sp; “I used to be a police officer.”
“You’re not one anymore?”
“Sometimes I am.”
She had hazel eyes that went away from you in a sleepy fashion, then came back as though she were waking from a dream. “What does ‘sometimes’ mean?”
“I was fired from NOPD. Getting fired is my modus operandi.”
“Fired for what?”
“I was a drunk.”
“You’re not now, are you?”
“A drunk is a drunk.” I tried to smile.
Her gaze remained fixed on Johnny Shondell, her lips parting, and I knew she was no longer listening to me. I also knew my problems weren’t worth talking about and were part of the chemically induced narcissism that every boozer carries with him like a sacred flame.
“It was nice seeing you, Miss Isolde,” I said.
“You believe in kismet?”
“Where’d you hear of kismet?”
“At the movies. Do you believe in it?”
“I think it’s Arabic for ‘God’s will.’ I’m no expert about things like that.”
“My family has hated the Shondells for four hundred years.”
“That’s a little unusual.”
Her face sharpened. “They burned my ancestor.”
“Pardon?”
“At the stake. In chains. They put nails through his mouth so he couldn’t talk. Then they made him suffer as much as they could.”
I stared at her.
“You don’t believe me?” she said.
“Sure.”
“That’s why I think the Shondells should be killed.”
“Killed?”
“Or blown up or something.”
“So why are you here watching Johnny?”
“He’s delivering me to his uncle Mark.”
I didn’t want to hear any more. The Balangie family was trouble, their ways arcane and, some said, incestuous. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
“That’s all you have to say?”