack faith in her judgment.

  I took the key. “I’ll let you know. And I’ll try to help, if I can. No promises.”

  “That’s good. No promises.”

  I called Tom and told him what I needed. Twenty minutes later the doorman called up to announce two visitors. They could have been clones of Tom and Ivan. No one bothered with names.

  “The lady never goes out. You guys just have to make sure no one else comes in.”

  “Ya.” He examined the room and took note of the huge television. Then he turned to Mistletoe. “You like movie. Is okay. We watch. No one come in.”

  “I’ll make some popcorn,” she said.

  I let myself out.

  | 27 |

  The cab pulled up in front of the Ansonia. I handed the driver a ten on a six-fifty fare.

  “Give me two dollars back,” I said.

  “My last fare took all my singles.”

  My phone started ringing.

  “I can give you quarters,” he continued. “Is that all right?”

  “Keep it,” I said, feeling I had been mugged again by New York. I hit the talk button. “Stafford here.”

  “Tell me about this guy Gibbons again.” It was Brady.

  I slammed the taxi door just a bit harder than necessary. “I told you. He says he’s with the SEC. He also warned me that I might get hurt, which I am starting to believe.”

  “He didn’t mention that he is no longer working for the government, did he?”

  “No.”

 
“He was the lead accountant on two—repeat, two—government audits of the Von Becker funds. He cleared them. Twice.”

  Raoul began to swing open the front door for me. I waved him off and walked down toward Broadway. “Once might have been an accident.”

  “Exactly. Three would have meant he was crooked. Two is on the cusp. He could be a crook or he could just be a monumental fuckup.”

  “Either way, I think I don’t want to talk to him anymore.”

  “That might be a good strategy, but he wasn’t wrong about watching your ass.”

  “I’ve hired backup. They’re covering the Kid twenty-four-seven. And I thought you weren’t interested in threats against me.” I scanned the people on the street, looking for short people, tall people, people in hoodies, people wearing Australian outback hats, Latinos, nannies pushing strollers, or men wearing suits. Everyone and no one looked threatening.

  “What I said is that I can’t do anything about it. I still think you’re on the radar for some very bad people.”

  “Castillo.”

  “Two weeks ago, our people followed him out to a house in East Rockaway. You know the town?”

  “I’ve been there.” I crossed Broadway and plunked myself down on a bench in the park.

  “It’s a blue-collar town. What was a guy like Castillo doing visiting somebody out there? So we ran the address. The house belonged to a couple named Welk. Walter and Rose-Marie Welk. Her name pops out of the computer like hitting five sevens on the slot machine. Bells, sirens, lights flashing. She was one of Von Becker’s assistants. Helped him keep the books cooked. She did six months, which was a gift, in my humble opinion. Castillo spent forty-three minutes inside, then came out and went straight back to the city.” He stopped, but in a way that let me know he was far from done.

  “You’re awful quiet there, Jason. Did you know this lady?”

  “Finish the story, Brady.”

  “Four o’clock this morning, the fire department gets called out for a gas explosion. It blew out windows three houses away. Someone had turned on the gas on the stove and left a candle burning in the living room.”