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A man even more deplorable, more dangerous, than Mancino.
An idea slowly forms as my raging temper subsides. I calm my breath and pick up the broken picture frame, tracing my fingers over the cracks, as I ask myself if I dare.
If I dare open Pandora’s box and awake a sleeping monster.
Perhaps I’ve been approaching this situation the wrong way. I’ve been seeking out the help from the likes of Damon Thomas and Brenton Polk when I should’ve been thinking lower.
As low as it gets.
Someone beyond the law. Someone that fights dirty.
It’ll take a criminal to take down a criminal.
* * *
The Speakeasy is the most underground nightclub in Northam. So underground, in fact, that it has no set location. No set staff or set date and time it’s open for business. The club changes from night to night, moment to moment.
One Friday it’ll be hosted out of the basement of a rented out commercial building. Another night, the thumping beats of its dance music will be coming from an abandoned factory.
Because it has no discernible identity beyond being underground, it’s been near impossible for authorities to track down. Several mayors and district attorneys have tried, including myself. We came up with zilch.
There was one piece of info I withheld whenever Bernstein and Ididgo after the Speakeasy—I had a personal connection to the man who ran the club.
Clay Palmer and I go back decades. We go so far back, I can remember what he looked like as aboy. What’s more pleasing is, I can remember the look of sheer outrage on his face when Leontine made her decision.
Clay had been on top of the world once.
One of Northam’s deadliest, most successful criminals… even if he was the most underground. I watched from afar as we grew up and he created his own gang and took on criminal operations in gambling, drugs and prostitution.
I shook with revulsion when the most beautiful woman in the city, Leontine Bernard, brilliant dancer, fell for his schemes.
He manipulated her, sucked her into his criminal orbit, and almost swallowed her whole. But he foolishly chose his crime empire over the love of the perfect woman.
His mistake was my victory.
The bouncers outside the underground nightclub attempt to stop my entry. They’re shoulder to shoulder with each other, meathead types who show off their brawn with tight t-shirts and scowls. I remain unintimidated, reaching into the inside of my suit jacket, and pulling out a thick wad of cash.
All hundreds.
“If you’d step aside.”
They glance at each other, then the meathead on the left steps away. The other remains staunchly where he is, standing guard over the velvet rope.
My gaze tracks the one who stepped away. He maneuvers through the crowd and then what looks like another rope tethering off a separate section. I can’t see who he speaks to, but he only returns once he’s checked with someone.
I can make a few educated guesses who.
“Your money’s no good here.”
I smile, and tuck away the wad of cash. “Money is always good. You and I know that.”
“Sorry, man. But you need to get the hell up outta here.”
“I’ll leave only once I’ve said what I need to,” I say calmly. The two meatheads rear back as if about to charge, but I continue, rather confident and unbothered. “Tell Clay that if my money doesn’t impress him, perhaps reign of the city will. A return to former glory… but even greater.”
For a second time, I’m left to wait at the entrance while one of the nincompoops wanders over to relay my message. He takes longer on his second trip, returning after a minute or two has gone by. He lumbers over, looking every bit the dopey meathead he is.
“Clay says you’ve got five minutes. Then he’s spraying you with bullets.”
