CHAPTER SIX
MICHAEL
I hate coming down to this place, but it has to be done.
The Don gets fatter every time I see him. He sits behind his desk smiling at me. There’s a blonde kneeling between his legs sucking him off, her head bobbing up and down on his flaccid bee sting of a dick with the effort, the gold hoops in her ears dancing in tune. She’ll probably be at it all day.
I stand with my hands together in front of myself. “You called, Don?”
He smiles, paying no attention to the broad or the grotesque sucking noises she’s making. “Mikey. It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Don. You’re looking well.”
The fat fuck loves his respect. He’s been Don of the Vegas Mob for almost twenty years now, as long as my brother and I have been carrying out hits on his behalf.
He licks his lips. “I’ve got a problem.”
It’s always ‘a problem,’ never a person.
He taps an envelope on his desk. “Everything you need is in there, plus some pocket money for your trouble. I’ll have your usual fee ready when it’s done.”
Eizo, my brother, will be excited. It’s been a while since we had a contract. The money’s nice, but DiLuccas like us? We need to hunt. It’s part of who we are.
I nod and come forward, picking up the folder.
The girl goes to get up, but the Don presses her back down into his crotch. I hope she is getting paid well.
“How’s Eizo?” the Don asks.
I loosen my collar a little. “He’s real good.”
“Still boxing?”
“Of course.”
The Don shadow boxes with fists raised. “You DiLuccas are tough. That’s why I like you boys.”
I don’t know why the Don doesn’t just invite Eizo to these meetings, but then again Eizo isn’t the brains of the family. That’s me. That’s why the Don entrusts me with these contracts, in person. It’s all about trust. Eizo would fuck something up for sure.
I hold the envelope in my hands. In it is no doubt the poor sucker who called the cops on one of the Mob’s massage parlors. I heard it was a girl. I don’t like doing girls, but I’m sure the particulars will attest to her guilt.
Admittedly, I’m finding it harder and harder to stay objective these days. I used to be a ‘no questions asked’ kind of guy, but lately these hits seem more and more random, no rhyme or reason.
“Where are we off to this time, Don?”
He smiles back at me. “Los Angeles, Mikey, the City of Angels.”
CHANCE
I spot Morgan through the heat haze waving me over to one of the exits. Coach nods his approval.
I pull off my helmet as I approach. It’s like coming out of a space suit. “Morgan.”
“Chance.”
He looks at me for a moment, perhaps a little more serious than usual. “I heard you took Sam out for lunch the other day.”
“Nothing sinister. I promise.”
He chews on his lip. “It’s none of my business. Hell, I don’t care if you screw the entire cheer squad so long as you’re putting down the numbers, but I must say I am a little worried about what we talked about the other day.”
“Your PI found something?”
He looks left and right before drawing closer to me. “That’s just it. This guy is dependable. I’ve used him many, many times before. I’m talking daily updates, emails, but this time? Nothing for forty-eight hours.”
I scratch my neck. “Maybe he’s laying low, sick or something?”
Morgan shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. He always sends through an update—always. If I text him, he gets back to me right away. I’ve tried six times today and still haven’t had a response. It’s odd, completely out of character.”
“The guy’s a personal investigator. I’d think his entire life revolves around odd.”
“I’m worried, Chance. Your instincts might be spot-on.”
I consider the possibilities. So Sam was working at a Vegas parlor. She implicitly said she got out of there before things got too heated, but who knows? The kind of guys who run these places are scumbags, fucking animals who only care about one thing, and it’s not the welfare of the talent. I’ve been in enough clubs to know.
Morgan’s onto me. “She say something to you, son?”
I don’t know how much to tell him. I’m sure Sam told me in confidence, but if it involves her welfare… “She told me she worked for a massage parlor in Vegas.”
“One of those massage parlors?”
I nod. “One of those, yes, but she didn’t know and she didn’t get involved with any clients before she realized what was going on.”
Morgan ponders on it, tapping a closed fist against the concrete wall beside him. “Does she trust you?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think you could ask her more about it, try and work out what the hell’s going on here? I mean, I could do it, but it would be better coming from a pin-up boy like yourself, right?”
Yes, Sam did open up to me, but the last thing I want to do is push her away. In fact, the closer I get to her the more I want to protect her, stop the pain that is no doubt still there right under the surface. “I’ll try.”
Morgan claps me on the shoulder. “Okay. If I hear anything from the PI, I’ll let you know, and vice-versa, okay?”
“Okay.”
Morgan heads back down the tunnel until he’s swallowed up by the shadows.
*
“How’s the calf?”
I could die a happy man on this massage table, and she hasn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. “It’s a lot better, actually. You really do have magic hands.”
“At least you aren’t getting excited this time.”
Did she just say what I think she said? I lift myself from the table and look back. She’s beet red, eyes averted, but the smile’s there. Oh yeah she did. “I can’t control him. He sees something he likes and he goes for gold. I can flip over if you like, show—”
A harder squeeze on my calf. “That will not be required.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the tables have turned. The anti-flirt has become the flirt.
I speak down to the polished concrete through the hole in the table. “Do you mind if we talk about Vegas a little more?”
Be gentle here, brother. Real gentle.
I hear an audible gulp, but she manages to speak. “I need to concentrate, sorry, but maybe later?”
There’s no use trying to force her into it, so I simply reply “Sure.”
She continues to run her hands over my calf, fingers working at the tension there. “I think I’d like to see a bit more of LA. Do you know your way around?”
Do I know my way around? “What do you want to see? Where they filmed the chase scene in Terminator II, spend a fortune at Oscar de la Renta, or perhaps swing by where Ryan Gosling lives? We’re buds. He’s actually got a sick pad up in—”
“Somewhere to relax. Somewhere quiet.”
I have to laugh at that. “Somewhere quiet? In Los Angeles?”
“You’re telling me you don’t have somewhere special you take your groupies? A secret spot?”
My thighs tense as her hands glide higher. God, keep fucking going. Please. “What makes you think I have groupies? Bon Jovi has groupies. I have fans—crazy fans, as you saw with our little run-in.”
“Blondie?” she laughs. “She wanted more than an autograph alright…”
It comes to me. “So, you want to see something special? I’ve got something for you. Pick you up at eight?”
“You don’t know my address.”
“Not yet, but Glenda in payroll does love a bit of harmless flirting. I think it’s the roulette wheel. She’s always—”
“Okay, okay. Pick me up at eight. If you’re not there I’ll assume you didn’t flirt with poor ol’ Glenda hard enough.”
Hard enough—She doesn’t know the meaning those words, but she will.