“Please, just drive me home. I’ve been on my feet for twenty hours.”
“Boss, give the order.”
“What did you eat today?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee is not food. Drink all of this, and don’t drive for fifteen minutes.”
“Relax, Gus. No one has sat in that seat for six years. No one.”
“This isn’t my car, is it?”
“No.”
“Do you know whose car you just got into?”
“Someone who thinks coffee counts as a meal.”
“Finish this. And yes, I’m sitting in the front. I get carsick in the back.”
“Tommy is still in surgery. Two bullets in his side. They say upstairs is crawling with cops and reporters. Boss, if you walk in there, you’ll be on the front page tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t listen to anyone.”
“Ma’am…”
“He listens to me.”
“Better.”
“All right. You can drive now.”
“He’s out of surgery. He’s stable.”
“Where to?”
“Belmont. Above the laundromat.”
It was 4:44 in the morning, and people were still coming to visit.
“Someone is sitting in Luca’s front seat. Find out who.”
“That’s the fourth time we’ve passed the zoo.”
“Sorry. I fell asleep in your seat.”
“It’s not my seat.”
“Don’t do that. I’m the one who got into your car. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. I prefer it that way.”
“And keep some juice in this car. You’ll need it again.”
“Good night, Nurse Kowalski.”
“It’s morning.”
“That was Sofia’s seat, boss. And some nurse just climbed in and sat there.”
“I know.”
“Did you see the reminder? The loan payment is due Friday.”
“I saw it.”
“I can take another night shift.”
“Mom, you’re sixty-one.”
“The Kowalskis pay their own debts, Nina.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks for coming to help.”
“Bed seven, Tommy Russo. Four days, and his men still refuse to leave that door.”
“No one is left alone with that boy. Not even us.”
“You… you’re standing in front of my crash cart. Move.”
“They let you up here. We’re short-staffed. They let anyone up here.”
“Did you eat today?”
“I had breakfast.”
“Look at you, sweetheart. That’s Luca Marchetti. Half of Chicago crosses the street when he walks by.”
“At four in the morning, he couldn’t even hold a juice box steady. In here, he’s just family.”
“Professor.”
“Cannoli for the nurses. Nobody ever brings them anything.”
“Poor thing. I got here before they took him upstairs, you know. I signed his papers myself.”
“Who brought you here?”
“I drove myself.”
“Arthur Kane. I kept Luca’s father’s books, and now I keep Luca’s. You’re the nurse who got into his car.”
“Wrong car. Long night.”
“Be careful whose car you get into, sweetheart.”
“You said coffee isn’t food. I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes trying to figure out how people say this.”
“Say what?”
“Have breakfast with me.”
“Usually I just tell people where to be.”
“The bus stop is right there. I’ve had enough of your car for one week.”
“My father collapsed on a train platform downtown. Heart attack. There’s video. Thirty-two people walked past him. I counted. He needed bypass surgery. My mother and I spent six years paying for it. So no, I’m not getting out of your car. I don’t ignore people.”
“How did you know that night that I hadn’t eaten?”
“Your hands. Faces lie. Hands don’t. My father used to say that after thirty years fixing city buses. He could tell who was exhausted, who was scared, who was about to quit just by looking at their hands.”
“You paid off my loan.”
“It was nothing.”
“That was my father’s heart. That was six years of my mother working nights. You don’t get to make that ‘nothing.’ I already called them. Every penny is coming back to you.”
“Next time you ask, maybe I’ll say yes.”
“Will you let me walk you to the bus?”
“Who gives that kind of money back?”
“Will you let me send dinner to your floor?”
“You can just send it, boss.”
“She said I have to ask.”
“You can.”
“About your car. Can I call you on your break?”
“You have four minutes.”
“Then I’ll talk fast.”
“101. Three nights out here in the cold, and now you have a fever. Whoever pays you doesn’t pay you enough.”
“Chicken soup. Return the thermos when you’re done.”
“And tell your boss that if he wants someone watching me, he can ask.”
“All right, Marchetti. You and I are going to talk about your little friend through…”
“The introduction, please.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Whose seat is this, Luca?”
“My daughter’s.”
“It was her sixth birthday. She’d been begging me for a whole year to let her ride up front, and I always said no. That night she said, ‘Birthday girl sits in front, Dad. Just four blocks.’ I said yes.”
“Red light on Ashland. A car pulled up beside us. Costa family. She was hit in the shoulder. She survived.”
“I replaced every window and kept the sticker.”
“The next morning, I gave up custody. Her mother took her to Evanston. New last name.”
“Arthur said, ‘A man with a child is a man with a chain around his neck.’ He wasn’t wrong.”
“She turned twelve today. I drove by myself to Ridgeview Middle School. Every birthday, I park across from wherever she is. Six years, and I’ve never gotten out of the car.”
“That’s why my hands were shaking that night. Tommy was hit at a red light.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sofia.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She kicks the ball with her left foot, wraps her shoelaces twice before tying them, and laughs with her whole body. I could see it from across the street.”
“That’s how you tie your shoes too.”
“Next birthday, you’re getting out of the car.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then I’ll sit here while you figure it out.”
“Luca, the man with the canal lied in that room.”
“Arthur?”
“I can’t tell you about my patient’s night. That’s Tommy’s right to tell you. But I can tell you what my own eyes saw.”
“I got the message. He was out of surgery. We left, and Arthur’s car came in. 4:44. You were watching the road. I was watching the window.”
“He said he signed the papers before they took Tommy upstairs. When Tommy wakes up, ask him who did.”
“Arthur is the only one of my men who knows where Sofia is.”
“She’s been safe for six years.”
“Then checking costs you nothing.”
“Gus will take you home.”
“Nice school. Evanston is a long drive.”
“Gus, send two cars to Ridgeview now.”
“It’s me. I know. Six years. Listen to me. Don’t let her walk home this week. My men are outside the school. I’ll explain.”
“Someone told Costa’s son after six years, and nobody knew.”
“Did you tell the nurse where Sofia goes to school?”
“Yes.”
“You paid off her loan, and she returned it. I keep the records. I saw both. Smart girl.”
“Then on Tuesday, the Costa family paid off the loan. One of their companies. Have Gus verify it.”
“It’s real, boss. Costa’s men made the payment.”
“They did. I delivered your money myself.”
“You said no one would get near the girl.”
“And no one will. Not once Luca stops getting sentimental.”
“At Sunday dinner, tell everyone you saw the nurse with Costa’s men. By Christmas, the families will want a free man sitting at the head of that table.”
“You did it again. I asked you to ask me.”
“I didn’t pay it. The Costa family did. And they sent me this. Sofia’s school.”
“You’re the only person I told about that school, Nina.”
“You think I gave away your daughter’s school for a loan? I gave your money back, Luca. Why would I keep theirs? You have every right to be afraid for her. You don’t have the right to be afraid of me.”
“The second payment. I want it returned. I don’t care who sent it. It’s not mine.”
“If Luca didn’t pay it, then who sent that man outside my window?”
“Tommy woke up. He’s asking for you.”
“The night before I was shot, I was outside the boss’s office. He was talking to Joe Costa. He gave him the name of a school in Evanston. I thought it was business. Then he saw me in the hallway and said, ‘The kid heard me. Handle it.’ The next night, they hit me at the light.”
“Who signed your forms?”
“I did. A nurse was holding the dead bird. Nobody else was there.”
“Arthur gave the Costas that school before Nina ever got into your car.”
“And then he paid off her loan to frame her.”
“He couldn’t get past our men at that door. So he needed someone to blame before Tommy woke up.”
“I’ll tell the police, boss. They shot me, so tell them everything. And tell them where he’ll be Sunday at one o’clock.”
“Do you want me to go get him?”
“No. The families listen to Arthur. They’ll hear it Sunday at the table in front of everyone.”
“Ask the hospital for a secured room and an alias for Tommy.”
“Hillary sent the order personally.”
“I was wrong.”
“Sunday, at my family’s table, I’m done hiding.”
“You don’t have to come. I’m asking you to.”
“Gus is downstairs. If you don’t want him there, send him away.”
“What’s this?”
“Let him up, Gus. He’s returning my thermos.”
“His name is Benny.”
“Don’t go tomorrow.”
“Keep it. You’re still coughing.”
“And tell Mr. Marchetti I’m going.”
“Mr. Marchetti isn’t my boss. He never was.”
“Wait. That’s Kane’s driver.”
“I thought Luca sent him.”
“The boss doesn’t send boys. He sends me.”
“For six years, our boss has been hiding a daughter. You all know what I’ve always said. A man with a child is a man with a chain around his neck.”
“I have one. Her name is Sofia.”
“And somebody handed that child’s school location to the Costa family.”
“Luca told that nurse where his daughter goes to school. The Costa family paid off her loan on Tuesday. She’s the traitor, and I have a witness.”
“Before anyone says a word, on Thursday I asked her the same question, and I was wrong. Everyone in this city reads my face. She’s the only person who ever read my palm.”
“Whatever happens at this table, I’m standing here.”
“Professor.”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down, Luca. Let me.”
“The full amount was paid twice. Once by him, and once by someone who wanted everyone at this table to see it. I returned both.”
“Benny, you stood outside my window three nights in a row. You still have my thermos. Tell them what you saw.”
“Mr. Kane told me nobody was to get near that little girl. He made me drive him to Evanston to see her school.”
“I delivered the nurse’s loan money to a Costa man myself. Then he ordered me to stand here and say I saw this lady with Costa’s men.”
“I never did.”
“What I saw was her carrying soup across the street to the man who was spying on her.”
“I’ll drive you anywhere, Mr. Kane. But I won’t help you hurt a child. And I won’t lie about her.”
“The kid has been sick all week. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“You told me you signed Tommy’s forms, Arthur.”
“He signed them himself.”
“You arrived at 4:40 to find out whether he could still talk. He can.”
“The night before they shot him, he heard you give Joe that school. A full day before she ever sat in my car.”
“The kid heard me handling business.”
“So they shot Tommy at a red light, exactly like my daughter.”
“Oldest rule there is: don’t touch children. Every family at this table cares about that little girl. And Joe Costa is going to hear that from me tonight.”
“The police.”
“I’m not going to do to you what you did to me. That’s what changed.”
“I put you in Sofia’s seat, then looked at you like you were Costa family, and I stayed angry at you all week because of a man you never sent.”
“We’re both bad at this.”
“I’m not something you park somewhere safe, Luca. I have a job, a mother, and a loan in my name. I’m keeping all three.”
“Then I’ll keep asking.”
“You’ll get tired of it.”
“Then ask her.”
“Sofia, you’ve been walking past her for six years.”
“Sophie, her mother just called. Sofia has been asking about the black car across the street on every birthday since she was eight.”
“Will you come with me?”
“In the front seat.”
“It isn’t even her birthday.”
“Good. You’ve sat through enough of those.”
“I said I’d sit right here.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“Faces lie. Hands don’t.”
“Do you want this?”
“You’re the black car.”
“I’m the black car.”
“Please, just take me home. I’ve been on my feet for twenty hours.”
“Sofia says you’re coming to her game on Saturday.”
“That isn’t a question.”
“She’s like you.”
“You know you can sit in the back now.”
“I get carsick.”
“I know.”
“That seat was hers. I’d like it to be yours too. At least until she gets old enough to fight you for it.”
“I’m asking.”
