Part 65 (1/2)
”No.”
”Because they don't catch it in time.”
”Did they with you?”
Rubashkin coughed hard, sending him back into the couch until he could finally regain his balance and push himself back upright. ”Not so lucky, I'm afraid.”
”Is this a social call? If so, I'd like to wait until the sun's up at least. I didn't get much sleep yet tonight.”
”I'm sorry to hear that. But I'm afraid it isn't. I've been looking for you, Wes. For years. Why is it that you've been so hard to find?”
Wes didn't have an answer to that.
”Because I'm not so special?”
The soft chuckle turned into more racking coughs. ”Spread to my lungs. You can't imagine. You know, I never smoked? All my brothers. They all smoked like chimneys. I swore to myself, I never smoke, because it killed my Papa. Well, I guess they're having the last laugh aren't they?”
”I'm sorry to hear about that.”
”I have to think, you know, there are all sorts of the wrong people looking into my business and my affairs, and now everything starts to become clearer. Where was little Wes Park gone to? 'He's been so hard to get in touch with. I can't even send him a Christmas card, to thank him for taking the fall for my boy!'”
”If you're going to shoot me, just do it.”
”You're working for the Feds, aren't you?”
”Feds? They didn't even bother to talk to me. They apparently don't believe I've ever met you before.”
”I'm sorry, Wesley, but I don't believe you.”
”Then just do it. I'm too tired for this s.h.i.+t.”
Rubashkin had trouble with that kind of s.h.i.+t, Wes dimly remembered. If someone begged him, then it was a sign they were guilty. He knew, he always knew. But if they were up-front about not really giving him answers at all...
Then, he's not sure.
It hadn't been a tactic, not really. Wes was tired. He wanted to sleep more than he wanted anything else. More than he wanted to live. But now that had worked in his favor. Rubashkin set the gun down on the table.
”You don't want to sit and talk about the good old times?”
”In the morning.”
”'In the morning,' 'in the morning,' you're like a parrot, you know.”
The old Russian coughed again. He was many things, Rubashkin. Wes didn't know him well, but he knew enough about the man to know what kind of person he was. He ran one of the biggest gangs in New York, which said something by itself. But in person, he'd never been much but petty. Constant complaints about things that under normal circ.u.mstances, to normal people, wouldn't have been worth commenting. In other words, petty.
”Look, if you're not going to kill me, I have a fight tonight, I need to sleep. Please.”
”Fine. Then we'll talk about your sister in the morning.”
The mention of his sister raised the hair on the back of Wesley's neck. Now, in spite of how bad he wanted to sleep, even as he heard Rubashkin walk out of the apartment, he couldn't.
Wes pushed himself up off the mattress on the floor and padded his way across the apartment to the door. The gun was still on the table, as if Rubashkin had decided to leave it there as a gift, or as a curse.
He pushed the door open. Rubashkin was limping away, slow. He moved heavy on his left leg. ”Wait.”
”Oh, that got your attention, did it, Malchik?”
”What did you come here for?”
”No; the moment is pa.s.sed. Sorry.”
”I don't have time for these games, old man. If you want to go die of your pancreatic-lung cancer, be my guest, but don't bulls.h.i.+t me. What did you come here to say to me?”
”You're interested in talking, then?”
”Fine. But come back, so I can change out of this G.o.d d.a.m.ned monkey suit, and then we're going out for coffee. You're buying.”
”It's the least I can do, for an old friend.”
Wes left the door open for him as he went back to pull a tee-s.h.i.+rt and jeans out of the dresser, forcing them back on as Rubashkin limped back into the room. Wes waited until he closed the door to add, ”And take your gun. I don't want it around.”
”Oh, Wesley. You never could deal with these toys.”
”Don't be a jacka.s.s, Anton Yurievich.”
Rubashkin put the weapon back into the holster he kept carefully concealed. Getting caught with the thing here wouldn't be nearly as dangerous as New York, but that didn't mean they were friendly.
Thirty-Five.
Minami Minami crossed her legs in bed and tried desperately to read the magazine she'd asked Majima to pick up for her from the store. There had been plenty to interest her in theory, but her eyes just looked right through it, like the words weren't even there on the page in front of her.
She couldn't taste her food. She couldn't calm herself enough to read.
”What was I supposed to have done?” she said out loud, only halfway to herself. Part of her wished that someone would tell her, give her some answer that would have saved Wes's life without throwing him away, throwing away her last life line out of the Yakuza life.
But it was too late for that, and too late for her to change her mind. Those were the provisions of the agreement she'd made with Father, and she'd made it. If she broke her word, what other sort of h.e.l.l would it bring down on her head? On Wesley's?
Her mother peeked her head in. ”Minami, did you say something?”
Seeing Mother's full head of blonde hair served as a strange reminder of what had happened the night before. She darted inside and drew Minami up in her arms when she saw her lip start quivering.
”What's wrong?”