sparsely populated and I am not forced to sit next to some stinking bum, or worse, some old sow determined to share her life story with me. My sour demeanor is usually enough to keep most people at a distance, but there is always that special person that is so twisted up in their own head that nothing short of tearing their arms off will bring them out of their fantasy world.
It’s not a long ride and I am still replaying tonight’s events through my head as I climb out of that dank subterranean passage and walk the short distance to my dwelling.
Tommy was trying to convince Yuri to allow him to expand his drug trade into Yuri’s territory, promising only to sell the crap that the Russian did not and give him a thirty percent cut of the profits. Yuri was doing his best to politely tell the little squint to fuck off when Tweaker and Furball arrived on scene.
I have an excellent memory for detail and I freeze frame each of the faces of my attackers in my mind, studying each one for the tiniest clue. My first instinct is to pin it on a setup by Hanako. A subtle cue, perhaps a wire, that let them know to come in and kill Yuri if negotiations were not going his way.
I quickly discard this notion as I flip between the faces of my three suspects. The assassins caught Tommy unaware and his surprise and fear were genuine. Tweaker and Furball were set on killing both mobsters at the table with no regard for bystanders.
It was a major hit by someone with enough resources to hire a mongrel. The most likely scenario is a rival family, perhaps someone new, trying to carve out an empire of their own after removing the competition. A new player taking on two established crime lords at the same time? It seems unlikely, but I stopped underestimating human stupidity long ago.
I’ve been around a long time and I am familiar with most other players with territory butting up against Yuri’s. Some are larger and stronger but are content to let Yuri run his business as he is not an expansionist and is fairly benign as far as Mafioso go. They know him as an honest dealer and are content with having him as a neighbor.
This leads me back to a new entity, picking a smaller operation as its target to take over. But it was two targets, and although few would miss Hanako’s ninja clan, some would take offense to new competition. My conjecture is getting me nowhere so I shelve my thoughts until my mind is clearer and I return to my lair.
I live in a large, brick building that had once been a factory of some kind that turned out wrought iron for things like fences, gates, and decorations. I make my home in the main floor of the building while I keep my office upstairs. A sign pointing to the external steel stairway directs people to it and warns them not to try my front door.
Heavy steel bars cover the few high windows and the door itself is half inch steel. Had the mission at the Alamo been similarly built, Davy Crocket and his crew could have stood off the entire Mexican army. Sucks for them.
The sturdy door squeals on its hinges, it’s a feature, not a sign of my neglect, and makes a heavy clanging as I pull it shut and set the hundred pound bar in its cradle to secure it from the inside. Nothing short of heavy explosives will gain anyone entrance and the door leading to my office is of similar quality.
I strip off my ruined jacket and shirt and casually toss them into the forge that once smelted iron. Now its only purpose is to dispose of things I do not want found. A quick look at my wound shows little more than a puckered red weal and that will be gone by morning.
I cross the dark, cavernous interior of my home to the corner that serves as my kitchen—a kitchen that consists of nothing more than refrigerator of bagged blood, a sink, and a gas stove that I use to warm up my sack lunches. I forego heating a pan of water that I would normally use to warm my meal and sip it right out of the bag like some kind of macabre Capri Sun.
I sit
It’s not a long ride and I am still replaying tonight’s events through my head as I climb out of that dank subterranean passage and walk the short distance to my dwelling.
Tommy was trying to convince Yuri to allow him to expand his drug trade into Yuri’s territory, promising only to sell the crap that the Russian did not and give him a thirty percent cut of the profits. Yuri was doing his best to politely tell the little squint to fuck off when Tweaker and Furball arrived on scene.
I have an excellent memory for detail and I freeze frame each of the faces of my attackers in my mind, studying each one for the tiniest clue. My first instinct is to pin it on a setup by Hanako. A subtle cue, perhaps a wire, that let them know to come in and kill Yuri if negotiations were not going his way.
I quickly discard this notion as I flip between the faces of my three suspects. The assassins caught Tommy unaware and his surprise and fear were genuine. Tweaker and Furball were set on killing both mobsters at the table with no regard for bystanders.
It was a major hit by someone with enough resources to hire a mongrel. The most likely scenario is a rival family, perhaps someone new, trying to carve out an empire of their own after removing the competition. A new player taking on two established crime lords at the same time? It seems unlikely, but I stopped underestimating human stupidity long ago.
I’ve been around a long time and I am familiar with most other players with territory butting up against Yuri’s. Some are larger and stronger but are content to let Yuri run his business as he is not an expansionist and is fairly benign as far as Mafioso go. They know him as an honest dealer and are content with having him as a neighbor.
This leads me back to a new entity, picking a smaller operation as its target to take over. But it was two targets, and although few would miss Hanako’s ninja clan, some would take offense to new competition. My conjecture is getting me nowhere so I shelve my thoughts until my mind is clearer and I return to my lair.
I live in a large, brick building that had once been a factory of some kind that turned out wrought iron for things like fences, gates, and decorations. I make my home in the main floor of the building while I keep my office upstairs. A sign pointing to the external steel stairway directs people to it and warns them not to try my front door.
Heavy steel bars cover the few high windows and the door itself is half inch steel. Had the mission at the Alamo been similarly built, Davy Crocket and his crew could have stood off the entire Mexican army. Sucks for them.
The sturdy door squeals on its hinges, it’s a feature, not a sign of my neglect, and makes a heavy clanging as I pull it shut and set the hundred pound bar in its cradle to secure it from the inside. Nothing short of heavy explosives will gain anyone entrance and the door leading to my office is of similar quality.
I strip off my ruined jacket and shirt and casually toss them into the forge that once smelted iron. Now its only purpose is to dispose of things I do not want found. A quick look at my wound shows little more than a puckered red weal and that will be gone by morning.
I cross the dark, cavernous interior of my home to the corner that serves as my kitchen—a kitchen that consists of nothing more than refrigerator of bagged blood, a sink, and a gas stove that I use to warm up my sack lunches. I forego heating a pan of water that I would normally use to warm my meal and sip it right out of the bag like some kind of macabre Capri Sun.
I sit
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