Mr. Dark 5 (Tamed #5)(28)

"Why?"

Instead of answering, I asked another question. "I asked you earlier if you were honest. I have another one. Do you have any guts, Mr. Fernandez. Any cojones?"

Bennie Fernandez may have been a well educated Federal prosecutor, but he was still Latin at heart, and calling a Latin man's balls into question is going to get a reaction, regardless of who it is. "Give me a chance, and you'll find out."

"Good. Because if you do have guts, then you're going to make a career. I'm going to give you a name. Owen Lynch. Have a good evening, Mr. Fernandez."

I hung up, then put the phone on the roof before bringing my boot heel down on the phone, shattering it before I pulled the battery. I'd throw the whole thing into the ocean later, but I had another delivery to make before the night was up.





* * *



Louis the Frog, despite being the second most powerful man in Sal Giodano's crime syndicate, lived like a poor man. I had never understood why, although I could understand why he lived alone. He was the closest thing I'd seen outside of fiction to a true sociopath. It wasn't that he didn't have a code that he lived by, just that his rules were almost the antithesis of what every other person lived by.

He was loyal to only one man, Sal himself. Other than that, dealing with Louis was kind of like f*cking around with a jar of nitroglycerin or maybe nerve gas. One wrong move, and you just might end up dead. He'd killed plenty of people, far more than I had, and had no rules at all as to who he killed. Man, woman, child, innocent or guilty, he didn't give a damn.

The scariest part about Louis though was that he was smart, smarter than a lot of people gave him credit for. They were so intimidated by his propensity for violence that they overlooked just how smart he was. While Sophie often called me a genius for what I'd been able to pick up through just the Internet and my own thinking in terms of business, I think Louis may have been even smarter than me. He just wasn't interested in legitimate business, but instead in making Sal Giordano the most powerful man in the city. Why, I never did figure out.

Louis and I had, for the most part, a respectful relationship prior to the time he'd visited my old Mark Snow apartment. Part of it was that I gave Louis the right amount of respect, which mainly meant I never lowered my guard around him. For his part, Louis recognized that I knew he was dangerous, and I was a touch faster and perhaps more skilled than he was.

So I guess that Louis living in a cheap hotel room made perfect sense, in his own way. The hotel, one of those down on your luck places that catered to illegal aliens that would cram a family of eight into a two person room, desperate to make a new future for themselves in a new country. I had to respect them, considering the guts it took. Or just down on your luck losers who usually checked out via gunshot or hanging rather than by credit card,. The hotel took payment in cash only, paid a week in advance.

Louis had what I guess you could call the penthouse, if a flop house like that could have anything that could be considered a penthouse. The top floor, due to the manager's apartment being next door, had fewer rooms which were just a little bit larger than the normal spot. Still, the bed was sagging, and the walls rattled with the scratching and clawing of rodents as I stepped through the window. I was quite sure that below me, in the rooms below, there were more than a few mothers who were engaged in their nightly battles with the rats and the cockroaches to keep them from feasting on their babies.

To be honest, I was tempted to burn the whole damn place down after pulling the fire alarm. The only thing stopping me was I knew that for many of the other residents of the hotel, the only other option was living on the streets, or in the netherworld of the homeless that congregated in the storm drains and sewers. I'd been down there on missions for Sal, and I never wanted to go there again. It was the sort of place you carried a gun for protection from the wildlife, or at the minimum a machete.

If Louis the Frog had one indulgence, it was scotch whiskey. He was practically a connoisseur, and had in fact gathered bottles from every medal winning producer, from Scotland to North America to the more recent Japanese winners. Still, he had a favorite, forty year old Glenfarclas Scotch at over four hundred dollars a bottle. A single malt, he had once told me in an unexpected moment of introspection that he never went to bed without having a glass.

I found his bottle, which was only had a few shots left in it. Perfect, I didn't want somebody killing themselves by accident after Louis.

Taking the vial from my small pack, I emptied the contents into the scotch. I had crafted it from some of the nastier little tricks that I had been taught during my so-called education as a hitman, and knew that the flavor of the Glenfarclas would cover the chemicals I had used. The poison itself was totally colorless and odorless. I had, in fact, learned the basic recipe from a Japanese teacher of mine, whose family had developed it for mixing into Japanese shochu rice wine during the feudal period. With a few tweaks, I'd made it more powerful, and knew that as soon as Louis took even a small drink, he'd be counting the minutes to his death. There was no cure.

Still, I wanted to make sure, so I took up a position on the roof across the street. Using a periscope, I was able to see Louis' room while still staying behind the low brick wall that ringed the roof. I stayed there for hours, making sure to move around enough to keep myself from getting stiff, as the night wore on. Louis was a night owl for sure, and it was nearly three before he came home.