“Get your friends in here,” the man orders. I’ve been leading them straight to Elvis. “Why bother killing a few measly rats when there’s a chance to set the whole nest on fire?” “'Cause they wanted to find out where you’re going!” He’s clearly exasperated with my ignorance. “Oh, there’s no doubt that they do,” says the old guy. “So does that mean the Company knows where we are too?” Drugs? People? Huaraches? Who’d have guessed that my prim, proper mother was buddies with an octogenarian smuggler? Maybe I owe Irene Diamond a bit more respect. I wonder what he’s been bringing across the border. Nobody knows the border like I do.” I think he’s telling me he hasn’t retired.
“Why you?” I ask, hoping the question doesn’t sound too rude.
They told her what direction you were heading, and she called me.” Lucky for you, your mother has a few friends in the law enforcement community. You’ve been leaving a trail of digital bread crumbs behind you. “So the hell what? You really think that means they stopped tracking the car? God, you’re an idiot. “That’s not possible,” I argue pointlessly. I glance out the front window at the car. Your friend’s car has been spying on you the whole time you’ve been gone.” “You got the nose, but you didn’t get the brains, did ya? You ever heard of OnStar? It’s a - surveillance system. “Find you?” the old man shakes his head at my stupidity. I wonder what the Kishka knows that I don’t. I wasn’t aware that my a- needed saving at this particular juncture. But that doesn’t keep him from popping up every once in a while. A small-time Brooklyn gangster nicknamed the Kishka on account of his giant nose, he’s been at the bottom of the Gowanus Canal since the 1970s. My grandfather has been dead for forty years. The fact that she’s the Kishka’s daughter - that’s what’s relevant here. “The fact that Irene Diamond is your mother makes very little difference to me.
“You mean my mother?” That is literally the very last thing I expected him to say. Irene Diamond sent me.” It’s so weird to hear a guy his age cursing that I almost miss the name. “What?” One corner of his mouth rises in a sneer. It seems odd that they’d hire a geriatric assassin with an antique firearm, but you never know. Thinking back to my "Call of Duty" days, I’d say it’s a WWII-era sniper’s rifle.
But I doubt they’d try, thanks to the giant gun the guy’s got propped against his shoulder. There are hipsters who’d kill for the straw hat and guayabera he’s rocking. I guess I should be offended, but I’m too busy taking him in. “You know, I thought you’d be smarter,” he says. They go well with his Brooklyn accent, which is like something out of a Scorsese film.Īn eyebrow rises above the frames of his sunglasses. His sunglasses have amber lenses and thick tortoise-shell frames. He’s gotta be at least eighty-five, but he’s still a dapper dresser. “Get enough for the girls, too?” There’s an old man standing by the Cheetos.
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