A man sat in the chair, his back to the door, affording only a view of a liver-spotted bald head. He stood as we came in. I blinked, and hoped my surprise didn’t show. He was three inches shorter than me, and I was only wearing one-inch heels. With a name like Little Joe, maybe this doesn’t seem surprising, but blatant irony is the favored form of criminal nickname humor. Any guy with the words “tiny” or “little” in his moniker was certain to be six feet plus. Obviously the Nikolaevs didn’t share the usual sense of mob humor.

Like many undersized criminals, Little Joe had over-compensated in the weight room. He’d pumped iron for so many years that even now, stuck in a rest home, his biceps would be the envy of a man a quarter his age. He had, however, neglected the lower half of his body, which left him looking like a balloon character squeezed from the bottom, a massive chest topping spindly legs. His eyes were sunken brown dots that glittered when he saw me. He smiled, revealing a perfect set of fake pearly whites.

“Is this her?” he asked, his gaze dropping to my chest and staying there.

“Jess,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. “But my friends call me Jezebel.”

He wheezed a laugh. “I bet they do.” He vice-gripped my hand. I squeezed back and he fairly licked his lips, eyes never rising above my neckline. “I bet you are very good at your job, no?”

“The best. No one ever complains.”

I extricated my hand from his and sashayed to the sofa. Evelyn tried to take the seat beside me, but Little Joe slid into it with the speed of a twenty-year-old.

“Now this, Evelyn, this is how a hitwoman should be,” Joe said, waggling a finger at her. “Not dressing up like a man, running around, shooting people. She must be subtle. Use her assets.” A sidelong look at my “assets.” “Yes, this is how it should be.”

I wriggled like a praised puppy. Joe sidled closer.

“Evelyn tells me you’re a very important man,” I said.

My use of the present tense didn’t go unnoticed. Joe preened and regaled me with a few glimpses into his former life. As he talked, I was aware of time ticking past, but also knew this wasn’t someone who could—or should—be rushed into answering questions. I took my cue from Evelyn, who settled into her chair as if not expecting to rise for a while.