John Hart - Iron House

“I said I would never turn.”

“And yet, you made your choice.”

“So did the old man. When he let me go.”

“Maybe the old man’s gone soft.”

That was Michael’s replacement-a crisp voice with a slight accent-and Michael could not believe the disrespect, here in the man’s own house. He held the man’s Slavic gaze, then stared hard at Jimmy and waited for him to meet his eyes. “I’ve seen you kill a man for less,” Michael said.

Jimmy picked daintily at the nail of his smallest finger, then said, “Maybe I don’t disagree.”

“I want to see him.” Michael’s voice grated. Every man here owed his life to the old man. What they had. Who they were. Honor the old man and the old man honors you. That’s the way it was done, old school and proper.

In some ways, Jimmy agreed. “Nobody walks away, Michael. That’s how it’s always been. The old man was wrong to tell you that you could.”

“He’s the boss.”

“For now.”

Michael’s heart beat twice as he considered that. “You were in the car last night. With Stevan.”

“Pretty night for a drive…”

“You bastard.”

Jimmy saw the anger and rolled onto the balls of his feet. It had long been a question between them, who could take who. Michael watched the glint come into Jimmy’s eyes, the cold and narrow smile. He wanted it, was eager; and Michael knew, then, that there would be no easy out, no graceful exit from a life he no longer desired. For too many people, the matter was personal.

Fingers tightened on holstered weapons and the moment stretched; but before it broke, there was movement on the stairs, a nurse on the landing. In her forties, she looked like a smaller version of Jimmy, but vaguely female. When Jimmy turned and lifted his chin, she said, “He wants to know who’s here.”

“I’ll be right there,” Jimmy told her, and cold touched his face when he looked back at Michael. “Stay here.” He motioned to the young Slavic man. “Watch him.”

“Where’s Stevan?” Michael demanded.

Jimmy offered a second slit of a smile, but otherwise ignored the question. He mounted the stairs on light feet, and when he came back down, he said, “He wants to see you.” Michael moved for the stairs, but Jimmy stopped him. “Not yet.” He twisted a finger like he was stirring tea, so Michael lifted his arms, and let the man pat him down. He checked Michael’s legs to the groin, his arms to the wrist. He smoothed fabric over Michael’s chest and back, then fingered the collars of his jacket and shirt.

“None of this is necessary,” Michael said.

Jimmy’s gaze moved from low to high, and the gaze lingered. “I don’t know you anymore.”

“Maybe you never did.”

A hand flapped on his wrist. “Enough. Go. Up.”

On the second floor Michael saw a nursing station filled with monitors tinted green. Cables snaked down the stairs and under the table that held the equipment. The nurse sat with her feet flat on the floor, eyes glued to the monitors. In a small room behind her, an iron-haired priest sat in a comfortable chair, eyes slightly closed, fingers crossed in his lap. He wore shined shoes and black clothing with a white collar at the throat. When the nurse looked up, Michael asked, “Are we that close?”

She glanced at Jimmy, who nodded in permission. “We’ve resuscitated him twice,” she said.

“What?” Michael’s anger flared. The old man wanted to die. Resuscitating him was a cruelty. “Why?” Michael demanded. “Why would you put him through that?”

She glanced at Jimmy. “The son-”

“It’s not up to the son! He made his wishes plain. He’s ready.”

The nurse raised her hands and looked horrified. “I can only-”

Michael cut her off. “How bad is the pain?”

“The morphine can barely touch it.”

“Can you give him more?”

“More would kill him.”

“Is he lucid?”

“In and out.”

Michael stared at the priest, who stared back, terrified. “How long does he have?”

“Hours. Weeks. Father William has been here for five days.”

“I want to see him.” Without waiting for a response, Michael moved to the next landing and stopped beside broad, double doors. Jimmy leaned a shoulder against the frame and flicked a piece of lint from his velvet jacket. Michael said, “It’s wrong, Jimmy. He wants to die.”

“It’s Stevan’s choice. Let it go.”

“And if I can’t?”

Jimmy shrugged.

“I’m not your enemy,” Michael said. “I just want out.”

Jimmy examined his other sleeve. “There’s only one way out, and you know it. When the old man dies, so do you. Either that or you convince us to trust you again.”

“That’s two ways.”

He shook his head. “One is a way out, one is a way back in. Different animals.”

“Convince you, how?”

He blinked a lizard’s blink. “Kill the woman.”

“Elena’s pregnant.”

“Listen.” Jimmy leaned closer. “I understand you have this misplaced sense of responsibility, but the old man won’t live much longer.” He gestured, taking in the house, the men below, then lowered his voice. “Stevan can’t hold this together. He’s weak, sentimental. He doesn’t have what we have.” He let that sink in, then said, “You can be my number two. I’ll give you a percentage, free reign on the street.”

Michael shook his head, but Jimmy didn’t stop.

“People might challenge me alone, but no one would risk the two of us-”

“I don’t want it.”

“We all know how the old man feels about you. The street would accept it. The men. We could do this together.”

“She’s pregnant, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s eyes drooped. “That’s not my problem.”

“I just want out.”

“There is no out .”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

Jimmy put his hand on the knob. “You think you can?”

He pushed the door wide, grinned.

And Michael went in to see the old man.

Michael stepped in and Jimmy left him alone with the dying man who’d all but saved his life. A Persian rug stretched to far windows and a coffered ceiling rose fifteen feet above the floor. No lamps burned, and all the curtains but one were drawn, so that pale light ghosted in to touch a chair, the bed, and the wasted man in it. The space was long, narrow, and the gloom made it feel hollow. Michael had spent countless hours in the room-long months as the old man failed-but eight days had passed since his last visit, and change lay like a pall. Airless and overly warm, the room smelled of cancer and pain, of an old man dying.

He crossed the room, steps loud on wood, then soft when he hit the rug. The room looked the same except for a six-foot-tall cross that hung on the wall. It was made of smooth, dark wood and looked very old. Michael had never seen it before, but put it out of his mind as he stopped by the narrow bed and looked down at the only man he’d ever loved. Fluids ran into the old man’s veins through needles slipped under his skin. The robe he wore was one Michael had given him eight years ago, and in it he looked as light and weak as a starved child. His head was a death’s-head, with bones that were too prominent and veins that showed like thread through wax. Blue-black skin circled his eyes. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and Michael wondered if the pain, ever-present, had become insidious enough to find him even as he slept.

He stood for long seconds, bereft, then took the man’s hand, sat in the chair, and studied the cross on the wall. The old man did not have a religious bone in his body, but his son professed to believe. In spite of his sins, and there were many, Stevan attended mass every week, a conflicted man twined in self-deception. He feared God, yet was too weak to sacrifice the things violence brought, the money and power, the pleasures of pale-faced models and society widows who found his name and good looks too compelling to resist. Stevan loved the notoriety, yet agonized over his father’s lack of contrition; it was for this reason, Michael suspected, that the old man had been resuscitated twice. Stevan feared that his father, unrepentant, would go to hell. Michael marveled at the depth of such hypocrisy. Actions had consequence; choice came with cost. The old man knew exactly who he was, and so did Michael.