He watched my nose scrunch and didn’t speak, not for a long time, long after I’d unscrunched my nose. In fact, he seemed to lose focus as his eyes settled on my mouth. Then his eyes moved to mine and he regained focus.
“That guy that Billy said was visiting?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Got a feeling his name is Grigori Lescheva. He’s Russian mob and when I say that I mean he’s the top guy in the Russian mob.”
This didn’t sound good. On all the television shows the Russian mob guys were the worst.
“That doesn’t sound good either,” I pointed out when Mitch said no more.
“Nothing about this shit is good. Lescheva’s just the worst part of it. Sources say Lescheva’s settin’ up a power play to claim new territory. Bill was passin’ him info about competitors. At first he was doing this because Lescheva was paying him. In the end he was doing this because Bill owed Lescheva. You do not want to deal with Lescheva at all. But if you gotta deal with him, you want him to owe you for whatever you got, not the other way around. Your cousin knows every scumbag in town. He’s sold to them. He’s bought from them. He’s partied with them. He owes them money. They’ve fucked him over or he’s fucked them over. He’s been busy since he hit the city and therefore he’s a good informant. But there’s only so much he has, only so much he can give. Especially now that no one likes him, no one trusts him and most everyone wants something from him and some of them, him not breathin’ is what they want. His usefulness to Lescheva was diminishing which means Lescheva would be calling on the debt. Bill is an assclown and a nuisance and not worth the effort for most unless the opportunity presented itself. That is, he was until he started feedin’ Lescheva information. But Lescheva doesn’t like debts and he’d call it, one way or the other. If Bill couldn’t pay, Lescheva’d get creative in finding a way to get it.”
I stared at Mitch, wrapped my arms around my ribs and focused on not crying and/or freaking out.
“That really doesn’t sound good,” I whispered so quietly I could barely hear me.
“The good news for you is Bill’s being held without bail. He’s considered a flight risk.”
“Okay,” I whispered though his good news was relative.
“That means the kids will remain with you if CPS approves you fostering them after they visit which they’ll do.”
I nodded.
“The other good news is that with the evidence they have and the fact that this is strike three, it’s unlikely he’ll be breathing free for awhile.”
Damn. He knew this was Bill’s strike three. Of course he would. It was the computer age. He probably discovered that in, like, two seconds.
Bill’s blood flowed through me. No wonder he had no more warm smiles for me.
I nodded again even as I felt the knife twist.
“That means, while he’s inside, you can work to make that permanent.”
Yet again, I nodded.
“I’ll text you names and numbers of lawyers who can help you out with that. You might as well start now.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, wondering where I’d find the money to pay a lawyer.
He stared at me. Then he turned his head and looked at the wall that separated the break room from the showroom. Then he looked back at me.
“They doin’ okay?” he asked.
“Um… yes,” I answered. “Billie asks after him. Billy seems fine with everything.”
It was his turn to nod.
Okay, it was nice of him to come all the way out to Pierson’s to tell me this but I had to shut this down and move on. Again.
So I went about doing that.
“Um… thanks for coming all the way out here to, uh… keep me in the loop.”
I watched his jaw clench. Then he looked to the side and muttered, “Clueless.”
Oh boy. Here we go.
“Mitch –” I started to shut it down and his eyes sliced back to me.
“You workin’ this weekend?”
My head did a little shake at his confusing question. “Pardon?”
“This weekend, you workin’?” he repeated with slight amendments.
“Um… yes.”
“Both days?”
“Yes, Mitch, but –”
“Who’s lookin’ out for them while you work?”
I straightened my shoulders and admitted, “I haven’t got that far.”
He glared at me and muttered, “Right.”
I sucked in a breath through my nostrils and started, “Mitch –”
He cut me off. “Twelve to nine?”
My head tipped to the side. “Pardon?”