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Remy’s eyes darted to one of the empty chairs, but he still didn’t move. “You didn’t invite me to sit down, sir.”
Maybe he was smarter than Corrado originally thought.
“Can you get this open?” he asked, turning the briefcase around to face the boy. Remy took an immediate step forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the small lock.
“Uh, yeah, I think so.”
“Think so or know so?” Corrado asked. “If you’re not certain, turn around and walk out that door. I’ll find someone better equipped to do the job for me.”
Remy cleared his throat. “With all due respect, sir, there is no one better equipped. If I can’t get it open, nobody will.”
Touché. Corrado nodded, motioning toward the briefcase, silently permitting him to prove his worth. Remy eyed the lock for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small tension wrench and a pick. Corrado watched, fascinated that the boy carried them with him. “Do you make it a habit to keep tools in your pocket?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You never know when you might need to pick a lock or hot-wire a car, so I try to keep what I’d need on me just in case. Same reason you always carry a gun, I’m guessing.”
“Do you carry a gun also?”
“Not always,” he admitted. “I tend to only have it when I think my life might be on the line.”
“Do you have one with you now?”
Remy hesitated. “Yes.”
Corrado smiled at that and relaxed back into his chair, tapping his foot to the beat of the music from the club. Two songs from Sinatra’s Greatest Hits passed before Remy made any progress, a smile lighting the boy’s face as he finally jimmied the lock. The briefcase cracked open, not wide enough to see inside, but enough for Corrado to take over.
Remy returned his tools to his pocket and took a step back. “It’s all yours.”
“You’re not going to ask me what it is?”
“No.”
“You’re not at all curious?”
“Well, of course, but it’s none of my business,” he replied. “If you wanted me to know, you would’ve told me, right?”
“Right.” Corrado stood up, motioning for the boy to follow him as he stepped out of the office and met up with one of the security guards in the hallway, standing watch outside the office door. “Tell the bartender Tarullo’s drinks are on the house. Anything he wants, he gets—no questions asked.”
The guard nodded. “Yes, Boss.”
Corrado stepped back into his office, shutting the door and locking it before strolling over to the desk. He pried the briefcase open and blinked rapidly as he eyed the contents.
A lone VHS tape.
Corrado had considered a lot of things—guns, money, gold, even body parts—but an old movie had never crossed his mind.
The worn carton encasing it crumbled as soon as he picked it up. He tossed that part aside and surveyed the black tape, finding no label. It was seemingly blank, but Corrado knew better. Someone had gone to great lengths to hide that videotape.
Stepping back out of the office, he looked at the security guard again. “Fetch me a VCR.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “A VCR?”
“Yeah.” Corrado waved him off impatiently. “Make it fast.”
Twenty minutes passed, then thirty, and finally forty-five before the guard returned with a used VCR cradled under his arm. He passed it off to Corrado, who took it into the office and closed the door. Plugging it in, he hooked it up to the small television on the corner of his desk that displayed the security feed.
Immediately a movie started playing, a cartoon with a princess and an obnoxiously catchy tune blaring in the background. Corrado grimaced and ejected the tape, throwing it aside before carefully inserting the one from the briefcase.
Nothing happened for a moment; the numbers on the VCR counted away, but the screen remained as black as night. Corrado was about to give up, feeling duped, when the screen flickered and up popped a face he hadn’t seen in years.
