There’s a polite way of asking that, right?
I’m walking around the three square blocks of the city that make up the Neon district. The streets have a variety of bars and clubs running down each side, separated every now and then by a hotel or fast food restaurant. I can well imagine what this place looks like at night.
The Pit is at the end of second block, with the main entrance diagonal on the street corner, facing north-west toward the crossroads. The building itself covers a quarter of the streets running both south and east of the block. Above the small alcove of the entrance is a neon sign that advertises the name of the club. I have no idea what color it lights up at night. I reckon maybe blue and white.
I push the doors gently to see if they open, but they don’t budge. On the right hand wall of the alcove is a large security keypad with a speaker and a buzzer just below it. I press it and wait. After a few moments, the speaker on the keypad crackles into life and a voice comes through.
“What?” the voice asks.
Hardly an advertisement for world-class customer service, is it?
“I need to speak to Jimmy Manhattan,” I say.
“Never heard of him,” replies the voice, who hangs up without another word.
Well, that’s rude. It’s also a lie and I don’t like being lied to. It makes my trigger finger twitch. I press the buzzer again.
“What?” says the same voice as before, except this time with slightly less patience.
“At the risk of sounding disrespectful, we both know Jimmy’s in there. So how about you open the door so I can talk to him? That way, I don’t have to force my way inside, find you, then kick your teeth so far down your throat you’ll need to stick a toothbrush up your ass to get at your pearly whites.” It falls silent for a moment then the buzzer clicks off again. I wait for another minute then I hear several locks being undone behind the doors.
The right hand door opens. I expect whoever opened it is standing just behind it, ready to grab me as I walk through, so as I step inside I shuffle sideways to the left, so I’m facing right. The guy standing there makes no attempt to attack me — he simply fixes me with an intense, indignant gaze as he shuts the door and walks back into the club.
He’s a lot bigger than I am, in both height and width. He’s wearing a gym vest and jeans, and has arms like my legs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not small by any means, but physically speaking this guy dwarfs me in every way. I subconsciously move my hand discreetly behind me, touching the barrel of my gun for reassurance.
Just in case.
He gestures imperceptibly with his head for me to follow him, so I set off after him into the club.
Inside, it’s a nice, big place. The house lights are on, illuminating the main area of the club. It’s a large, open-plan area with the occasional table and chairs positioned around the perimeter. There are different levels and podiums throughout, presumably for dancing on. The bar runs almost the full width of the far wall, surrounded by mirrors and neon blue. Behind the bar are rows of glass shelves that house more liquor than I knew existed.
To the right of the bar is a red curtain, which presumably leads into the back like a VIP area of some kind. The big guy is heading there now. Before I can catch up, Jimmy Manhattan appears from behind the curtain, smiling pleasantly. He’s wearing a different, but I’m sure equally expensive, suit from the one he wore to our meeting this morning. He looks a little more stressed than before as well, but he hides it expertly behind his powerfully calm persona.
“Adrian, what a nice surprise,” he says, in his trademark friendly, smooth tone of voice. “What brings you here? Is there a problem with the job?”
“That’s depends on your definition of problem,” I reply with a casual shrug. “The job isn’t panning out the way you, so confidently, said it would.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, Ted Jackson has some serious security. He’s got an armored limousine and what looks like a highly trained assassin as his personal bodyguard. So, what aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying here, Adrian,” he says, his voice darkening slightly. “But I don’t care for your tone.”
“I could care less what you think of my tone, and I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a fact. This guy you hired me to kill is clearly not your everyday, run-of-the-mill, working stiff who just so happened to piss off your boss.”
In the corner of my eye, I see the big guy move to Manhattan’s side, crossing his arms and staring at me. In the proper light, I can get a better look at him. Aside from being built like three sides of a house, he’s a good four inches taller than I am as well. He’s got muscles in places most people don’t have places, as well as a tattoo of a fire axe on his left temple. I can feel his gaze burning hole through me. While I’m completely unfazed by him being there, I can’t deny he’s an impressive sight. Much better than Stan and Oli from last night.
“Adrian,” Manhattan says, taking a step in front of his hired muscle, as if the gesture of doing so will defuse any potential confrontation. “I can assure you we gave you all the information we had on Ted Jackson. We used one of our best men to tail him.”
“Well, after a couple of hours of digging around myself, I’ve managed to find out that our friend Ted works for a military contractor called GlobaTech Industries. I’m guessing you’ve heard of them? Your ‘best man’ failed to mention the target was so well connected.” I pause for a moment so he can process the new information.
He remains calm, hiding any shock or frustration well behind his cold, dark eyes. “I have indeed heard of them,” he says. “And if what you say is true —”
“If that’s true,” I say, interrupting him. “Then you’re asking me to take out a guy who’s more protected than the President, which will cost you a hell of a lot more than a hundred grand. You also need to start thinking about why he decided not to sell you that land. These people conduct business deals that dwarf your entire operation ten times over on a daily basis, so their behavior here strikes me as uncharacteristic at the very least. If I carry out the hit on Jackson and take the deeds for you, it won’t be the last either of us hear of it.”
He can see I have a valid point. He told me that Pellaggio is a businessman above all else, which means he’s going to do what’s best for his business. Having a global private security firm with military contracts pissed at you probably doesn’t make the list of good corporate strategies. Manhattan is silent for a moment longer before responding, choosing his words with years of care and diplomacy.
“For now, I would like you to proceed as you normally would and carry out the contract on Ted Jackson. If you need additional funding to do so, simply name your price. I would like to thank you for bringing these developments to our attention. Rest assured I will speak to Mr. Pellaggio about how he wishes to go ahead. I appreciate your input, but you simply need to do the job we hired you to do and leave the rest to us.”
My phone suddenly rings, sounding louder than normal in the empty, quiet space. I smile apologetically and quickly check the caller ID.
“I’m sorry, but I need to take this,” I say, answering the phone. “What have you got for me, Josh?”
“I’ve had a hit on the searches for our mystery woman,” he replies. “I still don’t have a name, but there’s another file photo — this one more recent.”
“How recent?” I ask.
“Six months ago. It was taken during a routine surveillance operation right there in Heaven’s Valley.”
“So what’s the story?”
“The photo shows her standing with another man who you can’t see clearly. But the photo itself isn’t the important part. It’s where I found the photo that we should worry about.”