“Tristan?” He turned to find Erin staring at him. “I said I need a Blue Moon, a vodka tonic, a million dollars, and Ryan Gosling’s phone number.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Coming right up. I can’t help with Ryan. But why stop at one million? If you had more money, you’d probably have a better chance of getting that phone number yourself.”
“I’d hate to be greedy,” Erin answered, winking at him. “But I like how you think.”
He smiled and set the drinks on her tray. Once she was gone, Tristan’s thoughts returned to Josie.
Tristan combed through every detail, starting with the first time he’d seen her up until the first time he’d seen her again. That night in the dark alley, she’d silently looked on as he raged. She’d watched him bleed and sweat and give himself over to despair. When their eyes had met, he’d felt the familiar force drawing them together but had dismissed it so easily. He understood that pull now and he wondered if she felt it too.
He needed answers. He remembered that she lived in the forty-one hundred block of Iowa Street in an off-white stucco building with green awnings. If he wanted to, he could bang down her door to confront her. But she seemed too skittish for that approach, too scared of her own history.
Tristan sighed and scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. He decided not to agonize anymore tonight, as if he could just release himself from her hold. He felt that she would seek him out again, and he would give her anything she wanted.
Dean Moloney sat in the back of the parked car, running his index finger along the stitched seam of the seat. The soft, cool leather slid beneath his touch until the edge of the seat fell away. A teenager flew by on his skateboard, a punk with spiked hair. He reminded Moloney of Terry Sanders in grade school. This kid would endlessly tease him. He would chant “Moloney Boloney” and get all the kids to join. That was, until Moloney smashed his face with a brick from the schoolyard. Blood ran into Terry’s blond spiky hair. It was Moloney’s first taste of victory.
The skateboarder’s eyes tried to penetrate the dark tint of the car, and Moloney sneered at him through the glass. He knew he couldn’t be seen, but it was instinctual. Hate lived inside of him. It circulated through his body and infected every piece of his being. His stare followed the boy as he jumped the loading dock ramp before disappearing down Tchoupitoulas Street.
The building outside Moloney’s window looked harmless with its uneven patchwork of new and old brick. Its cracked lines and rusted vents told nothing of its ominous innards. This was one of many buildings used to house goods.
His offshore drilling venture was a great cover for importing and exporting through the Gulf of Mexico. Half of his inventory consisted of illegal weapons and drugs, while the other half represented a legit business. This building had been his first acquisition when he took over the organization. It was special to him. Among the cargo boxes and palettes inside sat the most important men of his enterprise. Having them all in one place was risky but, under these circumstances, necessary.
His man, Frank, sat behind the wheel checking the status of employees in attendance.
“Sir, everyone is inside.”
Moloney nodded and exited the car alongside his driver. Frank walked two steps behind him, always a villain’s shadow. They entered the warehouse and approached the group of men. Moloney took his place at the head of the table and all conversation ceased. He leaned back in his chair and scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. He soaked in the blind admiration of his employees. The feeling of complete control over these men’s lives pleased him. The thrill of power supplied the breath in his lungs and the blood-metal taste in his mouth. Moloney would never give this up.
“The Italians are moving in on my ground.”
He was a man of short statements and simple ideas. He paused here to emphasize the seriousness of this announcement, letting his glacier blue eyes rake over each man.
Since the beginning of his career, Dean Moloney had been considered small-time. Being raised in an Irish, middle-class suburban home had certainly left him wanting. He had always longed for bigger adventures, wealth and power. Greed had rooted itself in his heart, and no matter how much he acquired, he always wanted more. In the last decade, he’d been expanding his business and apparently gained the attention of larger operators.
“Gino Gallo is enemy number one,” Moloney announced.
The men broke into murmured conversations, their words melded together into anxious white noise.
“They can’t come in here and take over!” one man shouted.
“The Italians? Over my dead body!”
“I believe that’s the point,” Barry said calmly. The older gentleman stood from his seat next to Moloney and buttoned his suit jacket. “Hotheaded threats will not solve anything. We’ve got to outsmart them and make sure all loose ends are tied up. Leave nothing they could use against us.”
Moloney nodded, supporting the underboss’s instructions.
“Agreed,” he said. “See that all debts are collected, all inventory accounted for.”
“Keep an eye open for rats. Gallo will try to steal our business, recruit our men. If you find anyone leaking information, he will be dealt with,” Barry said.
“In fact, we’ve already learned that someone has been feeding Gallo information,” Moloney said. “Do any of you have anything to confess?” he asked.
The men looked at each other. Each innocent and accusatory glance between them fueled Moloney’s rage. He would not tolerate treason.
“No?” he asked with a finality that felt like one foot in the grave.
In a flash, Barry raised his pistol and shot Kevin Landry in the forehead. The loud bang bounced off the walls of the building and created a wild drumbeat to match every man’s pulse. Kevin, though instantly dead, remained upright as if still in attendance.
Moloney sneered. He felt himself grow stronger from their fear. His muscles flexed, pulling the fabric around his arms tighter as he adjusted his tented crotch. The power of taking someone’s life was the strongest aphrodisiac he’d ever known. His girl was in for it tonight.
With a flip of his hand, Moloney dismissed them. Only Barry and Frank remained. Moloney knew he was lucky to have the allegiance of such men. Frank kept him safe. He had been brought into the business as a teenager to repay a debt. He had stayed because he loved the rewards of his position. Barry, however, was a lifer. He’d worked for the previous boss, and when Moloney took over, Barry had pledged his loyalty. He was Moloney’s right hand, his trigger finger, his voice of reason.
“Any news on the girl?” Moloney asked. “Do we know if she’s still alive?”
Barry tented his fingers on top of the wood table and squared his large shoulders. Although he wasn’t responsible for the messy situation, he felt obligated to fix it.
“Mort is using his most persuasive techniques to retrieve information.”
Moloney nodded, satisfied for now. Gino Gallo would be able to use any neglected problems against him, so it was imperative that the girl be eliminated. Finally, these aggravations could be put to rest and he could move on with destroying the Italians.
Josie sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment among the dust bunnies. Sheets of paper pulled free from their binding lay scattered around her like fallen leaves. She repeated Tristan’s name over and over, as if the sound of it would jar her memory into revealing their past. He knew her. He knew her in her former life, the one that had chewed her up and spit her out. She was conflicted as she recognized both the urge to forget him completely and the one to reacquaint herself with everything he was.