The big fellow turned to face me, his dead eyes staring at me from beneath a forehead that would have looked at home on a silverback gorilla.
"What?" he growled after a few seconds.
"Spare me. You came in here maybe five minutes before rent-a-goon over there. You've got a laptop sitting on your table, open but not turned on, and it's angled so the reflection shows you what's going on behind you. Buddy comes in here, identifies me, goes out of his way to ignore you . . . it's obvious, and more than just a little. I've discovered that I'm already tired of this bullshit, and it's only just started. Now, you can tell me what this is all about, or I can give you an excuse to go cane shopping with your friend - it's your call."
"That some kind of threat?" he rumbled.
I shrugged. "Or a dare. Take it how you will."
Those implacable brown eyes regarded me, and he appeared the slightest bit amused. The only sound that could be heard in the room for a while was the pained, keening noise of the guy Nate was assisting to his feet and forcibly escorting to the rear exit of my bar.
The big guy seemed to come to a decision, and his face curled into something that approximated a smile.
"You're pretty observant. Just wanted to see what the big deal was, I guess . . . find out if you were as good as people say," he said, his voice sounding like exactly the sort of thing they had in mind when they invented the word 'gravelly'. "You know, test the merchandise? Word is you make more on a single job than I do in a year - figured I'd sneak a peek at what our quarter-mill was gonna get us."
"Oh, it's about work? Well, why didn't you say so right away?" I smiled hugely at him. "Not interested. Your beer is on the house, and the door is right over there. Have a pleasant day."
I grabbed my drink, gave him my back, and began walking back over to my table.
"I really think you'll want this job . . . Joe," saying my name as though it meant something.
It did, actually, but I didn't care right then. I kept on walking.
"Joe," he called, warningly.
I continued to ignore him.
"Big mistake you're makin' here, Joe . . ."
"You know," I said, turning around to face him once more, "we have this saying back home. It goes something like this; 'Fuck off' . . ."
The big man bristled.
"You like it here, Joe? Like living on the East coast?" he asked, a distinct surliness in his tone. "I really think you should get your ass back over here, park it in a chair, keep your wise mouth shut for a few seconds, and listen to what I got to say."
"After the bullshit you just pulled? Convince me." I crossed my arms, careful not to spill my drink, and gave him a level stare from twenty feet away. "Four words or less. If I remain unconvinced, well . . . let's just say that all sorts of bad things happen. Understand?"
Tough guy sat up a little straighter and regarded me cooly, held up his hand, and counted off fingers.
"Diavolo. Wants. You," he said. Then, after a pause he added, "Asshole."
I continued to project an outward lack of concern, and kept my eyes half-lidded and relaxed. There was a feeling of icy dread that was slowly building up in my chest.
Well, shit.
There were lots of people in this town that I could afford to blow off. Angelo Diavolo wasn't one of them.
Unhurriedly, I walked back to the table and took a seat next to him, doing my best to ignore the expression of smug glee that had suddenly found a home on his face.
"Out of respect for your boss, I'm willing to forgive this little incident and listen to what you have to say," I said quietly.
"Oh, you're willing to listen, are you?" he half-sneered. "Well, how nice. How 'bout this - you're gonna listen to me tell you that Mister Diavolo has a job for you, and then I'm gonna listen to you tell me you're gonna do it." He slid a large manila envelope across the table at me and snorted softly. "Bad enough he's willing to fork over a quarter-rock to some asshole prick for one lousy job, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna say 'pretty please' just to convince you to take it."
I debated whether or not to reach for the envelope. True, I didn't want to piss off Diavolo, but then again, this guy wasn't Diavolo. I'd been around - I had a reputation, and both this guy and Diavolo had to know what it was. What was the point behind the whole macho bullshit routine?
Not Diavolo's idea, obviously. He was too savvy a businessman for something like this. Which meant-
"Nah," I said, sliding the envelope back to him, "I'm way too busy as it is. Got some traveling I wanna do. Convey my apologies to your boss, will you?"
I stood as if to leave.
"Hey!" he began, sitting straight in his chair. A brief flicker of panic fluttered over his features.
"Hmm?"
"Sit your ass back down! We ain't done here, Joe, and Mister Diavolo is not a patient man!"
"Oh, I know that. He's a straightforward sort of guy, or so I've heard. I doubt that Diavolo's the kind of guy who would send some nameless thug over to my place of business just to play games with me, which means you're probably not working for Diavolo. Either that, or you are working for Diavolo, but you're stupid enough to believe you can come in here and play these sorts of games with me. If it's the last one, I figure your boss is going to be pretty unimpressed when you return empty-handed. And just imagine how unimpressed he's gonna be when he hears about this bullshit stunt you pulled."
More withering glares were exchanged. The tension was palpable.
"I'm Shoe," he said finally, his voice little more than a dangerous-sounding growl. "I'm Diavolo's go-to guy - this offer comes direct from the man himself. I really, really think you should sit down, open this envelope," he slid the package back toward me, "and consider its contents carefully."
"Yeah, this doesn't seem his style at all. All this screwing around . . . that was your idea, wasn't it?" I smiled beatifically at him. "What was it you said before? There was something you said you wouldn't do, what was it again?"
He just stared at me, hand still pressed atop the envelope.
I snapped my fingers. "Wait, I remember now. It was 'pretty please'," I said, giving him the most annoying smile I could manage. "Say 'pretty please', and I'll have a look."
Shoe gave me a look that seemed to promise violent, bloody mayhem.
"You're fucking kidding me," he said, finally.
"Nope. Say it, or go back to your boss empty-handed. It's not like I need the money."
Well, that last part was a bit of a lie, but whatever.
His teeth were clenched hard enough for me to make out the muscles around his jaw. The expression on his face was like that of a man who's just discovered a cat turd in his soup. Seconds stretched themselves into eons.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he said. "Just having some fun."
Still smiling, I motioned for him to continue. His lip curled up on one side.
"Pretty. Please," he growled through clenched teeth.
"Well, since you asked so nicely. Oh, and if you ever decide to have some 'fun' with me again, Shoe," I said, picking the envelope up off the table and tearing open one side, "I'll go pro bono on your ass. Got it?"
His only answer was to flush slightly and continue glaring black death at me, fists rhythmically clenching. I ignored him completely, taking the envelope and its contents to an entirely different table about ten feet away and sitting down to read.
The file on the guy they wanted done wasn't all that thick. Bare bones, mostly - one-page bio, three page rap sheet, a couple of mug shots and a large eight-by-ten glossy of a much more recent picture. Steven Willenskraft. German name. White guy, dark hair, early forties, maybe some Italian in him but not much. Decent set of shoulders, from what I could make out in the mug shots. His arms weren't skinny, and neither was his face, but the most current photo bore the telltale signs that he'd lost a significant amount of weight recently. The charges on his rap sheet, as well as the dates of those charges, seemed to confirm my suspicions.
A junkie, huh? Well that was certainly unusual.
"So," I called over my shoulder, "how does a druggie like this end up pissing off Diavolo enough to merit the kind of price tag we're talking about?"
He didn't answer at first, probably still a little pissed about the outcome of our conversation, but after a while he came over and sat down at the table. Business was business, after all.
"He wasn't always like that. Underboss - Diavolo trusted him. Tolerated some of his crap. Turned a blind eye once in a while when Stevie was really out of it, so long as the numbers were good and there weren't any problems." Shoe shrugged a shoulder. "There have been problems. Guy can't hold it together all of a sudden . . . strung out all the time. Recently, he popped a couple of our guys - good, solid guys - while baked out of his tree. And he's also come into the possession of some dangerous information, if you know what I mean."
I nodded as if I knew what he meant. I could guess, of course - if the mafia was pissed at you it was because you either owed money, stepped over a line, or you knew something you shouldn't.
"So, rabid dog needs to go live on a farm upstate, if I'm understanding you correctly." I rubbed my chin, staring at the photo on the table. "See, that's the problem with pets. Once you send one to the farm, there's usually a few kids that notice, and more often than not they end up wanting to know what happened to the family dog."
Speaking in code and using metaphors is just part of the job, if you didn't already know. Very rarely will there ever be a situation where I feel comfortable enough to actually say, "So, if I kill him, will any of your mobster friends get pissed at me?"
Shoe shook his head. "Ain't like that. Nobody's gonna miss this particular mutt. Foaming at the mouth. Bitten too many hands already, nobody wants to pet him."
You see how that works? Picking up a particularly nice metaphor and running with it is one of the few chances mobsters have to express their creativity. Sometimes it can be downright clever. His use of the word 'mutt', for instance, implied that this guy didn't have enough Italian blood to be considered 'family' inside the Diavolo organization, and there wouldn't be high profile Italians swearing blood oaths, plotting revenge, or hassling me after the fact. That was a bit of a relief.
"Why me, though? Seriously, if this dog's as strung out as you're telling me, how hard would it be to invite him someplace quiet, work things out that way? Or hell, since he's a meat-eater, why not just give him a really well-cooked steak and see if he takes care of the problem himself? Why bring me into it?"
"Can't tell ya for sure. Only thing I can tell you is that he's trickier than any of us originally figured." The big man frowned. "We tried arranging something already, didn't pan out. This particular dog's spooked now, makes it harder. Plus, now it looks like he's sniffing around a few of the guys who tried cooking his steak last time. Me, I'm thinking the boss doesn't want the hassle, but what do I know?" He narrowed his eyes. "Now, you're gonna tell me I can go back to my boss and let him know that he's not gonna have to worry about this business, right?"
Not many people know this, but I don't just take any job that comes along. There's a whole batch of criteria they have to meet first. Of course, if someone's willing to pay my fee, it usually turns out that the target's already perpetrated some pretty heinous stuff, and the job ends up meeting my criteria anyway.
My eyes roamed over some of the more interesting details from his rap sheet.
Possession, assault, assault . . . dropped. Attempted murder charge, dropped. Assault, possession, possession, assault . . . and if Shoe was to be believed, at least two murders.
Sure sounded like a mad dog to me.
"These guys who think he's after them-" I began.
"There's a couple names in the file, back of the last sheet. Contact numbers as well, iff'n you wanna get a hold of them." He shook his head a little. "Boss said you'd probably ask for that stuff anyway."
I reached a hand inside my jacket and pulled out a card that was blank except for a single black twenty-one digit number. I held it out to Shoe between two outstretched fingers.
"Half up, half over. I start once I get a call from UBS, my bank. The account number is also your access code. If Diavolo needs to get a hold of me, google this pub, go to the website, click on 'employment', and then enter that number in the 'search' field on the right, click the link that appears. I check uploads every morning."
Shoe grunted, took the proffered card, and stood up from the table. Then he packed up his laptop and left the bar without saying another word, obviously still smarting from the fact I'd made him back down earlier. I watched him go in silence.
It's strange, but I can always seem to tell when someone's thinking the words, "You'll pay for this someday."