What’s up?”“Someone else is looking for Woody.”“What?”“Someone else is looking for Woody. I thought you should know.”“Who?”“A guy named Rocco Stabile.”“How do you know?”“Patrice called me. This guy Stabile stopped by the bar today.”“What did he say, exactly?”“He wanted to know who Woody hung out with last night, and where.”“Did Patrice tell him about your girls?”“No. She thought he was a cop. She said she hadn’t seen Woody in a couple of weeks.”“Woody’s dead, Jodi.”“Dead?”“Killed by Stabile’s people.”“What’s going on?”“Do you still have your place in Florida?”“Yes.”“Get on a plane. Take Nicole and the other girl that was with Woody. I’ll call you in a few days.”“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on.”“Woody did a hit. A mob connected hit. He killed two people. He was eliminated as a witness. Now they’re wondering if he spilled his guts to somebody, to eliminate them, too. Are you following me?”“Yes.”“Things will calm down, but you have to go away for a week or two.”“How do you know all this?”“I talked to Woody, then I saw him get shot.”“Christ.”Joseph had arrived home, that is, at Marsha’s twentyfirst floor apartment overlooking the East River, taken ten milligrams of Valium, and fallen asleep on the plush sectional sofa in the living room.
