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  “They’re . . . They’re after you.”

  “Me?”

  Kyzwoski nodded.

  “You’ve been following me—videotaping me?”

  Kyzwoski coughed. “Yeah.”

  “But why?”

  “Somebody wants somethin’ you got—computer disk.”

  I wasn’t sure what to ask next. Kyzwoski’s gaunt look told me time was running out for him. “How’d you get mixed up in this? You didn’t even know who I was until we met at the Wayside Motel.”

  “No. They sent me and Ida to Florida to follow you.”

  I grabbed him by one of his blood-soaked shoulders. “Who sent you? Quia Vita? Judith Russet?”

  Kyzwoski had enough left to answer. “No.”

  “Who?”

  Kyzwoski didn’t respond. Instead he gurgled out a few more words. “Get you on tape . . . after Florida, that’s all I was supposed to do . . . never wanted to hurt you . . . others got paid to do that.”

  “What others?”

  Conway reached for my arm. “Listen . . . about my boys . . . Ephraim and Noah—”

  “Great kids,” I lied. “Conway, I need to know what’s going on. If Russet didn’t hire you, then who—”

  “Don’ want the boys to know ’bout this . . . mean a lot if you could make sure—”

  The man was dying. What was I supposed to say? “I’ll do what I can.”

  Kyzwoski tightened his grip on my arm. “Somethin’ else. Tell my wife . . . I did my work for Jesus.”

  “I will if I see her,” I promised. “Now tell me who you’re working for. Who’s after me, Conway?”

  “Occasio—” The word was barely a whisper.

  I leaned closer to Kyzwoski’s bloodied ear. “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell Ida that I done the things they asked. Occasio aegre offertur . . . facile amittitur.”

  Conway Kyzwoski drew a deep breath. His last.

  Yigal, Doc, Twyla, and I could have told the small army of cops the truth—that Kyzwoski had been hired to track me like a rabbit and accidentally died on the job. Instead, the three of us made a pact to let the authorities think we had no previous ties to the man. Making claims that Kyzwoski was actually a henchman for some mysterious group that had its sights on me would either convince investigators I was totally insane—or spin me into an eddy of interviews with one cop after another. It was a risky decision to keep the truth buried—but I wanted time to help Zeus, not to do coffee and doughnuts at the local precinct house.

  “What the hell was some halfwit backwoods hick from South Carolina doing in New Brunswick at midnight, for chrissakes?” asked the same senior cop who had hassled the two sausage drivers earlier in the day.

  “Same thing as us other halfwits,” Doc piped up. “Getting a close-up look at Dubensko’s kielbasa.”

  Twyla, Doc, Yigal, and I were questioned separately, each of us sticking to our story. None of us mentioned that Kyzwoski had been carrying a palm-sized video camera which I had tucked away in my jacket pocket moments after Conway died.

  Just as Kyzwoski was being carted off to the morgue, the cops located his Dodge Ram pickup parked outside the Hyatt in a space reserved for Hertz rental cars. As Doc refused to let me forget, it was the same truck the professor had spotted earlier in the evening.

  Shortly before one a.m., I dropped Twyla at the Hyatt and then Doc and I drove to the emergency room at the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital. We found an exhausted-looking resident attending to Yigal, who was seated on a gurney.

  “Any problems?” I asked the doctor.

  “Twelve stitches in his arm. He’ll be hurting for a day or so.”

  “Yeah, but he’ll be okay, right?”

  The resident stared at the professor who was talking to Yigal. “Hey, isn’t that One Nut Waters?”

  “Just a look-alike. What about Rosenblatt?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy you just stitched up,” I reminded the resident.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. He’ll be okay. Says he’s a lawyer so he’ll probably sue the shit out of whoever made him bleed.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” Not even a competent lawyer could squeeze a dime out of the late Conway Kyzwoski.

  A few strokes shy of two a.m., Yigal was patched up and ready to leave the hospital emergency room. “Be careful,” I said to both Zeus’s lawyer and Doc Waters.

  “Don’t worry about us,” replied Yigal. “Worry about yourself.”

  Doc agreed. The professor looked more at ease than I could remember. And I knew why. For years, he had been a mob target who wore the most-likely-to-be-assassinated crown. Now, for some unfathomable reason, I had become the prey of choice.

  Part III

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday noon. New Brunswick was awash in scarlet and black. It was the start of another academic year and Rutgers’ colors were as much a harbinger of fall as the turning of hardwood leaves or the squadrons of southbound birds. Students flooded the streets and the old city reverberated with an injection of youthful energy.

  The downtown McDonald’s buzzed with the college set and the usual blue-collar fast-food junkies. Doug and I sat in one corner of the restaurant looking like two lumps in an otherwise well-blended lower income batter. I dabbled with my grilled chicken sandwich, trying not to show my irritation. The last time we shared a meal, I was the one who shelled out good money for a decent Italian spread—dessert included. Now it was Doug’s turn to pick up the tab and here I was working on a five-buck combo. Life isn’t fair.

  “Great news,” Doug said between mouthfuls of his Big Mac. We were down to the reason he had taken the 10:40 a.m. New Jersey Transit to New Brunswick.

  Doug’s news really was great—Universal Studios was ready for Twyla Tharp. But naturally there was a hitch. Manny Maglio wanted me to escort his niece to Florida for a second time.

  “Are you insane?” I shouted.

  “Hear me out,” Doug said in his usual unexcited way. “Maglio will pay for your time and expenses.”

  “Sorry. Once was enough.”

  Doug squeezed his lips into a thin line. “Think about your situation. Somebody hired a backwoods, Polish nutcase to ride you like a fly on a turd.”

  I grimaced. “You paint a beautiful picture. But the answer’s still no.”

  “Remember the little movie what’s his face Kazakny made?”

  How could I forget? I had replayed the footage stored in Conway Kyzwoski’s video camera a dozen times. There was nothing compromising about what Conway had recorded, but the fact he had been logging my day-to-day routine put me back on my heels.

  “The guy was filming your life story for a bunch of fanatics,” Doug said.

  “Can’t argue that. And he did it like a pro. Never had a clue he was on my trail.”

  “He’s from South Carolina, for godsakes. Next to tracking possums and weasels, you were child’s play.”

  “Yeah, well, think about this: Conway’s being shipped back to Goose Creek in a body bag, so I don’t need Maglio’s protective services. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Don’t be so damned naïve.” Doug’s brow wrinkled a trumped-up look of concern. “Think about what’s going on, Bullet. We’re not just talking about some wacko chasing you with a camera. You’ve already had two close calls, right? If the word gets out that Manny’s your guardian angel, you won’t have to run around wearing Kevlar twenty four seven.”

  Score one for Doug. He knew how to sweeten a deal. “So I take care of Twyla and Manny takes care of me.”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “And once I deliver Twyla to Florida—”

  “Look,” Doug said, wiping a drop of McDonald’s secret sauce from the corner of his mouth, “putting a little distance between you and the Gateway for a few days isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe things will sort themselves out if you take a short leave of absence.”

  “Why me?” I asked. “Maglio has the money to hire any Tom, Dick
, or Luigi he wants to haul Twyla back to Orlando.”

  “True. But Manny likes what you’ve done with her. Twyla’s morphing into the kind of person Manny thinks she should be. You’ve got her cleaned up, dressed decently, and she hasn’t been turning tricks. Bottom line? He trusts you.”

  I didn’t bother to toss in a couple of minor corrections. Apparently Manny’s intelligence network didn’t know about the Wayside fee-for-service exchange between Twyla and the late Conway Kyzwoski. Then there was Yigal Rosenblatt.

  “It’s just a couple more days.” If Doug weren’t concerned about wrinkling the crease in his Gucci suit, he might have gotten on his knees. “Go to Florida, drop Twyla off in Orlando, and you’re back in Jersey in a flash. Want to take another day or two for some R&R? Manny will pick up the tab.”

  I could see right through my long-time friend. “And what do you get out of this?”

  “The satisfaction of helping a young lady turn her life around.”

  “Yeah, and a fat bonus for getting Maglio to come through with his megadollar pledge to the United Way.”

  “Why do you love to make things difficult?” Doug used one of those premoistened towelettes to clean his fingers. “What else do I need to do to make this happen?”

  I was ready. “You’re the point person for the United Way’s national donor recognition dinner, right? The big deal on Ellis Island scheduled for this coming Saturday night.”

  Doug burped. The fat grams he had just consumed suddenly weren’t sitting right. “So what?”

  “And at the dinner, who will United Way be honoring as the donor of the year?”

  Doug’s answer was barely audible. “Arthur Silverstein.” The billionaire banker wasn’t exactly Bill Gates, but he was on the radar screen as a very rich American who once in a while tossed a load of appreciated stock at a nonprofit or two, including the United Way. Since he was old, Doug probably wanted him in the spotlight while he still had a pulse. That might spell b-e-q-u-e-s-t, which could mean really big money once Silverstein checked out.

  “I want in.”

  “What?”

  “I want my name on the invitation list.”

  “Bullet, this is an orgasmic event for the United Way. Understand? It’s a heavy-duty fundraiser. Tables go from fifteen thousand dollars to fifty thousand each. No offense, but it’s not your kind of crowd.”

  “You asked what it would take to close the deal and I’m telling you,” I said. “I want to be at that dinner.”

  Doug drew a long breath. “So, if I get you a seat, we’re square? Orlando gets to see you and Twyla a second time?”

  “Seats—not seat. There are a couple of other people who need to be on the guest list.”

  “No way.”

  “Two more passes or we’re done talking.”

  “For whom?”

  “Doc Waters,” I said softly and watched Doug’s eyes double in size.

  “What?”

  “The professor’s smart, a good conversationalist, and can charm the bling off your high rollers.”

  “Waters is the Mob’s Salman Rushdie. Jesus. Besides, he looks like a sheep dog.”

  “I’ll clean him up,” I pledged.

  Doug threw up his hands. “Of all the people you could bring to the black-tie dinner of the year, why pick Waters?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Good enough to get me to bring Manny’s niece back to Florida.”

  Doug threw his napkin on his tray. “Who else?”

  “The same guy I brought to Florida, when you forced me to handhold Twyla. Maurice Tyson.”

  “You’re out of your mind. This is not a soirée for bums. Think about what you’re asking me to do.”

  I thought about Doc and Maurice waltzing with a cross-section of America’s Who’s Who and conceded that Doug had a point. “All right,” I said. “Add both of them to the waitstaff.”

  Doug pushed himself forward, his silk tie dangerously close to a pair of uneaten fries. “What’s this all about anyway?”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “The truth.”

  Doug grimaced. “Listen, if you want me to put you and your two loose cannons on Ellis Island, then I need to know why. Even if it means giving up Maglio’s donation to the United Way, I can’t risk flushing hundreds of United Way’s biggest check writers down the toilet.”

  Doug was a man facing a couple of bad options and was closing in on picking the worst of the two. Maybe I had pushed him to the limit.

  “All I want is another one-on-one talk with Silverstein,” I confided. “That’s it.”

  “So make an appointment to meet with him, for godsakes.”

  “Won’t work. I can’t get past Arcontius.”

  Doug knew what kind of monumental roadblock Arcontius could be, so he didn’t waste time suggesting there might be other ways to leapfrog Silverstein’s chief of staff. “Did you ever consider there’s a reason why so few people ever get to see Arthur in person?”

  “I saw him,” I reminded Doug.

  “Yes, you did, and I was surprised as hell he met with you. It wouldn’t have happened if he weren’t so interested in the Benjamin Kurios case.”

  “He’s got a problem meeting people?”

  “It’s a bigger problem than that. Silverstein’s got something called Lewy body dementia. It isn’t pretty. He flips back and forth from being lucid to being delusional.”

  “The man was perfectly sane when I met with him.”

  “Then you got him on a good day. From what I’ve been told, he spends a lot of time chasing ghosts—especially his dead daughter. When he’s not nuts, Arthur hits the bottle and hits it hard. Can’t blame the poor bastard. There’s no way he’s going to bounce back.”

  This didn’t sound like the Arthur Silverstein who had given me a walking tour of his mansion. “All I can tell you is he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t drunk when I was with him.”

  “My source tells me that’s a rarity. Which is why I get diarrhea wondering if Arthur will either be too whacked out or too sloshed to show up at his own testimonial. The United Way made the call to put him in the spotlight knowing this will probably be his last public appearance. It’s one hell of a gamble.”

  If Doug was looking for someone to commiserate with, he was in bad company. I had too many problems of my own. “You’re telling me Arcontius and some others high up in Silverstein’s organization are keeping him boxed up because he’s—”

  “Old, unpredictable, delusional, and a boozer. That sew it up for you?”

  “Not enough to back me off from trying to meet with him again.”

  “Why? Even if you could get to him, what’s so important about looking him in the eye?”

  “He stuffed twenty grand in my pocket and thinks he bought himself a slave. I intend to renegotiate the deal, but that won’t happen if Arcontius keeps fending me off.”

  Doug switched on his please-don’t-do-this face. “Can’t you handle this some other way? You could end up screwing me and the entire United Way organization.”

  “Won’t happen. Arcontius knows Doc Waters and Maurice Tyson—met them when we paid Silverstein a visit. If he spots two residents from the Gateway working the Ellis Island crowd, Arcontius is going to be distracted just long enough for me to get to Silverstein.”

  Doug sighed. “Seven hundred fifty people will be at that dinner. Seven hundred fifty very rich people!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get the point.”

  “And you’ve read stories about how Silverstein is ninety percent recluse—and that was before he started falling off the deep end. He’ll hole up somewhere until it’s time to make a cameo appearance. Even if Arcontius isn’t there to protect him, sneaking into Arthur’s world won’t be easy.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “I want a guarantee the two oddities you want to bring with you won’t cause a problem.”

&nb
sp; “Sounds reasonable.”

  “This is no joke, Bullet. I don’t want them wandering around on their own. Give me a flat-out promise the nutty professor and the other idiot won’t hassle anyone at the dinner.”

  “Hassle” was a broad term that came with a lot of leeway. “Done.”

  “All right, then. So, you need to get Twyla on the road by—”

  I held up my right hand. “The bargaining’s not over.”

  “What?”

  “One more thing.”

  Doug blinked. “God in heaven.”

  “The doctor at Overlook Hospital who was the attending the night Arthur Silverstein’s kid died.”

  “What about him?”

  “I want to know if he’s alive. If he is, I need you to contact him and get him to agree to a phone call or a visit.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to make this happen?”

  “Use the same kind of line you threw at Arcontius,” I proposed. “The Ruth Silverstein Trust is under review. The directors are revisiting the funding guidelines so donations made by the trust go toward solving the medical problems that messed up Arthur’s daughter. You’ve asked me to call the doc for a short interview to get his recommendations.”

  “But why do you want to talk to this guy?” Doug moaned. “What’s the point?”

  I didn’t have a convincing answer, only that I was working on a hunch that wouldn’t go away. Ruth Silverstein’s portrait kept popping out of my memory bank, and the sketchy medical records that Doug had faxed to my office were nudging me toward the doctor. Then there was Doug’s comment about Silverstein’s obsession with his dead daughter. Maybe someone familiar with the family’s medical history could help me understand if I were onto something or just chasing my tail.

  “Those are my terms,” I said.

  “All this because that lunatic in an Orlando jail cell has turned you into Inspector Clouseau.”

  “He’s not a lunatic. Do we have a deal?”

  Doug got up and emptied his tray into a waste bin. “Yeah, but so help me, if you turn that dinner into a fiasco—”

  “Not to worry,” I said as Doug trudged out the door.

  My GE phone and answering machine were leftovers from a juvenile diabetes silent auction. Like a few other items that hadn’t drawn a bid, the equipment needed a home. The gifts were appreciated, but never got much use. Residents weren’t allowed to make outgoing calls unless I gave them the okay, and incoming calls were rare—at least they were until about three hours after my lunch with Doug.