Page 56 of Jig's Last Dance
Iris eyes me suspiciously from the doorway, and I huff out a laugh before sobering. I may be relieved they’re not gone, but I’m at risk around both of these fuckers, and I shouldn’t fucking forget it.
Iris taps her hand against her knee, and I slide my gaze away. She looks emaciated, her hair lanky and formed to her forehead. I don’t know whether to feel pity or disgust, so I settle on both.
“Well?” she whispers, glancing down the hall.
“I—”
“Shh.” Waving her hand, she turns away from me.
“Let’s roll,” John says, his tone muffled.
I step further into the room and palm my knife—a gift from my dad the year before he died. I forgot about it until I went back through that photo album.
In one of the pictures was me, opening a present on Christmas morning. Dad said it was his father’s, and he wanted me to have it. Luckily, it’s been in the bottom of my bag this whole time.
“Nothing, I have to go to the bathroom,” Iris says, waving him off.
“Again?” John grunts.
“Whatever. You know that shit messes with my stomach,” she says with a frown.
“Fine. Just hurry. I’ll be in the car.”
His footsteps recede down the hall, and she watches him go before grabbing my hand and pulling me into the bathroom. After I’m shoved into the shower, she puts her finger over her lips before shutting the door and turning on the water from the sink.
Wide-eyed, I watch as she sits on the toilet seat and says, “Well?”
What? Oh. Shaking my head, I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull the picture out of my pocket. “I found this.”
She grabs it from my hand, glancing at it before handing it back. “So?”
Biting back the bitter retort, I exhale and say, “Iris, my dad is dead. Sal Castinetti’s goon came here for a reason.”
She studies me for a moment before saying, “I help you. You help me.”
“Okay,” I say shakily, wondering if I just made another deal with the devil.
“Gimme the pic.”
Handing it back to her, I lean forward as she points at the people. “John. Sal, Bruno, don’t know, Yates, and I only knowhimas Ice Man.”
“I-Ice Man?”
“Yeah, he is or was a hit man. I heard he died,” she says with a shrug.
“How do you know him?”
“He came around sometimes. Hung out with John. Creepy fucker.” She shivers.
“And Yates?” I whisper.
“Rich dude. John did some deals with him.”
“When you say deals . . .?”
“Women,” she says flatly, raising her dead gaze to mine.
Women? Holy fuck. Are these the girls Jig alluded to before?