“I want in.”
Arno glances up as I circle around him and take up a stool at his side. He’s nursing two different bottles of liquor today. Does the bastard live at this counter?
It’s only when I meet his once again bloodshot eyes that I realize that—at least for the past few nights—he probably has. Wherever he does stay, he most likely shared it with Parish.
“So, the Kitty wants to jump back into the litter box.” He pours a shot of something clear that smells like varnish and nudges it over to me. “I was wondering when you’d run with the wolves again. Frankly, shit’s been boring without you—”
“Give me a job,” I insist, rather than reminisce. “Anything. I’ll do it.”
Preferably something nasty. Something violent. Something to get me away from her.
“Eager to sharpen your claws?” Arno eyes my hands with a smirk. I bawl both into fists and don’t answer. I’m not in the mood for games. “All right, all right,” Arno sighs. He takes the glass in front of me and downs it himself. Then he sips from the second bottle and winces. “There is a small...irritation you could handle for me. There’s this bastard on South who runs a cushy little operation smuggling weed out of a bookstore. ‘Special order’ books on exotic plant life, you see.” He chuckles, but when the sound dies off, his eyes are a little clearer. His hands grip his next drink a little steadier. Nothing sobers him up like plotting the pitfall of another rival. “It’s a low-level piece of shit operation, but I want you to make a point, more or less. The man who runs it used to work for me, but lately, his judgment’s been off, and he seems to believe that he takes his orders from Stacatto now. I want you to jog his memory—but you don’t work for me, Dante. When you bring that asshole into line...make him answer to you.”
I raise an eyebrow and consider taking one of his bottles of liquor for myself. “Why?”
Arno flashes a lethal smile and brings a newly filled shot glass to his lips. “Because when that fucker Stacatto is nothing more than a memory, I’ll need a true ally to help me take back this shithole of a city.” He downs the shot and slams the empty glass onto the bar. His eyes seek mine out, and for a second he’s Arno again. “Welcome back, Kitty. Let’s see if you’ve still got that nasty bite.”
It’s a cold, dark descent into the criminal underbelly that people like Richard Van Hallen like to pretend doesn’t exist. The shadows rejoice in my return, swallowing me whole. I’m home, amid the muck and violence and chaos that men like Arno hone for profit and, on a more basic level, simple entertainment.
Prison taught me better than anything else that a wolf is never truly at ease until it’s back hunting on the outskirts of a pack, bathed in the growls and musk of its own kind.
The man Arno sent me to see conducts business in a seedy part of the city that’s seen better days. The sidewalks have weeds growing through their cracks. Even the police don’t patrol here, preferring to skirt the outer perimeter of this forsaken shithole.
The man, a dealer by the name of Andre, sets up shop in a dilapidated storefront that calls itself a bookstore. A sign, handwritten on cardboard, proclaims: All Shakespur 50% off! When I shove open a battered metal door and step inside, I’m greeted with the telltale stench of cigarette smoke and weed.
“We’re closed,” a man snarls. He’s about half my size wearing an outdated “Welcome to 2000!” tee shirt. His hair is matted. I guess it used to be naturally curly. At one point, this man probably didn’t naturally reek of piss and body odor.
“I’ve got nothing to sell,” he tells me smugly as I pick my way through metal shelves piled high with old magazines and books that seem decades old as if picked from the remains of a library.
“I’m here to see Andre,” I say once I am close enough to his perch that he can’t run without crossing my path. My fingers flex. The room’s narrow layout is fairly open—there are no witnesses. Even for as shitty a dealer as he seems to be, the lack of protection is just plain stupid, and I intend to teach him that lesson through example.
“Who the fuck are you?” he slurs, his eyes bloodshot from sampling his own merchandise.
“I’m your new best friend,” I say, while I try to decide which part of his face I’ll bruise first. “Arno Mackenzie says hello.”