"I told you not to call me that. You've seen the Godfather way too many times."
"I apologize, Mr. San Giovanni."
"Why does that sound even worse? Call me Vince."
"Can't do that, sir. Breaks protocol."
"Lee, sometimes I can't tell if you're fucking with me."
"Sir, my ex-wife would attest to my lack of humor."
"I'll be at the bar on the second floor. The cleaners are heading to my place."
"What happened?"
"Your men are slacking, Lee. How did five mooks dressed in black get up to the penthouse without alerting any of you assholes?" I drop the bonhomie act.
"Sir, I--"
"I want a full report in the morning. Be at the bar in…." I look at my gold and platinum Breitling. "Seven minutes. That's how long it'll take me to finish one drink." I hang up.
I like Lee, but some of the boys are still pretty sore that I got rid of their buddy Sammy, and they haven't warmed up to the new guy yet. I'll give him another couple of months. After all, the guy took a bullet in the shoulder meant for me just a month ago.
These Secret Service blokes don't fuck around.
All my guys live in this building owned by my family company, Neptune Holdings. It's convenient. I've got security twenty-four-seven, which is important in my line of work--though it failed on an epic scale this evening. The team and I will have to do a postmortem in the morning and see what went wrong and what can be improved upon in the future.
I get to the second floor and head to Suzette's– a cozy little bar attached to a French restaurant. The first three floors of this building are high-end retail shops, restaurants, and bars. The residential areas with more beefed-up security are from the fourth floor up to the penthouse.
I really must review the guest protocols with the director of security for this building. Somebody fucked up and that somebody was going to pay.
I walk up to the counter but find no available seating. I meet the bartender's eyes and signal to the kid who looks underage trying to score a drink. The bartender tells the little punk to scram, opening up a seat for me.
Manuel comes up, wiping the spot in front of me with a clean white dishtowel. "The usual, boss?"
I nod as he prepares a gin and tonic with Hendricks’ Gin. The good thing about being in charge is not having to say a word, and people just bow and scrape to get things done for me. I reward those who serve me well accordingly.
Those who fuck up?
Well, some people are just destined to end up in the woodchipper.
I’m almost certain that’s in the Bible somewhere. Leviticus or something. Studying in England made me a terrible Catholic. I’m Anglican at most.
From the corner of my eye, I see a figure in a red dress about to approach me. Blonde, maybe about five-nine, more curves to her than a racetrack. I smell her, too. Cigarettes, vodka, and Chanel No. 5. My father tells me I have the nose of a bloodhound. But just as she’s about to tap my shoulder, she stops and turns away. I smile to myself and nod my thanks at Manuel. He knows when I don’t want to be bothered– and that’s all the time. He sets down my drink in front of me as well as a cocktail napkin, which has something scrawled on it.
“Odessa is looking for you.”
I raise my head and meet the bartender’s gaze. Without moving anything else, he rolls his eyes to my left. At the end of the bar are two thugs from a new Ukrainian gang trying to break into the LA scene. They’ve previously contacted me and offered to help take care of my Laotian problem. At the time, I said no, but with the Yaks moving in and thinking they can just start some shit in my town, I might need to outsource a little.
I nod at Manuel, who gives me another cocktail napkin and a pen. I write, “I’ll find you when I have the time. Don’t come back.”
I go back to my drink and down a couple of mouthfuls, wondering how I’m going to tell my shrink that I killed five guys tonight without a second thought. Hey, a man can’t stay in my line of work and not get a little fucked in the head, so I see a therapist once a week. Sure, the shrink is owned by the family, and it’s not like he’s going to go running to the cops, but I did tell him I was going to ease up on the killing. Can’t be helped, doc.
My phone buzzes in my jacket's inside pocket, and I take it out to see a message from my brother. “Some greasers are trying to front. You gotta see this shit.”
Fuck.
I have a degree in International Law from Oxford and an MBA as well as a JD from Harvard. Yet, I basically play nursemaid to my younger brother, the buffoon.
Just as I’m about to finish my drink, Lee and the two other guys I requested show up in the mirror above the bar. I pull a fifty out of my billfold and leave it under my empty glass for Manuel.