“Finished?” I reply finally, unable to think of anything constructive to say.
He sighs again, gesturing with his arms in frustration. “It would appear so…”
We turn and head over to the front desk without another word. We check in under our real names — something I would never normally condone in my line of work. We book two premium suites on the eighteenth floor for five nights. We walk across the lobby toward the elevator, and a few minutes later, come out on our floor. We find our rooms and agree to meet downstairs again in half an hour. I use the keycard to enter my room and close the door behind me.
Inside, the room is exquisite. It has a four-poster bed with patterned sheets on it that probably cost four figures, easily. The flat screen TV on the wall facing it must be at least fifty inches. A floor-to-ceiling window opposite the door gives a breathtaking view of the city. I look around, fascinated, as I walk over to the bed and drop my bags. I check out the bathroom, which is equally impressive. The shower stall on the left as you walk in could fit three people in it, and it has showerheads on the sides and above; I think they’re for some fancy muscle massage thing I vaguely remember reading about once.
I walk back out and lie on the bed, my arms behind my head. I clench my jaw muscles and I take some deep breaths to calm down.
“Jesus,” I say quietly. “What the fuck am I doing here?”
I grabbed a quick shower and changed into a fresh pair of black jeans and a thin, matching sweater. I re-attached my back holster and both my Berettas and set off for the lobby, to wait for Josh.
I’m sitting opposite the entrance on the left in a comfortable, light-brown leather chair. Across from me is the front desk, which is an L-shaped counter with four people permanently bustling around behind it. Away to the left, beyond that is a restaurant and bar area, which doesn’t look particularly busy. The decor all around is subtle and expensive. The floor is gray marble tiling, and there are beige marble pillars dotted here and there for effect.
I glance out through the entrance to the city outside. The street’s busy, full of people rushing back and forth. It’s gone dark now and looks cold, though the rain has held off for the time being.
After five minutes, the elevator dings, and Josh comes out, striding purposefully toward me. I feel bad about before, and while I’m not normally one to actively apologize, I figure I should make a bit of an effort.
“Hey,” I say as he approaches. “About before — listen, I—”
“Water under the bridge, Boss,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and cutting me off. He hands me a scrap of paper with an address hastily scribbled on it. “More important things…”
“What’s this?” I ask, looking at it.
“It’s the address of one Billy McCoy. He’s a local scumbag and known coke addict, and he currently resides in the Shadyside district of the city.”
“He sounds like a charmer… And I should care about him because…”
“Because his dealer is a guy named Jonas Pike, who I’ve found out works for the recently deceased Tommy Blunt.”
“You’re making these names up, aren’t you? Make your point, Josh.”
“Tommy Blunt was thrown off the fourteenth floor balcony of his apartment block yesterday. Word is by Trent himself. Apparently he was skimming from the money his operation brought in or something. If we can get McCoy to tell us where he meets Pike for his fix, we can use Pike to learn more about Trent’s business.”
My eyes light up, like a kid on Christmas morning when they see all their presents under the tree.
“Sounds like a good a place as any to start,” I say. “You know how to get there?”
“Yeah, it’s not far. I figure we can set off early in the morning, try to catch—”
“We’re going now, Josh.”
“Oh, right…” He’s taken aback, probably not expecting me to be so eager. “I just thought that maybe you’d wanna… y’know, get a feel for the place again or something?”
“It’s fine. We’re going now.”
I turn and head for the door, hearing Josh follow a few steps behind. A rush of excitement comes over me, eradicating all previous doubts and fears.
The game has begun.
Shadyside is a mostly residential district close by to the city center. The three-mile journey took a little over twenty minutes in the traffic, and we quickly found Billy McCoy’s street. We park the Winnebago across from his house. There are no streetlights on nearby, and a low, menacing cloud is obscuring the faint half-moon of dusk, so everywhere is in almost complete darkness.
“How you wanna do this?” asks Josh.
I look over at the house. A light is on downstairs.
“Well, somebody’s home,” I say, gesturing to McCoy’s house. “You go around the back and I’ll knock on the front door.”
“Am I not better taking the front? I mean, you’re not exactly well known for your people skills, Boss.”
“You’re right. I’m well known for being a very effective assassin. I don’t need people skills.”
“Fine.”
Josh gets out and crosses the street. I watch him crouch low and run around the side of the house. I wait a minute, and then get out and cross over, making my way casually to the front door.
It’s a modest place in desperate need of some TLC — the wood is rotten in places and the windows are dirty — but other than that it looks like any other house in any other neighborhood.
I knock on the door. I hear movement inside, but no one answers. I knock again.
“Who is it?” shouts a voice. It’s high-pitched and sounds weak and whiney.
“An associate of Jonas’,” I reply, lying through my teeth. “We need to have a talk, Billy.”
“What about?”
“You really want me to start shouting about how we know each other on your street, outside your house?”
There’s silence for a moment.
“Fine, gimme a minute…” he replies.
It falls quiet again. I roll my eyes. I bet you that, right now, that piece of shit is making a run for it out the back door…
I wait patiently for a few minutes longer, and then the locks click and the front door opens. Josh is standing there holding Billy McCoy by the throat in his left hand.
“Hey, Boss,” he says with a smile.
I step inside and shut the door behind me.
Josh jabs McCoy in the ribs with his right hand, causing him to cough and bend over in pain. He’s a thin, sickly-looking little prick. His eyes are deep-set into his pale face. He has thick, dark hair and looks probably late twenties. He’s wearing a thin gray t-shirt and matching jogging pants with nothing on his feet.
“Shall we go and sit down?” I ask rhetorically, before moving past them and into the sitting room. Josh drags him in behind me and throws him on a battered, stained old couch, before moving to stand behind him, pinning him down by the shoulders.
“Billy McCoy,” I say. “I need your help.”
“What the fuck, man?” he says, confused and afraid. His eyes are darting in every direction and his mouth is open. “Who the hell are you?”
I smile. “Probably best you don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answer to,” I say. “Let’s just say I’m new in town and looking for some information. If you can help me out, you might get real lucky and never see me again.”
He glances up behind him at Josh, who’s doing a great job of glaring at him menacingly, playing the strong and mysterious part with ease.
“Don’t mind him,” I continue. “Worry about me.”