James Grippando - Born to Run

He almost chuckled, as if he’d heard the comparison before, and then he started to fake his way through the lyrics to “If I Were a Rich Man”: “ya ha deedle deedle, bubba-”

“That’s actually from Fiddler -” Jack stopped himself, still unable to recall the theme from The Munsters . “Ah, the hell with it. Common mistake. So where’s your wheelchair?”

“Do I look like I need a wheelchair?”

He was an imposing figure, standing erect and broad shouldered. “About as much as I do,” said Jack.

“That little ploy worked out pretty well, didn’t it? I figure maybe one percent of the general population is in wheelchairs. Greater Washington area has-what, nine million people? That’s ninety thousand suspects. Threw the cops off the trail looking for a guy who can’t walk.”

Jack checked out the pistol. It wasn’t anything Jack recognized, but he was far from a gun expert. Even though it looked small, he was sure it could do the job at this range.

“You should put the gun away if we’re going to talk.”

“It’s a bad habit. Some people smoke when they do business. I point guns.”

“What do you want from Sofia?”

His expression turned complicated-a mixture of anger and nostalgia, Jack guessed, and probably many more conflicting emotions.

“I followed her here to Miami,” he said. “And then to your office.”

“I figured.”

“I saved her life. Those goons in New York would have killed her.”

“What goons?”

“Are you gonna pretend she didn’t tell you about the wiseguys who came to her bakery?”

“She’s scared and on the run,” said Jack. “That’s all I know.”

“She should be scared.”

“She is-of you.”

Jack’s words had truly seemed to pain him. Jack sensed an opening, perhaps a willingness to talk.

“How do you know Sofia?” said Jack.

“We were married a long time ago. In Cyprus. This was way before the Russians took over the island. I had some business problems, Sicilian style.”

“You mean organized crime?”

“I don’t mean a pizzeria. Crazy Sicilians threw me off a hotel roof.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah,” he said, scoffing. “If you call losing Sofia ‘lucky.’”

“Sounds like you’re still angry about it.”

“You’ve met her. Imagine what she was like when she was twenty.”

Jack did for a moment, and he was starting to understand the man’s anger.

“We’re getting way off mission here,” said the Greek.

“Really, you should put the gun away.”

His face reddened, and suddenly he lunged at Jack and pressed the barrel of his gun to Jack’s forehead.

“Stop telling me what to do, and listen to me, Swyteck.”

Jack was afraid to blink. The Greek had his human and sympathetic side, but with the flip of a figurative switch, it was easy to see him putting a bullet between the eyes of Chloe Sparks, Jack Swyteck, or anyone else who got in his way.

“I could have killed you a long time ago. What does that tell you?”

Jack struggled for the right answer, but he wasn’t sure there was one.

The Greek said, “I take you out only when necessary. Don’t make it necessary.”

“Just tell me what I have to do.”

“I need your help with Sofia.”

“I won’t help you kill her.”

He grabbed Jack by the hair and jerked his head back. “You think I would kill my Sofia before I kill you?”

Jack was sure the man was going to hit him, maybe even shoot him. But the Greek took a couple of deep breaths, got himself under control, and returned to his seat atop the desk, facing Jack.

“Why did she come to you?” said the Greek.

“She didn’t want to see me end up like Chloe Sparks.”

“I didn’t kill that woman.”

Jack didn’t believe him, but now was not the time to argue. “Sofia never said you did. In fact, she wouldn’t tell me anything about you. Like I said, she’s afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me ? It’s your father and his new friends she needs to be afraid of.”

“What does my father have to do with this?”

“Grayson comes down to Florida, goes hunting with your father, and dies a sudden death. Next thing you know, Harry Swyteck is the nominee to become vice president. All right after I told Grayson I could make him president.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “Are you saying that you sent Grayson the same message you sent me?”

“Not directly. I sent it to his wife.”

Jack thought back to the FBI telling him that his wasn’t the first message. Marilyn Grayson had obviously turned hers over to law enforcement.

“Did you tell her more than you told me?”

“Only after she responded.”

Jack bristled. He hadn’t heard anything about response.

“You two had a dialogue going?”

“Until her husband died, we did.”

“Did you end up telling her as much as you told Chloe Sparks?”

“No more, no less.”

“So why was it ‘necessary,’ as you say, to kill Chloe Sparks, but not Marilyn Grayson?”

“It’s one thing to know that President Keyes is controlled by a certain family from Sicily. It’s another thing altogether to know why. ”

“You told Chloe why?”

The Greek shook his head. “She figured it out.”

“Does Sofia know why?”

“Sofia knows.”

“I presume that’s why those men came for her yesterday.”

“Exactly right. And that’s why I need your help.”

“What can I do?” ’

“You have Sofia’s ear. Convince her that she can’t go to the FBI or the police with this. No one at any level of government can be trusted.”

“What am I supposed to tell her to do?”

“Get out of the country. Now. If she hears that advice from me, she will never believe it. But if you tell her, she might.”

“I can’t promise she’ll believe me.”

“She’d better.”

“What if she just doesn’t listen?”

He leaned forward, his nose just a few inches from Jack’s, his eyes narrowing. “Then killing you will become very necessary,” he said, his voice so calm and cold that, for a moment, Jack thought the Greek would actually enjoy it.

Jack returned the glare, but he was looking at a three-eyed monster-the Greek’s dark eyes and the muzzle of his handgun.

“I’ll do my best,” said Jack.

They waited until dark, and then Jack led the way to the Hotel San Pietro.

“Faster,” said the Greek. They were already covering the scenic block along Alhambra Circle at the pace of a much younger man, which told Jack something about the Greek’s recovery from his hotel roof fall. The Greek walked a couple of steps behind, his hands buried in his coat pocket. Jack assumed there was a gun aimed at his spine.

The San Pietro was one of the oldest hotels in Coral Gables. The lobby floor was a mosaic of cracked Cuban tile, and cross-beams of pecky cypress supported the high arching ceiling. In daylight, colorful stained-glass windows filtered the strong Florida sunshine, throwing patches of red, yellow, and green against the thickly textured walls. After dark, however, the windows were black against the night sky, and the lobby took on a shadowy, castle-like ambience beneath a broad candlelit chandelier. On the wall behind the front desk were rows of old-fashioned key cubbies with room keys on tassels.

“Good evening, Mr. Swyteck,” said the young woman behind the desk.

Jack tried not to look nervous as he returned the smile. “I sent a client over this afternoon. Sofia is her name. Has she checked in yet?”

“Yes, she has. Would you like me to ring her room?”