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“Looks like fucking what?”
“Like that,” he said, nodding toward what appeared to be a small jewelry or pawn shop.
I leaned over him, looking out the window, and getting a view of the building. A couple of men sat out front playing dominoes. It was still strange seeing how vibrant life was here even deep into the night. Beside them sat a mountain of a man on a stool gazing at people walking back and forth along the sidewalk. I could even make out the bulge of a gun under his arm beneath his light jacket.
“He doesn’t look very nice,” I said, meaning the big guy.
“That’s the point. Only people who really want to go in there will go in. Probably a mafia run front,” he said as he pulled the car into a spot.
“Wait, we’re going in there? Why? Don’t people in the mafia like, I don’t know, whack people?”
Drake turned and gave me a confused look. “Whack? I didn’t realize this was a nineteen-forties gangster flick.”
I slapped his arm. “You know what the fuck I mean.”
“I do, but they only do that to people who either fuck them over, threaten them, or act like they want to do one of those things. Keep your head down and let me do the talking.”
Drake’s history was still a bit of a mystery to me. His story about his first kill had been shocking, but also eye opening. The way he knew how to move in this strange underworld was at times even more surprising than his proclivity to derive sexual pleasure from punishment, torture, and murder.
Drake took my hand and led me toward the door. He walked briskly and confidently. The big man saw him coming and eased himself off the stool before we stepped up on the curb.
“Vattene da qui, cazzo.” A sentence Drake would later tell me basically meant get the fuck out of here.
Without missing a beat, Drake pulled a wad of American hundreds from his pocket and waved them at the man. “In Inglese, per favore?”
The big man eyed the money and nodded grudgingly. “What do you want?” he asked in a thickly accented voice.
“I need to speak with whoever is in charge inside,” he said and glanced around before adding, “We need documents.”
The big man heaved a weary sigh. “What kind?” he swept an appreciative gaze across my body. “Marriage?”
“Passports. Should be simple. Is that something you can do for us? Tonight?”
“You want to be done tonight?” he asked. “That,” he shook his head and sat back down, waving dismissively at us, “is not possible. Be gone.”
Drake stepped forward and shoved the entire wad of bills into the man’s hand. “How about now?” He nodded at the money. “You’ll get another of those if you can sweet talk them into getting me what I need.”
The guy grinned appreciatively at the money as he flicked his thumb across the bills. Finally he shrugged, like he’d decided to do something that wouldn’t actually bother him greatly. “Follow,” he said and opened the door.
Inside, the building looked much like a pawn shop back home, though there was more jewelry and small items than guns and TVs like in America. Behind the counter, sat a man watching a small flat screen television. An Italian dubbed episode of the old sitcom Friends was playing.
The man was not what I’d expected. Rather than the tiny Geppetto elderly man I’d imagined, the person behind the counter watching the television was a rather portly man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties with greasy black hair hanging in stringy clumps around his shoulders.
“Americano,” the first man said, gesturing to Drake with a thumb.
“Canadian, actually,” Drake said, still doing his best to keep whatever cover we had.
The fat guy behind the counter turned and glanced at us. He grunted and tossed aside a magazine he’d had on his lap. The cover slapped closed, and I saw a young woman amidst a group of three other men, her legs held wide while another man slid what looked like the fat end of a baseball bat into her vagina. The look on her face said it was one of rapturous ecstasy. I wrinkled my nose.
“Canadian,” the fat man said, his voice less heavily accented than the door guard’s. He glanced at us then giggled. It was a high pitched and disconcerting sound.
“Yes,” Drake said then cut to the point. “We need IDs. Two passports. Tonight.”
The fat man stared at Drake for several seconds before bursting into laughter, slapping the counter, and going red.
“Tonight? This bastardo wants passports in a couple hours?” He looked at the door guard. “Georgio? You can’t be serious.”
The man, Georgio?, nodded. “He has money. Good money. Do it.”
