L.A.
The bookie’s name was Croghley and he’d burned down his own bar, which was just an IRS dodge, and taken all of his money to L.A. Unfortunately for him, some of that money belonged to Romano, so the Mob boss had sent Jack after him.
In three days, Jack had tracked him down. Croghley had moved in with a group of swingers high in the Hollywood Hills. The problem was that Croghley, as crazy as he was to think he could get away from Vincenzo Romano, was also extremely paranoid. Naturally, he had every right to be. But Croghley never left the house of the swingers. It was a commune really, with no fewer than a dozen people there at any given time.
So Jack had subcontracted Betty and they’d taken the only recourse they were given: they posed as swingers, got in and Betty took their target into a special S & M room where the swingers found him the next morning, strung up like an obscene pińata.
Jack was glad he’d brought Betty in on this job, to take out Tommy Abrocci. It wasn’t his preferred method of working, but the job had come on such short notice that he’d decided he’d needed help. Normally, he would have taken several days, scoped everything out, then come up with a plan. But orders had been clear. This was an immediate disposal. NTTFA. No time to fool around.
Getting into Abrocci’s room would have been difficult. Phony room service, maid service, the usual tactics wouldn’t have worked. Abrocci was a wiseguy. He knew the usual drill. So they’d gotten creative.
Jack zipped up, put on his shoes and crossed the room quickly. He went through Abrocci’s pockets. Keys. A wallet. A room key. Jack grabbed the room key. And then he heard something.
He stood stock still, listening.
Across the room, Betty was wiping off fingerprints. She looked up at him, sensed his sudden tension.
“What?” she said.
It had come from the stairwell, Jack thought. He paused, closed his eyes so his brain could focus on what he was hearing. Was it footsteps? Maybe. And maybe, faintly, the sound of another door closing.
Jack quietly opened the door and stepped into the hall. It was empty. How much time had passed since he’d drilled Abrocci? A minute? Minute and a half? Somewhere around there, he figured.
He took out the first key. Tried it in Room 914. It was the room from which Abrocci had just come.
Jack turned the key and the lock slid back.
Jack looked down the hallway. No one in sight. His gun was in his hand, held tightly against his leg.
He quickly opened the door and stepped inside, his back flat against the wall.
He moved without making a sound past the bathroom and peeked around the corner.
The room was empty.
In five short seconds, he’d already seen what he needed to see: the closet was empty. The messed up bed, the empty bathroom. There were several glasses on one of the night tables. The room service books had been opened and were askew on the small writing desk in the corner. From the bathroom, he could hear the faucet dripping.
Jack took a quick peek under each bed, already knowing he wouldn’t find anything.
His nose detected the scent of Abrocci’s cologne, and a lighter, sweeter smell. He savored the smell like a fine wine. Was it fresh? Was it the smell of the room? Of the sheets? Of the maids?
It was a woman’s perfume, Jack was convinced of that.
Had Abrocci gotten a woman into his room?
“Shit,” Jack said. Had something been going on in Room 914? He would have liked to have staked it out for longer than he did, but it was a rush job. Jack cursed again. He should never take rush jobs, as tempting as they are and as lucrative as they are.
Jack went back to the door and stood inside the room, listening. From down the hall came footsteps. He listened, heard the footsteps stop, then someone fumbling for keys. The next sound was a key being inserted and moments later, a door opening and closing. As soon as the door closed, Jack opened his.
He stepped into the hallway, then went
The bookie’s name was Croghley and he’d burned down his own bar, which was just an IRS dodge, and taken all of his money to L.A. Unfortunately for him, some of that money belonged to Romano, so the Mob boss had sent Jack after him.
In three days, Jack had tracked him down. Croghley had moved in with a group of swingers high in the Hollywood Hills. The problem was that Croghley, as crazy as he was to think he could get away from Vincenzo Romano, was also extremely paranoid. Naturally, he had every right to be. But Croghley never left the house of the swingers. It was a commune really, with no fewer than a dozen people there at any given time.
So Jack had subcontracted Betty and they’d taken the only recourse they were given: they posed as swingers, got in and Betty took their target into a special S & M room where the swingers found him the next morning, strung up like an obscene pińata.
Jack was glad he’d brought Betty in on this job, to take out Tommy Abrocci. It wasn’t his preferred method of working, but the job had come on such short notice that he’d decided he’d needed help. Normally, he would have taken several days, scoped everything out, then come up with a plan. But orders had been clear. This was an immediate disposal. NTTFA. No time to fool around.
Getting into Abrocci’s room would have been difficult. Phony room service, maid service, the usual tactics wouldn’t have worked. Abrocci was a wiseguy. He knew the usual drill. So they’d gotten creative.
Jack zipped up, put on his shoes and crossed the room quickly. He went through Abrocci’s pockets. Keys. A wallet. A room key. Jack grabbed the room key. And then he heard something.
He stood stock still, listening.
Across the room, Betty was wiping off fingerprints. She looked up at him, sensed his sudden tension.
“What?” she said.
It had come from the stairwell, Jack thought. He paused, closed his eyes so his brain could focus on what he was hearing. Was it footsteps? Maybe. And maybe, faintly, the sound of another door closing.
Jack quietly opened the door and stepped into the hall. It was empty. How much time had passed since he’d drilled Abrocci? A minute? Minute and a half? Somewhere around there, he figured.
He took out the first key. Tried it in Room 914. It was the room from which Abrocci had just come.
Jack turned the key and the lock slid back.
Jack looked down the hallway. No one in sight. His gun was in his hand, held tightly against his leg.
He quickly opened the door and stepped inside, his back flat against the wall.
He moved without making a sound past the bathroom and peeked around the corner.
The room was empty.
In five short seconds, he’d already seen what he needed to see: the closet was empty. The messed up bed, the empty bathroom. There were several glasses on one of the night tables. The room service books had been opened and were askew on the small writing desk in the corner. From the bathroom, he could hear the faucet dripping.
Jack took a quick peek under each bed, already knowing he wouldn’t find anything.
His nose detected the scent of Abrocci’s cologne, and a lighter, sweeter smell. He savored the smell like a fine wine. Was it fresh? Was it the smell of the room? Of the sheets? Of the maids?
It was a woman’s perfume, Jack was convinced of that.
Had Abrocci gotten a woman into his room?
“Shit,” Jack said. Had something been going on in Room 914? He would have liked to have staked it out for longer than he did, but it was a rush job. Jack cursed again. He should never take rush jobs, as tempting as they are and as lucrative as they are.
Jack went back to the door and stood inside the room, listening. From down the hall came footsteps. He listened, heard the footsteps stop, then someone fumbling for keys. The next sound was a key being inserted and moments later, a door opening and closing. As soon as the door closed, Jack opened his.
He stepped into the hallway, then went
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