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No traces.
Attention to detail was the name of the game.
Then there was the third gray tub.
Longer.
Bigger.
But the lightest of them all.
Because there was nothing inside.
Not yet.
Eventually, there would be a body, stuffed inside of a cadaver bag, then shoved into the tub.
You see, people thought nothing of you moving a plastic tub around. Shit like a body bag or rolled up rugs, though, yeah, they got you some sideways looks.
And in this modern age of every fucking person on the planet having security cameras, you had to not look suspicious.
Plus, experience told me that dragging a smooth plastic container stuffed with a body was a fuckuva lot easier than trying to keep your grip on a slippery body bag.
Once all that was loaded in the backseat and trunk, I was making my way toward the scene, sure to keep a baseball cap pulled low enough to obscure my features, even though it was the middle of the night.
It wasn’t just the apartment buildings and businesses you had to worry about. Big Brother had eyes everywhere too.
It was not an easy time to be a criminal.
But thanks to people like me, the mob made sure that they forever remained in that forty-nine percent of homicides that never got solved.
Or, rather, the twenty-five percent of missing persons cases that are never solved, since when I did my job right, no one ever knew a murder took place at all.
I did have a body get found once. But thanks to careful concealment, insect activity, and relatively high humidity, that thing was down to the bone by then, leaving nothing behind to find, save for the bullet hole in the head.
“At least it’s not an apartment building,” I mumbled to myself as I parked around the corner of the front of the closed shop that appeared to be a shitty little bagel shop, but actually operated as an illegal payday loan store.
Those places were fucking criminal in general with their high interest rates. This one was far worse, though, given that there was no regulation to keep them from gouging the fuck out of their desperate clientele.
I wasn’t surprised the Family was involved with the fucks who ran the place. You’d have a hard time finding any non-chain businesses in Manhattan that didn’t have the bagman of the Costa Family showing up at their door, collecting their protection money to kick back up to the boss.
That was the nature of the operation.
You wanted to run a business in the city? You paid for protection.
If you wanted to run an illegal business in the city? You paid out the ass for that protection.
And, if you suddenly decided you didn’t want to pay that anymore? Well, that was when shit got ugly.
Sometimes, that was when a bastard like me was called.
“You’re not Miko,” I said as I climbed out of the car, finding someone there waiting for me. Six-one or two with black hair and brown eyes with the classically good-looking bone structure that Miko had. A brother, maybe? He had Miko’s sort of style, with the perfectly tailored suit and the slicked-back hair.
“Nero,” he said, inclining his chin at me. “Miko’s inside.”
“And you thought standing out here getting seen by any cameras around and passerby was a good fucking idea?” I asked as I grabbed the empty tub, and brought it with me.
“Should I come back in?” he asked as I moved past him.
