December 20, 4140
6:30 am
Maybe it was too early in the morning for spaghetti but it
was also supposed to be too early in the morning for arson and alcohol.
Those two had already been taken care of by Harry and Robe, so it wasn’t
that much of a step farther to have pasta and lettuce.
Robe reluctantly let the valet at Fiacre’s park the Auburn,
fearing the Zinnian henchman would purposely wreck it just because he was a
cop. He expressed this concern and was soon silenced.
“But he might, Harry. You never know what Ita might
have told him to do.”
“If Ita had told him to torture us, we would be hanging upside down from a pipe
right now. They don’t see your car as an extension of your body, they
just see it as a car.”
“I don’t know. What if-”
“Shut it. We’re gonna go inside, eat breakfast and get paid.”
“And return the flare gun.”
“And that.”
Inside there were more patrons that to be expected, but as
they walked in and headed to a booth in the corner, they quickly realized these
people were all here to serve as witnesses.
This hadn’t been a come alone matter, but it certainly wasn’t anything
important enough to justify this many people.
The mobsters were packed into every seat on the first floor and a few
peered over the banister above.
“What do you think we did, Harry?”
“I don’t know and I certainly don’t want to know either.”
Harry slid first into the booth, going against the corner so
she would have a good view of the people so patiently watching them. Robe took the same side, sitting partially on
the bench, one leg outstretched and his left hand already on the holster.
They were prepared, no matter what anyone tried to
pull. With no server in sight, the
conversation fell to discussing the mischief that the people around them could
pull. In all likelihood, they would
probably get shot. This type of mob was
rarely creative and preferred to go with methods that they knew would always
work. If the gun misfired or jammed,
then they would move on down the line to the next gun or knife, it was as
simple as that.
But still, it was fun to think of different scenarios.
After ten minutes, a small salad and a plate of bread was
sat in front of each of them.
“I can’t believe it’s not butter.”
“Yes you can, Robe. It’s pretty damn
easy to believe that’s just margarine.”
“All butter on this planet is fake butter.”
After another ten minutes of scenarios, their food
came. They didn’t order it, they were
just always served the same thing every time.
A small plate of pasta with one scoop of the famous family’s sauce, nothing
too fancy but not a stale, moldy piece of bread, either. This was a prediction of the meeting to
come. It always followed the same
script.
Five minutes eating their breakfasts, the duo would be “graced”
by the presence of Ita, who would momentarily call off some of her
watchdogs. The burly men would move out
of the booths and the snipers would back off from the windows. All that stayed then were the bare necessity
protection crew, which was still 50 people but a modest number compared to the
welcome party.
This morning, like any other, they were graced by Ita’s
presence. She slid into opposite side of
the booth and with a whistle and a wave, some henchmen backed away.
“You know guys, I’m always very impressed with your work.”
Ita tilted her head more into the light and slid a well-manicured hand, with
long red fingernails, over one of Harry’s slightly grease stained hands.
“And Harry, you look as beautiful as ever, darling. Even with that pale hairdo.”
“Well, Ita, I was more in the mood for arson and spaghetti, than strapless bras
and gin.”
“So you leave it up to Robe to be the fashionista, again?”
Robe glanced between the two for a second, thinking about
possibly entering the conversation. But then
he also started to wonder if the restroom excuse would allow him to leave long
enough to avoid bloodshed.
“Hmm. No response
from him. I didn’t know that you hired
mutes these days.”
“And I didn’t know that you knew how to fire an actual chef.”
“Are you trying to say something about the cooking?”
“Just that the sauce tastes a bit off and I know your head chef was recently
found in a gutter.
“If you’re just going to sit here and insult me, maybe you should just take
your money and leave.”
Another whistle and another wave, brought over a tall man in
a pinstriped suit. He wore the classic mobster
uniform, from the handmade Italio black leather shoes to the golden pendants of
Francis and Muerte around his neck. And also
to the handgun ready in its holster, next to the three extra clips and two
specialty silencers.
He produced a small bag, sat it on the table and moved to
his boss’s right hand.
“This is the amount we agreed upon. Thirty thousand, fifteen thousand each, for
the destruction of the warehouse and the property inside. To cover your costs for the fuel, there’s an
extra five grand. If you have any other
expenses that you’d like to report and get paid for, tell me now. Anthony will issue your receipt.”
Harry gave one side glance to Robe. Even
if they did have any other expenses to report, only a fool would ask for more money
in this scenario.
“Nope, that’s it. It’s a pleasure doing
business as always.”
The man identified as Anthony leaned down to his boss once
more and exchanged a few words.
“Oh, and I almost forgot.
Not a part of your contract but here’s a couple of boxes of cannoli for
your trouble.”
Harry tucked the flare gun further into her belt and stood
up saying,
“None of us need the sweets.”
“Harry, leave the gun, take the cannoli.”
Points: 3775
Reviews: 378
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