"We've got an issue to deal with," Tomasso said two days later as I wrapped up the last of my training. "I need your help.”

"What do you need?" I asked, putting away the last of the plates I was using. I’d stripped off my t-shirt after finishing my work, and catching a glance of myself in the mirror, I stopped, surprised at what was looking back at me. I really wasn’t in as good of shape before as I thought I was. I looked hard, befitting a Bertoli man.

"You okay?" Tomasso asked, tapping me on the shoulder. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

I nodded. “Nothing, just lost in thought," I said. “What’s up?”

"Tonight's all about intelligence gathering. That job you did on the run to Castle Rock, it contained information that my father wants to verify. One of the local street gangs seem to be trying to go back on the agreement they have with my father."

"What are they trying to do?" I asked as we left the gym and headed outside. The weather was starting to get chilly, and Tomasso wanted to get as much time outside that he could before the winter dreariness socked in. "I don't know that crew."

"They’re small and based out of the Industrial District and part of Beacon Hill," Tomasso said. "They started out as a Latino crew, but nowadays they are mixed. They reached out to us some time ago, and we came to an agreement with them. We provide protection as long as they abide by the rules.”

“Which are?” I asked, taking a seat. I shivered, and wished I'd grabbed a sweatshirt or a jacket after the change in temperature. Summer was pretty much over, and fall was coming on. "Sorry."

"No, go grab something," Tomasso said. "No need for you to catch a cold so close to the dance competition in Vegas."

I dashed inside, grabbing the hooded sweatshirt that I wore that day before starting training and coming back out, finding that Tomasso had already ordered Jessie to bring out two cups of coffee, big mugs that I saw were laced with cream and sugar. "Before you complain, you need the calories and the energy," he said, sipping his coffee. "So let's see, where was I?"

“Some small timers violating an agreement?"

Tomasso nodded. "Right. They agreed that any street dealing they did went through us for suppliers, and that they were to limit what they dealt. Also they agreed to put limits on the types of vice that they organized. No pimping, and no underground casinos. Those were to be controlled by us.”

"So what's changed?" I asked, suppressing the shiver of disgust I felt at the fact that the Bertolis controlled the prostitution game in Seattle. I knew that it existed, it always does, but after holding Carmen in my arms, I was starting to feel doubts about it.

"It seems the Gatos are changing suppliers," Tomasso said. "According to our friends in Portland, they've been in contact with some groups out east in Spokane that we're not friendly with. They're connected with some of the pipeline that's been growing. Mexico through El Paso, up through New Mexico and through the Rockies. The Pacific Northwest groups have kept them out for the most part, those guys don't give a fuck about purity or honor or anything like that. So they can undercut our suppliers and bring in new shit that we don't allow here in Seattle, like that Russian shit, Krokodil. Maybe it's a fine line we walk here, Dante, but it's one that I see. I won't allow bad shit into this town."

"So you want me to gather intelligence," I said. "Anything in particular?"

Tomasso nodded. "Yeah. Go down, stay inconspicuous. See what the Gatos are up to. Report back, then you can get ready to go to Vegas."

"Not quite," I said with a grin as I got up. "We've got one more practice tomorrow morning. Then I get ready to go to Vegas."

* * *

For work that night I was dressed as far from being a Bertoli man as I could, in a Mariners jacket, my hair pulled back into the beginnings of a small ponytail, and wearing a dirty, slightly threadbare set of BDU pants. I looked like any of the regular residents of the area, and I had taken the bus down to SoDo, where our information had the greatest activity by the Gatos. I could see Safeco Field a few blocks over when I got off, and in the distance the skyscrapers of downtown gleamed in the night sky. I was glad that the rain, which had threatened for most of the afternoon, had held off, and I hoped I could find information quickly before the clouds changed their mind.

Walking along the sidewalk, I kept my eyes peeled for the signs of the Gatos. I'd seen a few pictures of their graffiti tags, and kept my eyes open for a black cat spray painted anywhere.

It didn't take me long, the Gatos had kept themselves busy, and I saw tags on two different buildings within minutes. The problem was that I didn't see any Gatos. I spent nearly an hour walking around the neighborhood, trying to find anyone, and all I saw were the normal residents, mostly artists who crashed and squatted in the semi-industrial buildings that filled the area. Finally, I turned to the other regular residents of the district, the homeless that dotted the streets.

"Hey bro," I said, approaching one of the homeless, an older guy that didn't look too mentally unbalanced, "think you can help?"

"Tha depenz," the guy said, shifting under the ratty blanket that he had wrapped around his shoulders. His grocery cart, tucked away in the space in between the man and the dumpster he was using as his shelter for the evening, was full of his earthly possessions, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath already. Rotgut gin by the smell of him. "Wass innit fur me?"

"Enough for you to get a decent meal and maybe some left over," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a folded twenty-dollar bill. Inside my jacket I had my Beretta, but I didn't want to use it unless I had to. "Whaddya say?"

"Whatchoo looking fur, missa?" the bum asked, his eyes fixed on Andrew Jackson's face.

"Some action," I replied. "Heard some Black Cats were in the neighborhood."

The homeless guy nodded. "Rizal Park, missa. Thosh assholes chased me outta there, now I gotta sleep here. Assholes."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out another twenty. "Thanks, man. Try to use it on good stuff and not cheap liquor."

The bum shrugged and made it disappear. "Maybe I'ma go ta Burgah King. Thanks."

I shook my head and turned east, cutting over on South Lander Street until I hit the Interstate, where I turned north. Dr. Jorge Rizal Park is part of a complex of three parks that are at the intersection of Interstate 5 and Interstate 90, and marked the northern border of Beacon Hill in my mind. Crossing under the Interstate, I followed the Greenway Trail, a popular running and biking trail in the area, to Rizal Park.

I slowed up as I approached the park, not wanting to be seen. Tomasso had told me my job was to gather information, not to get involved tonight. The problem was that I couldn't just loiter in the area, it wasn't that bad of a neighborhood that someone loitering wouldn't be noticed, at least an outsider loitering.

I hung out near the apartments nearby for about twenty minutes, hoping that the bum had been a bit off in his directions before I headed up the road to Rizal Park, trying to look like I didn't have a care in the world despite it being nearly eleven at night.

I saw my first Gato when I was approaching Judkins and 12th, the southeast edge of the park. It was a perfect hangout for a drug dealer, as it was approachable in only three directions, and if a cop approached, it was easy to melt away into the park and just further on, the maze of onramps and off ramps that made up the Interstate junctions. The Gato was wearing the traditional colors of black and green with a hat that had their symbol, copied from the Japanese delivery company Yamato Transport. The "kuroneko" (black cat) was easy to copy for tagging, and easy to get because of the fact that SoDo was also the home to an Asian market that had been around since 1928.

I melted into the shadows of a nearby building, watching as the guy stood on the corner pretty brazenly, waiting for customers to come by. Neither of us had to wait long as in about five minutes, a scrawny teen girl, obviously jonesing for something, came by. "Billy, I need a hookup."

"Go screw, Candy," Billy said, just loud enough for me to hear. "Your credit is no good here, and I don't need a suck job right now."

"It's okay, I got some goods now," Candy said, scratching at her arm even as she pulled something out of the pocket of her jeans. "I got me a sugar daddy, he's good."

"What is this, fourteen karats?" Billy sneered as he held up the item, which I could see was a gold chain of some type. "Your sugar daddy must not be that rich, or else you ain't turning out what he wants before he gives you the real thing."

"Still, that's gotta be good for somethin', right?" Candy asked.

He thought about it for a moment, then shook. “Next time, you bring me cash only. I don't care if you gotta give your sugar daddy every bit of your pussy or ass or whatever. And don't be hoping to trade pussy for merchandise, you haven't been clean in who the fuck knows how long."

Billy pocketed the chain and passed Candy something, so small he was able to conceal it in his palm as they touched hand to hand. "Thanks, Billy. I’ll be good next time, I promise."

Candy walked off and disappeared into the night. The next customer was not too far behind, and I watched as Billy dealt for another two hours, until nearly one in the morning before abandoning the corner and walking off into the park. That presented me with a problem. I knew the routes out of the area, and at the time I was limited in my options. The buses and link trains were shut down for the night, and I was miles from home, and the way I was dressed, getting a taxi was a long shot.

I cut northwest, avoiding the park but still making my way to King Street Station, which would be closed for another four and a half hours before it would open. However, I was able to safely pull out the burner phone that I'd taken with me downtown, and dialed Tomasso.

"Yeah?"

“All done. Can I get a pickup?"

"No can do," Tomasso said, "we're rolling on another situation. Can you get yourself back home?"

I sighed, nodding even as I spoke. "Yeah. It'll take a while, but I can do it."

"Good man. If you really need it though, I can call in a favor. Is there something to the rumors?"

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. But yeah, you're going to need some presence down here."

"Okay. Talk to you tomorrow."

The phone went dead, and I put it away, groaning. I knew that Tomasso was a busy man, after all, even in the Mafia we did have to put in work. But still, I’d hoped that by two in the morning things would have calmed down for the night.

Sighing, I turned toward my apartment. Even if I broke into a jog, not a good idea when you're carrying a pistol at night, it would take me nearly an hour to get to my place.

"No use whining about it," I muttered, walking away from the station. Maybe I'd get lucky, I thought. Maybe there would be a taxi driver who'd be willing to take a risk on a grungy looking guy out that late heading toward the poorer neighborhoods, if he saw the money in my pocket.

As I walked, I distracted myself, trying to think about my trip to Vegas coming up. I was excited honestly, as I hadn't been there in years, not since a lucky Christmas bonus and a friend scoring discount tickets on Southwest had me and him sharing a room at the Hard Rock, where we blew our entire gambling budget in about three hours, but still had the time of our lives going around, getting drunk off our asses, and later on, when my friend had found a UNLV girl who was willing to do a little partying, I'd split off on my own, walking the strip nearly all night, just enjoying the city. I watched with knowing eyes as men who were in the positions I wanted to be in at the time took care of business, cool and collected. They were the guys I wanted to be, and now I had the chance to be one of them. I'd left Vegas just a broke working kid who had a bad rep and a dream. I was coming back still with a dream, but with my self-respect and knowledge that I was fucking going places.

Except for getting a taxi. I staggered into my apartment at nearly four in the morning, twenty-three hours after I'd gotten up that morning, having walked the entire distance from King Station to my apartment, locking the door behind me with tired hands and bleary eyes. I set my alarm, praying I'd get up in time, laid down, and hoped Carmen didn't have any major new ideas to go over for practice in two hours.