Penthouse.
Whatever.
I splayed the pages open, standing just behind the soda cooler so I was out of sight. Peering over a picture of breasts the size of beach balls, I watched the cops scamper up to the platform. They spoke in staccato bursts, gesturing wildly around the station, then the younger one pointed to a mass of people walking up the stairs to the street. They ran toward the exit, shouting and elbowing past frightened commuters. When they disappeared from view, I collected myself and slowly walked back down to the lower platform. Another train was just pulling into the station.
I stepped behind a pillar—just in case—and waited.
The train stopped, the doors opened and I stepped inside. When the doors closed behind me and the car began to move, I knew I was alone. I took a deep breath and sat down.
An elderly woman seated across the aisle eyed me with contempt, shaking her head with disdain. Could she know?
Then I looked down and noticed the Penthouse still in my hands. I smiled, shrugged my shoulders and held the mag up for her to see.
“Sorry,” I said. “Thought it was Newsweek. ”
13
I t took everything Blanket and Charlie had not to turn around, to simply stare at the man following them. Blanket looked to his right, saw Charlie biting his lower lip, and knew they were thinking the exact same thing. Mere steps behind them was the most brutal and cold-hearted killer they had ever known, and for men in their profession they’d known every cutthroat, backstabbing, soulless bastard to walk the earth. But he was different. He scared the life out of two men who’d grown up frightened of nothing.
The musty smell of the basement had grown all too familiar this morning. Blanket listened to the footsteps behind him, the enigma nearly silent. He’d only seen the man briefly—opening the front door to let him in—and was now doing his very best to hide his quickening heart rate and sweaty palms.
“Almost there,” Charlie’s voice rang out. A pointless statement, Blanket thought, said just to see if the man would respond.
“Watch your head,” said Blanket, ducking under a swinging bulb. He eyed Charlie again. They shared a smile.
At the large door in the building’s sub-basement, Blanket rapped the code. The metal slot opened. A pair of eyes looked out at Blanket and Charlie, unimpressed. Then they caught sight of the man behind them. The eyes widened. The man behind the door whispered.
“Is that…him?”
Blanket nodded solemnly.
The door swung inward. The three men entered. This ghost, whom powerful men like Michael DiForio called when they needed odds tipped in their favor, a man whom the shroud of death hovered over permanently, was mere inches behind them. That Michael had summoned him only underlined the severity of last night’s incident.
As they entered the large conference room, a dozen men, none of whom had ever bowed to any man save Michael DiForio, stood, craning their necks for a better look. With no empty chairs available, Blanket and Charlie stood on either side of the door as it slammed shut. After a tense few moments, the men all sat down. Except Michael DiForio.
“Welcome,” Michael said. “Glad you could make it on such short notice. Hope I didn’t interrupt your morning tennis game.”
The man said nothing. For the first time Blanket was able to see him clearly.
He stood a shade over six-four and looked slightly north of two hundred pounds. His brown hair was done in a Caesar cut, short bangs dripping over his forehead. He wore a black leather jacket—not frayed, but worn—and dark pants. Blanket estimated the man’s age in the early thirties. But his dark eyes were reminiscent of policemen who’d been on the beat far too long, men who’d seen the depths of hell and had sunk too far to ever return.
“Michael,” the Ringer said. He bowed his head slightly, more a formality than out of respect. “I don’t imagine you called to talk trivialities.”
DiForio
Whatever.
I splayed the pages open, standing just behind the soda cooler so I was out of sight. Peering over a picture of breasts the size of beach balls, I watched the cops scamper up to the platform. They spoke in staccato bursts, gesturing wildly around the station, then the younger one pointed to a mass of people walking up the stairs to the street. They ran toward the exit, shouting and elbowing past frightened commuters. When they disappeared from view, I collected myself and slowly walked back down to the lower platform. Another train was just pulling into the station.
I stepped behind a pillar—just in case—and waited.
The train stopped, the doors opened and I stepped inside. When the doors closed behind me and the car began to move, I knew I was alone. I took a deep breath and sat down.
An elderly woman seated across the aisle eyed me with contempt, shaking her head with disdain. Could she know?
Then I looked down and noticed the Penthouse still in my hands. I smiled, shrugged my shoulders and held the mag up for her to see.
“Sorry,” I said. “Thought it was Newsweek. ”
13
I t took everything Blanket and Charlie had not to turn around, to simply stare at the man following them. Blanket looked to his right, saw Charlie biting his lower lip, and knew they were thinking the exact same thing. Mere steps behind them was the most brutal and cold-hearted killer they had ever known, and for men in their profession they’d known every cutthroat, backstabbing, soulless bastard to walk the earth. But he was different. He scared the life out of two men who’d grown up frightened of nothing.
The musty smell of the basement had grown all too familiar this morning. Blanket listened to the footsteps behind him, the enigma nearly silent. He’d only seen the man briefly—opening the front door to let him in—and was now doing his very best to hide his quickening heart rate and sweaty palms.
“Almost there,” Charlie’s voice rang out. A pointless statement, Blanket thought, said just to see if the man would respond.
“Watch your head,” said Blanket, ducking under a swinging bulb. He eyed Charlie again. They shared a smile.
At the large door in the building’s sub-basement, Blanket rapped the code. The metal slot opened. A pair of eyes looked out at Blanket and Charlie, unimpressed. Then they caught sight of the man behind them. The eyes widened. The man behind the door whispered.
“Is that…him?”
Blanket nodded solemnly.
The door swung inward. The three men entered. This ghost, whom powerful men like Michael DiForio called when they needed odds tipped in their favor, a man whom the shroud of death hovered over permanently, was mere inches behind them. That Michael had summoned him only underlined the severity of last night’s incident.
As they entered the large conference room, a dozen men, none of whom had ever bowed to any man save Michael DiForio, stood, craning their necks for a better look. With no empty chairs available, Blanket and Charlie stood on either side of the door as it slammed shut. After a tense few moments, the men all sat down. Except Michael DiForio.
“Welcome,” Michael said. “Glad you could make it on such short notice. Hope I didn’t interrupt your morning tennis game.”
The man said nothing. For the first time Blanket was able to see him clearly.
He stood a shade over six-four and looked slightly north of two hundred pounds. His brown hair was done in a Caesar cut, short bangs dripping over his forehead. He wore a black leather jacket—not frayed, but worn—and dark pants. Blanket estimated the man’s age in the early thirties. But his dark eyes were reminiscent of policemen who’d been on the beat far too long, men who’d seen the depths of hell and had sunk too far to ever return.
“Michael,” the Ringer said. He bowed his head slightly, more a formality than out of respect. “I don’t imagine you called to talk trivialities.”
DiForio
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