The Fall(4)

He and I both knew it wasn’t an idle threat. The only value human life held for me was the number of zeros I got paid to give a shit either way. But killing someone who squealed, that would be purely for pleasure. Which is why, even though I’d been hauled in by Chicago’s finest more times than I could count, nothing ever stuck. No one saw shit, and what do you know, my alibis were always rock solid.

Lou gave me another nod, this one a little slower than the last just to make sure there were no misunderstandings. Clearly not as stupid as I’d first pegged him which might just have saved his life.

Without bothering with a goodbye, I unlocked the door and strolled into the deserted butcher shop, the glow of the streetlights coming through the glass giving me enough light to move around without having to hit the switch.

And just like I had slipped into the building, I was out, my feet moving quickly to the back alley where my latest ride was waiting. Not my black Camaro—the car I actually enjoyed driving—this was some five-door piece of shit Mazda that had been parked on the wrong street at the wrong time.

Boosting a car or two was easier than risking my ass being hung out to dry, which is why I operated as a ghost, taking what I needed so I could remain under the radar. And tomorrow morning, Sally Jones—or whomever the car belonged to—would be getting her rusty shit box in one piece. Maybe parked a little further up the road so she’d question her sanity, but devoid of any DNA or fingerprints that could tie me to it.

I didn’t return the car out of some misguided morality. Ha. I didn’t believe in karma, for me it was about keeping my ends nice and tight which didn’t happen when you started holding onto shit you didn’t need.

The Mazda roared to life, its four cylinders getting a bigger workout than they were probably used to on account of my boot punching the gas.

Lucky for Lou, traffic was light and getting to the shitty warehouse didn’t take long. And assuming the moron had been on the level, as soon as I busted the lock and retrieved the cash, I’d call a meat wagon so the * didn’t bleed out.

Or not.

I couldn’t make myself give a shit either way except for the fact Damon wanted his return business. Dead men couldn’t borrow cash. Which meant in about six months I’d probably revisit the loser, earning me more green.

I eased the car around the back and killed the engine. This wasn’t the kind of area I’d expect any neighborhood watch peeking through their drapes, but wasn’t the kind of guy who took chances either.

It was dark. The overgrown grass and weeds littered the backyard, obscuring the rusty door on the old brick building. The faded sign above the door pointed to a failed import/export business venture, the padlock keeping out unwanted visitors needing nothing more than a pair of bolt cutters in place of a key.

Pulling the bag off the passenger seat, I unzipped it and checked I had what I needed, grabbing the flashlight and an extra clip for my Glock before busting the lock.

And just like that, I was in. The musky air of the building filled my lungs as I shined a flashlight through the dusty space, the gutted-out interior making it crystal clear that whatever purpose it had served in the past had long been retired. The building itself was probably worth less than the money I’d been sent to recover which didn’t look promising. Now, to find that safe.

My phone buzzed from the front pocket of my pants; it had been vibrating for awhile, but I’d chosen to ignore it. Damon had the phone habits of a sixteen-year-old girl and I expected the previous missed calls had been from him.

Why I chose to fish out my phone and take the call is not something I understood. Possibly because I was already bored with this job and enjoyed playing Russian roulette with Lou’s life. Or maybe because I, like any contractor, never knew when the next big job was coming. For whatever reason, I hit accept and pulled the phone to my ear as I walked to the rear of the warehouse, trying to find this illusive safe.

“Yeah,” I barked into the cell, my current burner not having enough numbers to warrant checking the caller ID.

“You’re a tough man to get a hold of,” the voice rumbled on the other end of the phone.

It had been a few months, but Jimmy Amaro wasn’t the kind of man you forgot. Neither was the gravelly rattle that came out of his voice box every time he spoke, gifted to him from about forty or so years sucking on the Marlboros.

“I’m in the middle of something.” Neither of us bothered with friendly introductions.

“Yeah, well get out of it. I have something that requires your attention.” He wheezed into the phone, the details of the something noticeably absent.

“Well, it will get my attention when I’m ready.” I didn’t do too well with demands, especially unspecified requests from a bastard who’d buried more men than AIDS.

“You’re still the same pain in the ass.” Jimmy laughed, the disruption of air supply inducing a lung-rattling cough. “Meet me at the place. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ordinarily that kind of invitation would have received a two-word response—f*ck and you. But turning down the self-proclaimed king of Chi-Town wasn’t what many men lived to regret. Besides, Jimmy was a lot of things—cheap bastard wasn’t one of them—which meant my pockets would probably be a little heavier just for having the conversation.

“I’ll be there in two hours.”

“Good. Don’t be late.”