I hear clinking in the back supply room, so I follow the sound to find Christian sanitizing his scalpel and other surgical instruments. The door is open to the supply room, and with my Vans on, I walk in undetected. I stand a few inches from Christian, still busy polishing his tools, and clear my throat to get his attention.
Christian startles, dropping the scalpel in his hand on the metal tray.
“Shit, Carmine, you scared me,” he exclaims.
“Good,” I answer, not in the mood for whatever small talk he will no doubt attempt.
Oblivious to my irritated tone, Christian extends his hand out for me to shake, with a friendly smile on his face.
I let him squirm a bit with his hand still extended until he finally gets the hint that I have no interest in pretending I like him. Not today. There is simply no time for it. He spreads his fingers out before wiping his hand on the side of his white lab coat.
I know deep down that Christian wants to tell me to piss off, but he won’t. He has put himself in a situation that places him at my disposal.
Not the wisest decision for one of the city’s most prominent figures in his field to owe a gang of criminals an excessive amount of money due to an incessant gambling problem. Now, he pays the debts off, not with money, but with his life. He took an oath to die unto himself and surrender his free will to the Moretti family in exchange for his debts.
I guess he and I both have that in common, at least. Like myself, Christian is indebted to the Morettis, and by default, Marked Inc.
He isn’t who he once was, but neither am I.None of us are. Long gone are the days we walked these decaying streets as free men. We all have surrendered ourselves to the inevitable evil that ensures our survival inourworld. A world where truths are kept safe by lies and lies are truths in disguise.
Cleary trying to avoid the tension in my voice, Christian walks back over to his tray and casually begins sanitizing his tools again.
“So, how are you today, Carmine?” he asks, apprehensively with his back turned to me.
Ignoring his attempt to lighten the mood, I go over his question, getting right down to business. “Christian, I already told you, whatever is or isn’t going on in your personal life is of no importance to me. You’re getting fucking sloppy. Get it together, and do the job I pay you to do, or you’re going to leave me no choice but to step in,” I huff.
Sloppy is being generous. The piss-poor job he has been doing on his assignments is straight up reckless. His job is to conceal who and what we ask him. Concealing the truth requires attention to detail and leaving any detail up for grabs can lead the cops right to us.
I realize that Christian is not paid nearly as much as he would be making if he was able to use his skills in a more traditional setting. However, that is a privilege he lost a long time ago. So, what he does not earn monetarily, he earns in the ability to live another day … above the ground he would otherwise be buried in.
“But Carmine …” he begins to plead.
“But Carmine,nothing. This is your last warning,” I threaten, my voice echoing in the mostly empty room. I crash my fist down on the tray he has been cleaning his tools on, making the metal of each instrument bounce upwards. The contents of the tray go crashing to the floor as he just stares at me, open-mouthed, as if he is looking at a damn ghost.
He should know better than anyone that the Carmine he met years ago is nothing like the Carmine that stands before him today. I don’t want to hear whatever excuses he was about to spew out of his lying, sack-of-shit mouth to defend his incompetence. What I used to put up with, I no longer tolerate.
“It won’t happen again,” he stammers, wiping away the sweat beginning to form along his brow as he begins searching for the tools that are now scattered on the floor.
“You’re right, it won’t,” I remind him as I adjust my tie, loosening it slightly. I leave him to collect the tools as I begin to walk around the rest of his office. I head over to his desk, which looks to be as disheveled as he has been lately. Papers strewn about, empty soda cans, and cigarette butts fill the ashtray. It’s like the sins of the job have caught up to him.
At one time, his work was impeccable, unmatched, even. However, now is a different story. Any assignment he is given, the results are lackluster, at best. I don’t pay him for lackluster; I pay him for perfection. Perfection is what helps us evade the cops and run our other operations beneath the line of the law. And when he can’t conceal the prints of who I ask him to, that’s a fucking problem.
The nice little visit we had earlier this week from a sergeant at the local police precinct asking if we heard from a former employee of ours who, to the police’s knowledge, had died months before, is proof enough of how reckless Christian has become. It was a fucking doozy trying to turn my charm on to evade the sergeant’s questions when he said he had someone held at the station for petty larceny with fingerprints that match our ex-employee’s.
The cops have been suspecting shady dealings at Marked Inc., but with us being a seemingly normal public relations firm—not to mention my cousin, Alex, being a long-time veteran of the department—they’d be hard-pressed to confirm any of their suspicions. If the cops only knew the fucking half of it,Iwould be the least of their worries.
Nonetheless, it will be amusing watching them snoop around. One of the few valuable things my father instilled in me, arguably the only decent attribute that came from him, is the ability to conceal the truth.
I hear Christian futzing with the steel tray once more before the squeaky scuffle of his walk pains my ears, which is arguably worse than the damn metal clacking.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he says with pleading eyes.
“You know what tomorrow is, correct?” I ask.
“Gala night. How could I forget?” he asks skittishly, still dealing with the mess on his desk.
I walk in front of his desk, placing both my fists on top of the pile he has been messing with to distract himself from my wrath.
“Good, just making sure you remember how important a night like tomorrow is,” I remind him, while he still tries to work around me. My fists harden as I squeeze them in anger.
