jacket pocket as the bartender finally approached with his drink. It was a Zombie, four or five different rums and some cognac with a splash of pineapple and mango juice. One of the rums was 151-proof, and flammable. He’d seen drinks lit on fire many times over the last seven years, in many places, from Jamaica to Jakarta.
Too damn many , he thought.
“So are you a Walking Dead fanatic, or do you just like the demonrum?” the doe-eyed bartender asked, over the crowd murmur and slow jazz piano playing from the lobby.
There were two bartenders, a guy and a girl, but he had ordered from the guy.
“Entschuldigen Sie?” he said, staring at her like he’d just stepped off a flying saucer. It meant “excuse me” in German. The one and only phrase he’d picked up in three useless months in Munich four years ago.
That did the trick. She went away with his two twenties, and quick. Lovely as she was, he didn’t need any distractions. Not now. He began rubbing his thighs nervously as he scanned the hotel lobby. He looked out at the dark of Broadway through the plate glass behind him, a clear moonless October evening in New York, bright lights twinkling.
At this critical juncture, he needed to stay on his damn toes.
Where the hell is this guy? he thought, taking out his phone to check his messages. It was 9:25. Almost a half hour late and still no call. Did this joker’s phone die? He just wasn’t coming? No way to know. Great. He’d just sit here on his ass some more.
He placed his phone on the zinc bar top and reached for the drink. Then he stopped himself and instead took out the e-cigarette again. Back and forth, and back and forth, over and through his fingers faster and faster, he twirled the metal cigarette until it was just a black blur across his knuckles.
IN THE CROWDED library off the hotel bar, Devine sat listening to the boss man on the phone.
“What’s Pretty Boy doing now?”
“Nothing,” Devine said. “Just sitting at the bar, playing with a pen or something. Got himself a tropical drink. He’s looking a little melancholy. And nervous.”
“That right?” the boss said.
Devine, who was from Tennessee, loved the boss’s hard-ass southern voice, the power in it. It reminded him of a backwoods Baptist minister, perpetually on the verge of going all fire-and-brimstone on his congregation.
“Well, he’s going to be singing the blues all right. You just make sure you don’t join him for a few. He slips away again, it’s your ass.”
Devine winced. He didn’t take criticism well. Especially from one of the few people he respected.
“So, plan is still in place?” Devine said. “Hit him when he goes back to his room?”
“Yes, Devine. You remembered from five minutes ago. Bravo,” said the boss. “But if a chance comes up right there in the bar, if you can be discreet, you take it. That’s why I sent you in instead of Toporski. You know how to improvise.”
Devine shook his head as the boss hung up. He’d never heard the man so tense, so—dare he say it—nervous. Pretty Boy had him rattled. Had them all rattled.
That’s why they were up in New York now, all of them. There was a team a short block west in front of a gym on 67th and Amsterdam, and another outside the hotel.
They had Pretty Boy boxed in once and for all.
“El Jefe still got his boxers in a wad, eh?” said Therkelson.
“Yep,” Devine said as he glanced over at the blond, middle linebacker–sized Therkelson. His big iron Swede thumbs were flying on his Galaxy, playing some game. “You know, Therk, you got a real funny way of conducting surveillance with your face in that phone.”
“Ah,” Therkelson said, not even glancing up. “You got it covered. I’m the muscle here in our little partnership, Timmy. Be wrong not to let you do anything. I want to make sure a little guy like you feels like you’re contributing.”
DEVINE MUNCHED A handful of complimentary jalapeño peanuts as he kept his
Too damn many , he thought.
“So are you a Walking Dead fanatic, or do you just like the demonrum?” the doe-eyed bartender asked, over the crowd murmur and slow jazz piano playing from the lobby.
There were two bartenders, a guy and a girl, but he had ordered from the guy.
“Entschuldigen Sie?” he said, staring at her like he’d just stepped off a flying saucer. It meant “excuse me” in German. The one and only phrase he’d picked up in three useless months in Munich four years ago.
That did the trick. She went away with his two twenties, and quick. Lovely as she was, he didn’t need any distractions. Not now. He began rubbing his thighs nervously as he scanned the hotel lobby. He looked out at the dark of Broadway through the plate glass behind him, a clear moonless October evening in New York, bright lights twinkling.
At this critical juncture, he needed to stay on his damn toes.
Where the hell is this guy? he thought, taking out his phone to check his messages. It was 9:25. Almost a half hour late and still no call. Did this joker’s phone die? He just wasn’t coming? No way to know. Great. He’d just sit here on his ass some more.
He placed his phone on the zinc bar top and reached for the drink. Then he stopped himself and instead took out the e-cigarette again. Back and forth, and back and forth, over and through his fingers faster and faster, he twirled the metal cigarette until it was just a black blur across his knuckles.
IN THE CROWDED library off the hotel bar, Devine sat listening to the boss man on the phone.
“What’s Pretty Boy doing now?”
“Nothing,” Devine said. “Just sitting at the bar, playing with a pen or something. Got himself a tropical drink. He’s looking a little melancholy. And nervous.”
“That right?” the boss said.
Devine, who was from Tennessee, loved the boss’s hard-ass southern voice, the power in it. It reminded him of a backwoods Baptist minister, perpetually on the verge of going all fire-and-brimstone on his congregation.
“Well, he’s going to be singing the blues all right. You just make sure you don’t join him for a few. He slips away again, it’s your ass.”
Devine winced. He didn’t take criticism well. Especially from one of the few people he respected.
“So, plan is still in place?” Devine said. “Hit him when he goes back to his room?”
“Yes, Devine. You remembered from five minutes ago. Bravo,” said the boss. “But if a chance comes up right there in the bar, if you can be discreet, you take it. That’s why I sent you in instead of Toporski. You know how to improvise.”
Devine shook his head as the boss hung up. He’d never heard the man so tense, so—dare he say it—nervous. Pretty Boy had him rattled. Had them all rattled.
That’s why they were up in New York now, all of them. There was a team a short block west in front of a gym on 67th and Amsterdam, and another outside the hotel.
They had Pretty Boy boxed in once and for all.
“El Jefe still got his boxers in a wad, eh?” said Therkelson.
“Yep,” Devine said as he glanced over at the blond, middle linebacker–sized Therkelson. His big iron Swede thumbs were flying on his Galaxy, playing some game. “You know, Therk, you got a real funny way of conducting surveillance with your face in that phone.”
“Ah,” Therkelson said, not even glancing up. “You got it covered. I’m the muscle here in our little partnership, Timmy. Be wrong not to let you do anything. I want to make sure a little guy like you feels like you’re contributing.”
DEVINE MUNCHED A handful of complimentary jalapeño peanuts as he kept his
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