The doorman looked a little worried, and carefully repeated the message to King on the phone. After hanging up, he made way for them.
“Mr. King says to go right in. He’ll be down in a minute to greet you.”
“Many thanks,” said Manhattan, with a smile that said he knew all along what the outcome would be.
They strode confidently through the entrance and into the nightclub. It wasn’t your standard place, catering more for the mature and refined customer. There was a small stage on the far right with a jazz musician playing some light background music on a saxophone. The tables and chairs were of a high quality, placed throughout the expanse of the main floor and well-spaced, with a small lamp on each table. Despite still being early, the club looked full. There was waiting staff patrolling the floor, picking up empty glasses and delivering full ones. At the back of the room was a set of double doors with a single man standing in front of them. Manhattan glanced over his left shoulder and instructed the two men accompanying him to wait at the bar. They both nodded and walked over, somewhat conspicuously, to rest on the counter.
He stopped and then looked at Tarantina.
“This is a nice place,” he said. “We’ll see what King’s office is like and maybe base ourselves here. I like the atmosphere and it’s better than The Carrington.”
“It’s a nice joint,” Tarantina replied, nodding in agreement.
As they walked across the floor, the double doors opened and a man walked out wearing a pinstripe black suit, with a man on either side of him, who also wore suits, along with an earpiece.
“That’s him,” said Tarantina, nodding toward the man who approached them.
Manhattan had read up on Johnny King, prior to the meeting. He knew King was quite young, compared to himself at least. In his mid-forties, he had established himself more than a decade ago as the man to respect and fear in Allentown. He dealt mostly in prostitution and extortion, but did earn a modest sum from importing and distributing crystal meth as a sideline. He had a tanned complexion, and his brilliant white smile touched every inch of his face, making him look more like a politician than a gangster.
Manhattan took a deep breath to relax himself before extending his hand as they met.
“Mr. King,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Manhattan. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
King shook his hand firmly in response. “Likewise,” he replied, with a hint of skepticism. “My boy outside tells me you wanna talk to me?”
“I’d like to discuss some business with you, yes.”
King gave him an uncertain look before gesturing silently for Manhattan and Tarantina to follow him, which they did. He led them back through the double doors and into the other part of the club beyond. It looked like a VIP area, with the smaller room lit by a subtle light blue all around. There was another bar, but with fewer waiters. The area was far quieter, and looked much more exclusive.
They followed King and his bodyguards across the area to the end, where they went through another door and up a large staircase. At the top, they turned left and walked along a dimly lit corridor, adorned on either side by contemporary works of art. At the end of the corridor was the main office. King strode in and sat in an expensive-looking leather chair behind a lavish, dark mahogany desk. His men stood either side of him, arms folded.
The room was a decent size, with a large landscape painting facing the door behind the desk and filing cabinets in either corner against the wall. A thick, expensive, dark carpet covered the floor. The walls were a light beige color, offering a contrast to the ambience of the room.
Manhattan sat down in one of the two chairs facing the desk without waiting for an invitation. Tarantina stood just behind him. King regarded them silently for a moment, leaning back in his chair and bridging his fingers in front of him.
“So,” he began. “You have a business proposition for me?”
Manhattan smiled. “Of sorts, yes.”
“So… let’s hear it.”
“As I mentioned to your man outside, this evening I have absorbed the majority — in fact, almost all — of the local businesses in this city that conduct some manner of illegal activity.”
King scoffed.
“Are you being serious? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a former associate of Roberto Pellaggio, and later his son, Daniel. What we ran over in Nevada made this entire city look like a 7-Eleven. I’ve relocated my interests to the East Coast, and I have been reliably informed that you were the man in charge around these parts. Instead of dictating changes as we did everywhere else, I thought I’d extend you the courtesy of inviting you to merge your assets with mine. I’m sure we can work well together, to a mutually beneficial end.”
King looked at each of his bodyguards in mock disgust.
“You sound like you’re trying to do me a favor, you arrogant sonofabitch!” He stood as he spoke. “Let me extend you a courtesy — this is my town, you understand? And you have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of. Now, I’m gonna let you walk outta here and I’ll pretend this never happened. But if I see or hear from you again, I’ll fucking bury you! Are we clear?”
Manhattan sat, listening patiently, and when King had finished, he regarded him silently for a moment, before standing, straightening his suit, and dusting himself down.
“Mr. King,” he said. “I thank you for your time and your honesty. I respect that you have been upfront with me and let me know where we stand.”
Without another word, he turned and headed for the door. Sensing Tarantina’s anger at the disrespect shown toward them, he placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he got level with him.
“Come on, Paulie — this is one business we’re seemingly not going to add to our list of interests.”
And with that, they both left King’s office and headed back downstairs. They walked through the club the way they had come in, purposefully but in no hurry. Manhattan was keen to make a point that he wasn’t leaving with his tail between his legs. He signaled to the two guys at the bar that they were leaving, and all four of them walked back out to the street, got into the car and, drove off.
“Boss, are you really just gonna leave this asshole to run his business alongside ours?” asked Tarantina.
Manhattan smiled. “Of course not,” he replied. “I know just how to handle Mr. King.”
13
Wilson Trent sat in a large, brown leather chair behind his desk. His office was located in the penthouse suite on the thirtieth floor of a building he owned in the Manchester neighborhood, overlooking the Ohio River. On the first few floors were local, honest businesses which he was happy to accommodate, as they masked his other, less reputable, enterprises that also operated out of the building. The rest of it was luxury apartments that many of the men who worked for Trent lived in and worked out of.
His suite was spacious and sparsely decorated, giving it a very contemporary, modern feel. He had always been fascinated with the concept of Feng Shui. So what little decoration he had — a large plant on the right in the corner, a pet goldfish in a bowl on a small table to the left, various works of art on the walls and rare samurai swords in a display case by the right windows — were all arranged to best accentuate a positive environment for him. Some people who worked for him joked about his strange, spiritual beliefs, albeit never to his face.
The entire wall behind his desk, plus half of either side of the room, was made entirely of glass that ran floor to ceiling, offering a beautiful panoramic view of Pittsburgh. Trent was looking out at the city, still bustling with life below him, and the river that ran purposefully next to it. Above, the night sky was dark as the moon and the stars were hidden behind the low, menacing cloud. He enjoyed the view, and he often spun around to soak it in for a few minutes while he was working.