“Hey,” she says. “That was really cool.” She smiles and steps close to me, putting a hand on my chest. “You wanna buy me a drink?”
I gently take hold of her wrist and remove her hand, placing it back by her side.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” I reply, silently hating myself because saying things like that make me sound older than I feel. “And forgetting for a moment you’re most likely under twenty-one, I’m happily married.”
She pouted, clearly not used to not getting her own way. “Fucking asshole!” she shouts, storming off toward the exit.
I shake my head in disbelief and smile at the couple of people standing nearby who overheard.
An image of my wife, Janine, drifts into my head. She would have found that hilarious. I smile to myself. God, I miss her. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.
I re-focus and walk on through the crowd, eventually coming through the other side and standing face to face with Axe Tattoo Guy. He looks me up and down, and then looks over my shoulder at the hole in the crowd I’ve just caused. He looks back at me and raises an eyebrow.
I shrug.
Maintaining his expressionless gaze, he steps aside and holds the curtain back so I can walk through. Inside, I’m in a dark, narrow corridor. Ahead of me is a fire exit. On the left are two wooden doors, which I assume will lead me to Manhattan’s office. I move to open them but the big guy stops me.
“Hold up,” he says, in a big, deep, steroid-induced voice.
“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Hands against the wall and spread your legs.”
Shit.
This is annoying, but not completely unexpected. I figure there’s no sense in rocking the boat any more so early on in the evening though. I move over to the right wall and do as he said.
“If I see any rubber gloves, you and me won’t be friends anymore,” I say.
“We ain’t friends anyway, asshole,” he replies.
I face the wall, put my hands out in front of me, and spread my legs. He pats me down and inevitably touches the twin Berettas at my back.
He says, “Hand ‘em over, nice and slow.”
I reach behind me and take them out of the holster, one in each hand. I let them hang loose over my index fingers by the trigger guard and hold them out to him. He takes them off me and places them in a bucket on the floor, just inside the entrance on the left, which I didn’t notice when I first walked through the curtain.
“I want them back,” I say to him. “They’re my babies.”
“Whatever.”
He points to the wooden doors on my left and this time I walk through them.
I step into what I rightly assumed is the main office of the club. In front of me is a small bar, with two sofas arranged in an L-shape before it. One’s facing me as I enter; the other is at a ninety-degree angle on my right.
The room stretches away to the left. The wall on the left is transparent — it’s one of those one-way mirrors and it makes up the wall behind the bar. You can see everything from inside here with complete privacy. Against the far wall is a large, oak desk with a computer on it and a phone.
Standing behind the desk, looking through the mirror and surveying his little empire is Jimmy Manhattan. Next to him, sitting in the chair, is an older man in his late sixties who I’ve not seen before. He’s balding, with what remains of his gray hair slicked back. He’s got a gray goatee beard on his long, drawn face. His hands are resting on the desk in front of him, adorned in a variety of gold rings.
Roberto Pellaggio, I presume.
Wonderful…
11
They both look at me as I enter.
“Adrian,” says Manhattan as he turns toward me, flashing his charming smile. “Nice to see you again. I hope you come here with good news?”
I make my way over to the desk and Manhattan gestures with his hand for me to take a seat, which I do. I can’t see any other way of playing this besides my own. When in doubt, stick with what you know.
I stare at the guy I assume is Pellaggio, who’s yet to say anything.
“So, are you the big boss?” I ask.
He says nothing. He just stares at me, sizing me up.
“Can I offer you a drink?” asks Manhattan.
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“It’s done.”
“Excellent,” he says, nodding his head in satisfaction. “And the deeds?”
“I don’t have them, sorry.”
‘Can I ask why?’
“You can ask…”
“Adrian, the terms of the contract were quite clear. You were to obtain the deeds to the land for us, as well as take out Mr. Jackson.”
“I know, but he didn’t have the deeds with him and refused to tell me where they were. He seemed more scared of what would happen if he told me than if he didn’t, to be honest.”
“This is… unfortunate, to say the least.”
I shrug. “Well, what can you do? I’ll just get my money and be on my way…”
“Oh, there will be no money, Mr. Hell,” says Pellaggio, finally breaking his silence. His voice is like gravel, with a subtle hint of old Italy in his accent.
I lean forward in my chair and rest an elbow on the edge of the table, frowning for effect. “Say that again in my good ear.”
Pellaggio leans forward in his chair, copying me. “I said, you won't be getting paid, kid, because you didn’t get me the fucking deeds!”
“I killed the guy you wanted me to kill. It’s not my fault he didn’t have some documents you wanted.”
Manhattan steps in, wanting to exert some kind of authority because his boss is in the room.
“By taking the contract, you accepted responsibility for getting those papers,” he says. “They were important and you failed. Therefore you don't get paid.”
I look at him, then back at Pellaggio. “There’s something else, too,” I say, changing the subject. “I’m pretty sure I’m being tailed by someone linked to Ted Jackson’s employer. Someone was following me before I took him out.”
Pellaggio and Manhattan remain silent.
“The point I’m trying to make here, fellas, is that someone knew I was in town, and why, only a few hours after you gave me the contract. I hadn’t spoken to anyone.” I let the words hang there for a moment so they can sink in. “Do I need to draw you a diagram or something?”
“Are you suggesting we have a rat in our midst?” says Manhattan.
“Finally, he gets it,” I say.
“You got some nerve, kid,” says Pellaggio. “Coming in here, telling us you’ve failed to do what we paid you to do, then accusing us of not having our house in order.”
“I’m not making any accusations,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m simply stating the facts.”
Silence descends upon us. We’re at a crossroads. I’ve fed him the lie about Jackson not having the papers which they seem to have bought, judging by how pissed they both are. In turn, they’ve explained to me why I won’t be getting paid for the hit, which I honestly couldn’t care less about right now, but for the sake of keeping up appearances, I was feigning annoyance. I’ve also sown the seeds that they have a traitor in their ranks, which I’m hoping will distract them long enough for me to get the hell out of here without anyone noticing. The only thing I have left to worry about is what’s going to happen next.
The door opens behind me and I turn in my chair to see the big Axe Tattoo Guy walk into the room. He stands over by the sofas with his arms folded across his chest, saying nothing but staring at me with a deadly intent. I take a deep breath and sigh heavily.