But… the guy is smart. He’s never taken risks, he’s never splashed any cash, and, where possible, he’s opted for exclusivity, which gives him security and protection.
No, I don’t expect this guy to help me. But I reckon he’s a good place to start if I want to find someone who will.
2
I’m walking down Broadway. It’s pushing seventy degrees, despite the noticeable wind. The sun’s navigating the gaps between the scattered clouds overhead. I’m comfortable without my jacket. I picked up some clothes from a discount store back in Indiana somewhere. I know I could probably buy the entire store, but I’m living off the cash in my pocket, and I survived off a limited budget for years.
I’m wearing a red and blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just above my elbows, and a couple of buttons unfastened at the top. It’s not what I would normally wear, but when you’re on the run, you don’t exactly want to look like you normally do.
My hair’s grown a little, too. I have more beard than stubble at the moment, which is irritating the shit out of me, and my hair’s thicker on top. I walk past a furniture store and happen to glance in the window and catch my reflection. I’m unrecognizable, even to myself.
And now I have “Streets of Philadelphia” by Bruce Springsteen in my head…
The last known address of the guy I’m here to see is a restaurant he used to work at between contracts. Now he works for the local mob, I don’t know if he’ll still be here, but it’s the only starting point I have.
After a few minutes, I see the place across the street. The parking lot out front looks pretty empty. I cross over and head for the main entrance, push the door open, and step inside.
It’s a Chinese bar and restaurant. The interior looks like someone has watched a bunch of movies set in China and assumed that’s what their culture looks like, so tried to copy it here. There’s a large sculpture of a red and gold dragon in front of me and detailed lanterns hanging overhead to conceal the actual light fixtures. The entrance is on the left of the building, and the interior stretches away both in front of me and to the right, with the dining area in the former and the bar in the latter.
I catch the eye of a waitress behind the counter and walk over. I see booths lining both the side by the window and the opposite wall, which is red with various hand-drawn images of dragons and swords hanging on it. There are seven people seated. I’ve got a young couple on my left, one guy sitting alone in the middle, and a group of four men in one of the booths by the window.
I take a seat at the bar, resting my bag against the stool by my feet. The waitress comes over and smiles. She’s Caucasian, can’t be older than twenty-five, with shoulder-length dark hair and a nice smile.
“Will you be eating with us today, sir?” she asks.
I smile. “No, thanks. I’m actually looking for an old friend. He used to work here — I don’t know if he still does.”
“I can ask around in the back for you, if you want? What’s your friend’s name?”
“Ashton Case.”
The split-second flash of concern on her face tells me everything I need to know. She momentarily glances over at the table of four men, which I notice, but ignore for now. She recovers quickly.
“Oh, Ashton… Yeah, he… ah… he doesn’t work here anymore,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Yeah, right.
“Uh-huh… when did he leave?”
“Oh, it was a while ago now… I think.”
I can only assume she’s being vague because she doesn’t know how much contact I’ve had with him, or how recently. I’ve said I’m an old friend, which suggests we do speak, but she doesn’t want to commit to a time frame in case I realize she’s lying. I’ll play it cool for now. I don’t want to push things.
“Okay, not to worry. D’you think I could get a drink while I’m here?”
She smiles again, relaxing. “Sure thing. What would you like?”
I glance behind her and spot a row of Bud in one of the fridges. I gesture to them with a nod. “I’ll have a bottle, please.”
She turns and crouches, grabbing a beer. I smile at the welcome hiss as she unscrews the top and drops it in a metal container beside the cash register.
She slides it across the counter to me. “That’ll be three-fifty.”
I take out a five dollar bill and hand it to her. “Keep the change.”
She smiles, and I take a much-needed swig of the drink. I catch her gaze flick over to the table of four again. I’m leaning against the bar, facing the seating area with the window booths away to my right. I see the hushed mutterings among the men, and the discreet looks I’m getting, which aren’t actually as discreet as they might think.
They’re getting ready to make their move. I should probably address this issue now, to see if I can stop it from getting out of hand.
I look at the waitress and smile, trying to appear sympathetic. “Look, I’m not here to cause trouble, I promise. I know who Ashton works for, and I know what he does for a living. I also know he worked here on occasion. I’m genuinely an old acquaintance, and if he is here, I just wanna talk to him — no fuss.”
The waitress sighs, shifting uncomfortably on the spot, looking unsure. I understand her dilemma. On the one hand, she probably believes me, which she has every reason to do, as I’m not lying. On the other hand, she’s probably been told to deny all knowledge if anyone asks about him, and to inform him, or his boss, of any inquiries.
I’m looking at her, but see movement to my right. I turn my head slightly and watch the men stand, organize themselves, straighten their clothes, and walk slowly toward me, fanning into a line as they approach the bar.
The waitress looks afraid, which gives me yet more unspoken information. She knows Case is probably in the back, watching this on a security feed. My guess is she alerted him to my presence when she opened my beer by pressing a silent alarm hidden behind the bar or something.
The four guys now in front of me are a laughable attempt at contract muscle — further proof this place is owned by the mob. And I’m guessing the waitress is reasonably new, because she looks scared. She probably knows what this place is like, but hasn’t worked here long enough to actually see it with her own eyes. She doesn’t have the tired confidence people exposed to this life usually have — that almost reluctant feeling of security. The belief you’re untouchable because of who you work for.
I look at the line of ass-clowns for a moment, deciphering the silent messages their bodies are sending me. The guy on the far right, for example, is slightly favoring his right leg. Judging by the size of his waist, which is far from thin, I’m guessing… a weak knee.
Then there’s the guy second from the left — the tallest of the group, but probably no bigger than me. He’s practically laughing. He thinks he’s the big dick around here. The leader of the pack. Maybe he thinks his height makes him more important than the others. He’s the prick I’m going to hit first.
And hardest.
I look back at the waitress. “Alright, this was obviously a bad idea. You should probably take yourself someplace else for a moment or two. I promise I’ll keep the damage to a minimum. I don’t want you getting in trouble or anything with your boss.”
She furrows her brow with confusion. Like, why am I talking like I’ll be causing damage when I’m outnumbered four to one?