“Get him on the phone. Tell him there’s a Mr. Corrigan here to see him. He’s expecting me, and it’s important.”
The man’s watery brown eyes narrows, his rat nose twitching as if he smells something funny. “As you wish, sir.”
“Good. Thank you…Godfrey,” I pour it on thick as I read the clerk’s name slowly from his nametag.
The self-important idiot gets the picture and grimaces in response. He picks up the phone and turns his back as if pretending to examine something on the wall behind him. I jump on the opportunity. This guy may be an asshole, but he is also a gatekeeper. That means I may need him. If anything shady happens, this scrawny-necked jackass can be useful by giving me a heads-up. Luckily, I always walk around prepared. I dig into the inner pocket of my cut for a hefty wad of folded bills. As Godfrey turns around to look at me again, I cock up one eyebrow and slide a thick stack of Benjamins across the marble countertop.
“Something for your time.”
Godfrey’s eyes go wide when he sees the stack of bills. Money talks around here, just like everywhere else. He nods excitedly and wraps up that phone call in a hot second to give me his full attention. It probably takes him months to make that much in tips. His hand slips over the bills, and he jerks the cash off of the counter, depositing it into his vest pocket.
“Thank you. It’s my pleasure to help, anytime at all. Would you like me to see you up to the suite, sir?”
“Nope, I’ll figure it out.”
“As you wish, sir. If you need anything, I’ll be right here. Don’t hesitate to ring the bell for assistance if I’m not here.”
“Count on it, Alfred.”
The man winces from my intentional name slip, but makes an effort not to react. He scurries away, leaving the desk and disappearing into a back room. Probably to put that cash under lock and key.
I’m soon on my way up to the meeting in one of the building’s shiny gold elevators. They’re fast too. It only takes a few seconds to for the doors to reopen on the landing of Mr. Giovanni’s condo, which looks like it takes up the entire twenty-seventh floor. Or maybe it’s a private elevator to one section. The place is massive, with two beefy bodyguard types standing at a doorway nearby. Typical, and not unexpected for a man this important. One of them holds the front door open, ready for me to walk in. They both nod a greeting, and I follow the guy into a sitting room.
Then I see him.
Success, influence and business savvy in a suit. He looks it too, for his young age, with an authoritative chin and distinctive sideburns framing a dark head of hair, and intense gray eyes that look like they can read through bullshit. My future client sits on an expensive burgundy and gold fabric sofa that looks like it stepped right out of a B-rated horror movie. He doesn’t look up from his book, even after the bodyguard announces me, so I wait, widening my stance in the middle of the room, digging my hands into the front pocket of my cut, ready for anything.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Corrigan,” Giovanni finally announces. He places a bookmark between the pages of a well-worn book in his hand, glancing up for the first time. “I know this was last minute meeting, so I apologize for keeping you waiting. We do appreciate your business.”
“Sure.” I hold my stance, waiting to be invited to take a seat. “No problem. You came highly recommended by our mutual friend.”
“Ah, yes. The Padrino had quite a lot to say about you.”
I’m not about to take that kind of easy bait. Padrino is the nickname for Romano Rizzo, the most influential mobster in the region from St. George, Utah to Las Vegas, Nevada along the I-15. He’s been the best sales connection for my club, but a referral from him doesn’t put Giovanni on the safe list. Not yet. All it does is get him in the door. We’re all in a probationary period, to feel each other out and build some trust. I stay alert, fingering the piece of notebook paper in my pocket, and pretending to be bored. I owe the guy common courtesy, but that’s about it. For now, I keep my lips shut and let Giovanni lead the way through what’s supposed to be a five-minute discussion.
“You’re the strong silent type, aren’t you?”
“I’m here for one thing, Mr. Giovanni.”
“Oh, so right down to business, then.” The man runs his arms across his slacks and straightens the front of his freshly pressed blue button-down shirt. “I can respect that. Sunny? Bring me the case, please.”
“Here you are, Sir.”
One of the goons brings a briefcase into the room. It should be full of money. My anticipation builds, because this is the juncture where conditions can turn on a dime. When Mr. Giovanni gives me the go ahead, I take three smooth steps toward the ritzy coffee table that matches the sofa. Bending forward, I spring open the lid and lift up a few wads. The cash is all there. Great. We’re golden. I straighten up again, meeting Mr. Giovanni’s gaze head on and meet a stare that lasts way too long.
That’s when shit goes sideways.
Someone wraps a forearm around my throat and throws me up against a wall so fast I can’t catch my breath fast enough. Whoever it is, he’s a dead motherfucker.
