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Twenty-Five
“What makes you think we hire just any clown off the street?”
Luciano bit into the end of his cigar and scowled at the schmuck sitting in the black leather chair across from his desk, this guy somewhere in his early thirties with dark hair and dark eyes. Not Italian, though. Latino, maybe. And he’d literally walked into the building demanding a meeting with Luciano.
“Word on the street is you’re down a man, and I need work.”
A harsh laugh burst past Luciano’s lips. Was there anyone in LA who didn’t know about his missing guy?
“You need a job?” Luciano dropped his cigar to the crystal ashtray on his right and ran his gaze over the fucker ahead. Granted, the guy looked tough. Tall, broad shoulders, and solid build. He was either appropriately confident about his worth to the syndicate, or a total ignorant asshole, given his insistence and relaxed stance despite where he sat and who he sat before. “Why the fuck would I care what you need?”
“Because you’re going to need me more than I need you.”
Luciano threw his head back and barked out another laugh. “Arrogant fucker, aren’t you?”
The guy shrugged, his black leather jacket shifting above his fitted black t-shirt and jeans. “Maybe. Or maybe I know who you lost, Mr. Conti, and I know for a fact I’d be an upgrade.”
“Oh, yeah?” Luciano pitched forth a tight smile, allowing a moment to warm to the guy’s arrogance.
Four days had passed since his talk with Mark, and he still lacked a location for his missing man. Either this schmuck would make good on his “upgrade” claim, or Luciano would have a new candidate to inflict his frustrations on. “Wanna tell me how you’re an upgrade? Besides, what makes you think I’d trust you?”
“We both know you have people everywhere, even in the force. Run a background check on me. And as to my worth to you, just like your missing man, I have military experience—two extra years of it. Plus, five years in private investigations.” The guy leaned back in his seat, somehow appearing even more easy about this meeting than before. “Hell, if you’re having trouble finding Dean Holloway, I might be able to help there, too.”
Luciano took a slow puff at his cigar, the tobacco smoke hot in his lungs and soon swirling around his face, in contrast to his office’s dark furnishings. He narrowed a stare at the man before him. A man who had not only found his way to this building but knew the name Dean Holloway.
Maybe he did have his ear close enough to the ground to make good on his claims. With Mr. Holloway gone, Luciano was down a tracker.
“Like I said.” He tapped the spent ash off his cigar and into a small pile in the ashtray. “I don’t hire fresh off the street. Usually my guys come recommended.”
“Sounds like a piss-poor reason to pass up a good hire.” The guy shrugged but stood all the same, leaving doubt over his claim about being desperate for work. “Unlike Mr. Holloway, for the right price, I don’t care about getting my hands dirty.”
So, it was less about work and more about the money to be made? Maybe private investigations didn’t pay so well after all. Either way, the guy turned and marched toward the black glossy door behind him, setting off Luciano’s own desperation. Desperate to find Holloway. Desperate to ensure word of the syndicate’s involvement in the Stucco fuckup didn’t get out. Desperate not to taste the metal at the end of Rudolph Manzinni’s gun.
“Wait.”
Luciano scowled, and the guy spun around.
That this guy was willing to do things Mr. Holloway hadn’t, well, maybe hiring him would be an upgrade. “Fine. You got a job. At least once we know your story checks out.” He jutted his chin toward the door. “On your way out, get my PA to point you to our head of security, Mr.…?”
“Ramos.” The guy pulled at the door handle, ready to leave. “Adrian Ramos.”
