He sounds insulted. “Who’s more important than your brother?”
“My future father-in-law.”
I really wish we were on a video call so I could get the full effect of his astonishment, because I can almost hear his eyes popping out of his skull.
“Mr. Black. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounds exactly like DeNiro in GoodFellas. The head of the New York mafia has a Brooklyn accent thicker than stew. The sarcasm is that thick, too.
I cut through the bullshit and get right to it. “Your daughter, Juliet.”
Silence.
Then, in an apoplectic roar: “You motherfucking cocksucking son of a ten-dollar whore! It was you who was behind her abduction? I’ll cut off every fucking thing on your fucking body that can be cut off and choke you to death with my bare hands, you worthless Limey bastard!”
Apparently, the kidnappers made contact with him before I made contact with them.
“I didn’t kidnap her. Miro Petrovic did. He’s dead now. I killed him.”
More silence. Then he says in a low, deadly voice, “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
“No games. They demanded to renegotiate narcotrafficking routes that were in conflict with yours, correct?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. He sounds too busy swallowing his tongue in rage, anyway. “You don’t have to worry about that conflict anymore. Their organization is in tatters. It’ll be a long time before they can recover. All the top brass are dead, in addition to the best of their foot soldiers.”
“Oh yeah? How am I supposed to know that? How am I supposed to know this isn’t some fucking joke you’re trying to play on me?”
“I’m sending you their heads on ice. You’ll have them in the morning.”
After an astonished pause, he laughs a short, hard laugh. “Put ’em in the mail, did you? They’re gonna show up on my doorstep first thing?”
“No. I sent them via a private courier who specializes in this sort of transaction. And they’re going to show up on the aft deck of the Penetrator at six o’clock your local time. You’re ten nautical miles off the coast of Krapanj at the moment, if I’m not mistaken. Which I’m not. I never am. That was just a figure of speech.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’ll give you the courier’s information. I highly recommend them. I’m sure you’ll find they come in quite handy from time to time.”
There follows another blistering string of curses. It’s long and colorful and revolves primarily around separating my genitals from my body and subjecting them to various unpleasantries.
When he runs out of steam, I say, “The reason I’m calling is that I’m in love with your daughter.”
A strange sound comes over the line. A gagging or choking sound. It’s very severe. He could be having a heart attack.
“Sorry—back up. I neglected to mention that I was the one who saved her from the Serbians. They had her in a hole in the ground underneath an abandoned barn in the middle of the Massachusetts countryside. But obviously I wasn’t going to let that stand, considering she’s going to be my wife.”
He sputters, “Y-you…you f-fucking…”
“I know. But if Russia and the United States can make it through the cold war, you and I should be able to work something out.”
To someone in the background, he shouts, “This fucking guy! Can you believe this fucking guy?”
He comes back on the line, seething. “Listen, numbnuts. I don’t like crank calls, I don’t put up with assholes, and I sure as hell don’t allow the head of the Irish mafia to disrespect my family with this garbage you’re talking. Consider yourself dead!”
“That would be inconvenient, since I was hoping we could meet face-to-face sometime in the next few days. I want to do you the respect of asking for your daughter’s hand in person.”
More silence. More strange sounds. Plus some gasping.
I don’t think I’m particularly good for his health.
“Not that she needs your permission, obviously, but I’m old-fashioned. And perhaps we can also come to some agreement about what kind of contact you’ll have with your grandchildren. To be honest, it doesn’t sound like Juliet wants anything to do with you, but maybe I could convince her to let me send along a picture of our kids every once in a while. I can’t promise anything, though, so don’t hold me to it.”
A loud thud comes over the line, followed by a wheeze.
“How does Tuesday at ten in the morning sound? I’ll come alone.” I chuckle. “I’ll have to, considering I’ll be parachuting onto the deck of your megayacht.”
I hear a weak gurgling and take that as an affirmation. “Great. See you then.”
Just to twist the knife a little deeper, I add solemnly, “Dad.”
I hang up, feeling pleased with myself. I think that went rather well.
Then, after wrestling with my conscience for a while, I sit down to write a letter.
32
Juliet
I wake up from a dream where I’m riding a unicorn through billowy rainbow clouds to find a folded letter on the pillow beside me.
I’m alone in the room. It’s morning. Beyond the penthouse windows, Boston sparkles like a gem.
I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, and gingerly place my feet onto the floor. I try my weight on them, supporting myself with a hand on the bed, and discover that the pain is manageable.
The doctor at the hospital probably worked some kind of voodoo magic, knowing Killian would rip off his head on the spot if he didn’t.
I stand, hobble into the bathroom, use the toilet, and brush my teeth. With my own purple toothbrush, which has somehow magically appeared in a tumbler by the sink. When I happen to glance into the giant closet in passing, I discover all my clothes are in there, too, hanging alongside miles of identical black Armani suits and crisp white dress shirts.
Apparently, Killian has been busy while I’ve been asleep. It looks like I’ve officially moved in. I’d give him a hard time about not asking me if I wanted to or not, but he’d know I was only bluffing.
But if I have any say in the matter, we’re redecorating. The Batman didn’t have a wife, but if he did, he’d never have gotten away with having the bat cave be so depressing. The place needs some colorful throw pillows and scented candles, at the very least.
I remove one of the white dress shirts from its hanger and put it on. The hem hangs down to my knees. I have to fold the sleeves up over and over just to get them past my wrists. This thing could double as a dress for me.
Then I head back to the bed, sit on the edge of the mattress, and pick up the letter. I unfold it and start to read.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve reread the letter half a dozen times. I’m sitting in the same spot with tears streaming down my cheeks, sobbing.
Which is how Killian finds me.
He stops short in the bedroom doorway. He’s barefoot, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His dark hair is unkempt. His eyes are bloodshot. It looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.