The channels on this TV suck… Sports, pay-per-view, music… I finally settle on a local news channel. There are two guys discussing Pittsburgh’s upcoming NFL game, which is taking place on Sunday. Sport’s never particularly interested me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I had a daughter? If I’d had a little boy, I’d probably know all about football, baseball, hockey, and everything else. I briefly imagine what it would’ve been like playing catch with my son… I soon find myself remembering all the time I spent with my baby girl, Maria. She was gorgeous. She had a big, cheeky grin that always made her look like she’d been up to no good. I smile fondly, happy in a way because I still have clear memories of my family.
I close my eyes, remembering the last time I held my beautiful daughter in my arms…
The knocking on my door wakes me up. I stand, stretch, and turn the TV off before answering it. Josh barges past me into the room, looking very awake and happy.
“Hands off cocks, hands on socks, my friend!” he says as he enters. “How nice is this hotel? And the shower… my God! Adrian, you seriously need to try to the shower.”
I’m still standing at the door, half-asleep, staring into the hallway. “Morning, Josh,” I say, wearily. “Do come in.”
I shut the door and walk back over to the bed, sitting down heavily and falling back.
“You ready?” he asks. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m starving! Plus we’re meant to meet Manhattan over breakfast.”
I lift my head just enough to make eye contact. “Jesus Christ, Josh, will you calm down? You sound like… a hyperactive child on Christmas morning who’s seen a bicycle-shaped present under the tree.”
He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Wow… that’s a really random and long-winded metaphor. Fine, take your time, whatever. Don’t mind me. I only drove for ten hours yesterday without a break and—”
“Oh my God, alright already!” I say, sitting up and stretching again. “Come on, you whiny bitch.”
He punches the air and cheers. “Now you’re talkin’! I’m gonna have so much bacon, I’m gonna oink.”
I stand and shake my head with half-comical, half-genuine disbelief, unable to suppress a smile. We head for the door. I open it and let Josh out. I’m about to follow him, but I stop myself. I walk quickly back inside and get my guns.
I’m not making that mistake again!
We walk to the elevator as I fasten the holster to my back and adjust my top so it covers the Berettas. We ride it down to the first floor and head past the front desk to the restaurant. A waiter greets us, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo and bow tie.
“Morning Jeeves, has Jimmy Manhattan arrived yet?” I ask as we approach him. “We’re meant to meet him here for breakfast.”
The waiter looks down his nose at us in disgust. “Ah, of course. You must be Mr. Manhattan’s guest.” He says, in an accent so stuck-up and pretentious, he sounds more British than Josh does. “He’s not long since arrived himself. If you would follow me please, sir.”
I don’t like Jeeves.
He turns and sets off into the restaurant, so we both follow him. He leads us to the far right where, in the corner, I see Jimmy Manhattan sitting alone at a table. He stands as he sees us across the room, placing his napkin on the table.
I look at Josh. “Here we go,” I say.
I quickly glance around the restaurant. The tables are decorated with a white cloth, and have expensive-looking silver cutlery laid out on them. The place is probably half-full with the breakfast crowd — a mixture of businessmen, couples, and families. I look at the tables close to Manhattan.
“I count six bodyguards,” I whisper to Josh as we navigate our way between tables.
“Seven,” he replies. “You missed the guy on his own near the fire exit.”
I look off to the right, about halfway down from where we are, and there’s a man sitting alone, reading a paper and drinking coffee, occasionally glancing up at Manhattan.
“Well spotted,” I say with a nod.
We reach the table, and Manhattan smiles, extending his hand.
“Adrian!” he says. “So glad you could make it.”
“I don’t shake hands, Jimmy — no offence.”
His smile never falters. “Of course. Please,” he says, gesturing to two empty seats at his table, “join me for breakfast.”
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” the waiter asks Manhattan as Josh and I take our seats.
“No, that’s fine, thank you,” he says, waving him away and sitting down. He looks at me and gestures to a jug on the table. “Coffee?”
I nod and he pours me a cup. He looks at Josh, who waves in refusal.
“So, what’s the job?” I ask him.
He laughs. “Straight to business… I forgot how professional you can be, when you put your mind to it.”
“Just don’t want to hang around when I’m surrounded by all your bodyguards,” I counter, with a humorless smile.
There’s a moment’s silence as Manhattan regards us both with something vaguely resembling admiration.
“Okay,” he begins. “Two weeks ago, you left me in a hospital bed, having just saved my life. From there, you killed Danny Pellaggio and traveled across the country to Pittsburgh. I, however, spent a week recovering before flying here, to Allentown, where I’m doing…” he pauses and gestures around him at the opulent expanse of the hotel, “…rather well for myself.”
“If you’re doing so well for yourself, why are we here?” asks Josh.
Manhattan looks at him and smiles. “And you must be the infamous British brains behind the legendary American mouth…” he replies before looking back to me. “Tell me, Adrian, is it fate that brought us both to the same state? Or something else?”
“We’re not here to discuss me,” I say, calmly. “You got a job for me or not?”
“My apologies,” he says, ever the diplomat. “Of course. As your friend pointed out, there has been a particular bump on the otherwise smooth road of transition. A gentleman by the name of Johnny King refused my offer of partnership, and has since responded — we suspect — by stealing from one of my newly acquired businesses and killing two of my men. I’d like him removed from the picture.”
“So, this is a straightforward mob hit? Not some convoluted catastrophe like the last time you tried to hire me?” I ask.
Manhattan smiles, but refrains from commenting.
“Why don’t you get one of your own men to do it?” I continue. “Why me?”
“I want to make a bold statement,” he replies. “I want to send a message to anyone else who might one day think of testing my authority that if they do, they will be violently eradicated without prejudice. There’s no denying your reputation. And I have no problem admitting my reasons for hiring you specifically are purely for some good PR.”
Josh scoffs. “So you make it look like Adrian Hell is on your side, and everyone backs off, afraid?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
I stroke my stubble and think about it. I don’t work exclusively for anyone. Never have and never will. I know some people who do, and it works well for them, but it’s usually something you go for when you’re starting out. I don’t need any help building a reputation, and I certainly wouldn’t want to limit my earning options.