Stepping outside, into the light drizzle, the Tin Man said, “It is time to go home, kitten.”
Chapter Two
Manhattan. Dead of winter.
It’s so cold I think my balls have closed up shop and gone home. Home, back in Florida, where it’s a beautiful seventy degrees this time of year. They’re basking in the glow of the warm southern sunshine, while I’m stuck here, freezing my cock off out by the East River.
Two o’clock in the morning. Twenty-one degrees. It feels closer to zero with the way the frigid air seeps through my thick black coat, the fake-ass fur-lined hood not enough to keep me warm. My ears are frozen. My nose is running, it’s so goddamn cold. It’s like tiny needles jabbing my skin, over and over, obnoxious little pinpricks, stinging and numbing me.
I’d rather be stabbed with a knife than deal with frostbite.
Snow from a recent storm is still spread out along the worn, wooden dock, layered over patches of slick ice… ice I almost busted my ass on not once, not twice, but three times as I walked along it. I wasn’t made for trekking through slush, that’s for damn sure. My boots are wet, my toes about to join my nutsack far away.
You’ve got to be a fucking fool to be out here at this time of day.
Fucking fool.
That’s what I am.
That’s me.
Lorenzo ‘Fucking Fool’ Gambini.
Say it with me.
Because here I stand on the dock, hands shoved in my pockets, fingertips tingling, struggling to pay attention to the schmuck five feet in front of me as he yammers away about a card game that was robbed last night, like I give a shit about some small-time gamblers in a city rich with, well, riches.
“So, like I said, my boss says the deal is—”
He’s still talking. My teeth are chattering.
How has my life come to this?
“Are you homeless?”
My question comes out in a cloud of breath that lingers between us, like the words are caught mid-air, frozen in the cold night. It cuts off his tireless rambling as he looks at me for the first time since arriving, his eyes widening with surprise… or horror, maybe.
Given it’s me he’s here with, I’d say the latter is likely.
He stares at my face for a second too long and he knows it, because before I have a chance to say anything about it, he averts his gaze, his eyes going straight to a pile of snow by his feet that he nervously kicks at, like a bad little boy that knows he’s about to get a whipping.
“Uh, no, I mean… why would you think…?”
“Because you asked me to meet you here.” Pulling my hand from my pocket, I wave around us, at the graffiti-riddled, bum-infested area. “We could’ve met anywhere… a bar, a restaurant, a fucking all-night Laundromat… but no. You ask me here. Nobody comes here unless they’ve got nowhere else they can go. So tell me, are you homeless?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just, you know… safer here.”
“Safer.” Seriously? “You think it’s safer to meet me right by the river, when it’s so dark that I could just toss your body in and nobody would give a shit?”
“But my boss—”
“Is a fucking fool,” I say, cutting him off again. “More of a fool than I was for agreeing to come to this bullshit charade of a meeting with some underling when I could be at home… in bed… with the gorgeous little blonde still riding me that I had to kick out an hour ago in order to make it here on time, which is saying something, you know, because that’s starting to rank as the second biggest mistake of my life, and I don’t even like that woman. She talks too damn much.”
The guy looks at me again. It’s just a flickering glance, but it tells me that somewhere deep inside of him, he’s got guts. He’s got balls that haven’t yet tucked tail and run. The kind of balls that can withstand all of this goddamn cold. Balls of steel.
He came alone on the instructions of his boss, a man by the name of George Amello. Ol’ Mello Yello was one of many so-called ‘bosses’ to spring up after the great ‘Mafia Massacre’, as the media oh-so-poetically dubbed it, when the heads of the notorious New York crime families were executed in a room over in Long Island, paving the way for me to take over the city.
The competition nowadays? Pretty goddamn dismal.
They’re so inexperienced, so melodramatic, that it’s boring. They think they’re playing a game of The Godfather, pretending to be Michael Corleone when they’ll never be more than a weak ass Fredo. They’re pussies, and quite frankly, I’m growing tired of dealing with any kind of pussy that doesn’t come attached to a shapely female form. That pussy, I’ll spend my life worshiping, but these guys? These buffoons?
They’re not worth losing my balls over.
I happen to like my balls. They accentuate my cock quite nicely, you know. I’d show you, but well... you’ve got to earn that first. So pay attention, okay? There’s work to do here.
“Look,” I say, having had my fill of this winter bullshit. A few flakes trickle from the cloud-coated sky, which is my cue to take my ass inside somewhere. “There’s a bar right down the street, called Whistle something or whatever.”
A throat clears behind me. “Whistle Binkie.”
I almost forgot I brought Seven along tonight. He’s always there to flank me when I need cover but never one to get in the way. I appreciate that. People in my way tend to get run over, and I’d hate to have to run over one of my best men. He’s a bit older than me, mid-forties, and has been calling these streets home since he was just a kid. Dressed in all black from head to toe, he blends into the darkness just like he intends to do.
The man is my shadow.
“That’s the one,” I say. “I’m going to go get a drink at Whistle Binkie before they close. You want to finish this conversation? That’s where I’ll be. But this?” I motion around us again. “This ain’t happening, man.”
The guy just stands there, saying nothing, as I walk away, heading back to my car parked near the dock. Seven keeps up with my stride, not even wavering as I slide on the ice, damn near falling yet again. I hate winter.
Annoyed, I climb in the passenger seat of my black BMW, not bothering with the seatbelt. It’s only a block away. I could walk, sure, but I have a feeling it would be more like ice-skating, and I don’t ice skate.
Not willingly, anyway.
Seven drives. He was smart enough to wear gloves tonight, black leather clinging to his long fingers as he clutches the steering wheel. A ski mask is shoved up, perched on top of his head, mostly concealed by his hoodie, the oversized hood of it up, dropping down over his forehead. Seven’s an average-sized guy, about my height and kind of lanky, his skin a deep olive tone that looks like leather.
He stops the car in front of Whistle Binkie, double-parking and turning the hazards on. “You need me to come in with you, boss?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” I say. “Find a spot, I’ll call when I’m ready. Don’t go too far.”
“Yes, boss.”
Getting out, I step around the parked cars, up onto the sidewalk, and pause there as Seven drives away. He doesn’t drink. It’s against his religion, he says. Raised Mormon, he still adheres to some of the principles, like not drinking alcohol or screwing around, although it seems the ‘no killing folks’ aspect is more negotiable with the guy. After he rounds the corner down the block, I push the door open and step inside the bar.
It’s somewhat busy, but that’s not really a surprise, is it? It’s Saturday night in the city that never sleeps and the beer at this place is dirt cheap. I find a stool along the side of the bar and sit down, motioning to the bartender, a young guy, barely old enough to drink.
He wanders over, eyeing me like I’m a rabid animal that might maul him if he comes near.
I’m used to the look. I’ve been getting it for years, ever since I was sixteen and my stepfather beat me half to death with a shovel. Part of my face never recovered, a scar covering the right half, slicing through my eye and running down my cheek. I’m blind on that side, the eye cloudy, a lighter shade of blue than I’d been born with.