He waves his arms around lazily, trying to defend himself.
“Leave me alone,” he says, half-heartedly.
“Billy,” I say. “Who’s this guy?” I point to the other body on the floor.
McCoy sighs.
“I dunno, I’ve never seen him before. I was expecting Pike to come to the door like he always does. Strange he’s not here…”
“He is,” I say. “He was driving the car. He’s dead now.”
McCoy’s eyes go wide.
“H-he’s dead?” he asks, like he’s struggling to comprehend the notion.
“Yeah,” I reply with a smile, gesturing with my gun. “Whoops!”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
He’s having something that resembles a panic attack right now — hyperventilating, the whole nine yards. Josh and I look at each other, confused.
“You alright, mate?” asks Josh.
“Trent’s gonna fucking kill me!”
“Why?” I ask. “I’m the one who shot him.”
“You think that matters to him? One of his guys — sorry, two of his guys are dead in my house! He’s gonna slay me, and my family and my friends, just to prove a point! Oh, fuck!”
“Jesus, calm down, will you? That guy’s not dead,” I say, pointing to the guy on the floor. “Not yet, anyway.”
“You clearly haven’t ever dealt with Wilson Trent!” says McCoy, exasperated.
I don’t say anything. I stare at him, clenching my jaw muscles to suppress my anger. He looks at me. He looks into my eyes. He goes quiet, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa and fidgeting with his hands. I stay silent a moment longer, to let him squirm a little.
“Oh, me and Trent go way back,” I say, eventually. “And I can promise you, he should be more worried about me than you should be about him.”
I hear another low groaning sound as the new arrival slowly stirs.
“Josh, take Billy here into the other room and keep him occupied, would you?” I ask. He does, and I walk over to the guy and drag him to his feet, sitting him on the couch. “I’m gonna have a little talk with our guest.”
The man slowly opens his eyes. It takes him a few moments to gather his senses and figure out where he is. In his peripheral vision, he can probably make out walls and a floor and minimal furniture. But he doesn’t pay too much attention to them, choosing instead to focus on the barrel of my gun, which I’m aiming right between his eyes.
“Hi,” I say, watching as he gradually focuses on me.
He frowns, more confused than afraid at this point, I’m guessing. But that’ll soon change. He goes to say something, but I raise my hand to cut him off.
“Before you speak, let me fill you in on what you’ve missed,” I say. “First, Jonas Pike is in the car outside with two bullet holes in his chest. Your customer, Billy McCoy, is in the other room being tortured by a colleague of mine, and I have a gun to your head and absolutely no issue with pulling the trigger. With some effort on your part, you’ll be able to walk away from this, but you have to answer my questions honestly. You understand?”
His frown disappears, and his eyes go wide, confusion giving way to fear. He nods vigorously in acknowledgement, but remains silent.
“Excellent. First question, Jonas Pike works for a drug operation that’s owned by Wilson Trent. Is that correct?”
He hesitates momentarily, then nods.
“You can talk, you know?”
“O-okay,” he says, breaking his silence. “Yeah, Pike worked for Tommy Blunt.”
“And Tommy’s the one who ran the operation for Trent, right?”
“Yeah…”
“I believe Mr. Blunt is no longer with us?”
“He died yesterday, so the story goes,” says the guy, somewhat dismissively.
Now I can see him properly in the light, I study him for a moment. He’s an average guy — short, styled hair hidden under that ridiculous cap, brown eyes, some stubble on his chin, over-sized but ultimately generic clothes… There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him. He’s probably a mid-level guy — not big enough to be hired muscle and not intelligent enough to be the brains. He most likely handles the distribution side of things. That makes the most sense, as he came here with Pike. A people person. Yet there’s something about him — a calmness behind the fear that’s beginning to seep through, despite his situation. He’s definitely well informed. I feel a glimmer of hope that there’s still a chance we can salvage something useful from this otherwise totally fucked up situation.
“I heard it was Trent that killed him. That right?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. But Blunt had it coming. Word on the street was he was stealin’ from Mr. Trent — that was never gonna stand.”
“Interesting. Okay, next question: where are you and Pike based? Where’s your operation run from?”
He shifts uncomfortably again in his seat, not wanting to divulge such things to me.
“What’s it to you?” he says after a moment. “What do you want?”
“Like I was saying to our friend, Billy — me and Trent go way back. I just want to understand how he works nowadays. See if anything’s changed since the last time ours paths crossed.”
“Look, man, I don’t know anything, alright? I just deliver the goods to fucked up addicts like Billy. I don’t ask questions. I don’t get trusted with the money. I’m just a middle man. You after answers? You’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but given Pike — your boss, and Blunt—his boss, are both dead, that leaves you. If you can’t help me, you need to tell me where your operation runs out of, and I’ll go there and see what I can find out for myself.”
“I tell you that, I’m dead.”
“You don’t tell me that, you’re dead,” I reply, gesturing to my Beretta. “Quite a dilemma…”
He sighs. His gaze darts around the room, presumably looking for a way out. But he knows there isn’t one. My gun’s too close to his head. I can see him working out his best move, but logic would dictate he only has one. If he doesn’t talk, I’ll shoot him.
“Alright, fine — we work out the back of a strip joint in Hazelwood, called Shakes.”
“Let me guess — you supply to the customers and deliver out of the back, then launder the money through the club’s legitimate business accounts?”
He looks at me, taken aback; his eyes widen and he goes to speak, but stops himself.
“Relax,” I say. “This is hardly the first illegal operation I’ve come across.”
He frowns. “Seriously man, who are you? What do you want with Trent?”
“Eight years ago, I killed his son by accident. Then a few days later, he killed my wife and daughter — very much on purpose. As I say, we go way back, and I’m here to bury the sonofabitch.”
“Fuck me… You’re Adrian Hughes, aren’t you?”
It’s more of a statement than a question.
“I used to be,” I reply after a moment, happy my reputation still precedes me.
“Jesus, you’re a fucking dead man walking,” he says with a laugh that’s half-nerves and half-relief. “As soon as Trent finds out you’re in town, he’ll come after you with everything he has. Everyone knows that story, and he’s never been the same since you disappeared.”
“Trent will find out I’m here when I want him to. And by that time, it’ll be too late to come after me. What’s the address of this Shakes place?”
His eyes narrow. “What you gonna do? You won’t find Trent there.”
“I know. The address…”
“It’s on Murray Avenue, toward the end facing the cemetery. Look, man, I get that you got issues with Trent, but leave me outta this, please.”