Pete Mitchel sat at the bar feeling sorry for himself. Things hadn't gone as planned. Instead of raising enough money to bankroll his Hollywood scam, he had just enough left to get drunk on. Maybe, he grinned to himself sourly, enough to pass out on. He placed five dollars on the bar and nodded to the bartender, who responded in kind by collecting the money and refilling his empty glass. As Pete nursed his gin, he spotted Warren Langely.
Langely, a thin wiry sort with a deep friendly smile, slid onto the barstool next to him and coughed. “How's it going, Pete?” he asked, clearing his throat. “The baking soda business making any money?”
“Well, you know how it is.” Pete could feel his cheeks reddening. “A couple of things crapped out on me and …” He let the sentence die in his throat.
“Yeah, I know how it is.” Langely ordered a beer and sipped it before shaking his head, his smile growing friendlier. “Man,” he said, his eyes slightly amused, “you were supposed to be a bright guy from New York. You're here in Boston less than a month and you're peddling baking soda as coke. Not a very smart thing to do if you ask me.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Pete murmured. Warren Langely had befriended him when he had come to Boston, setting him on to a couple of ventures that had unfortunately busted out. While Pete liked the small, affable man, he wished Langely would leave so he could suffer his misery in peace.
“Don't you think you're acting stupid? The cops could pick you up for selling narcotics near a public school.”
“I'm not selling narcotics, am I? Just a common household product. As best I can see I'm saving these school kids a trip to the market.”
Langely gave the matter some thought and then slowly shook his head and chuckled softly. As he studied the foam fading from his beer his smile became somber. “I gotta tell you, buddy,” he said, “I feel bad for hooking you up with those busted jobs. I got a chance to make it up to you. Two grand worth.”
Pete turned to his companion, raising an eyebrow. “And how's that?”
“Nothing dangerous or anything. Nothing more than delivering a package to Las Vegas, but it's serious stuff. And serious people. You can't afford any kind of screw up. None whatsoever.”
Pete studied Langely through a gin-induced haze; the type a half dozen shots of cheap eighty-six proof rotgut would naturally produce. He could see apprehension in the small man's eyes. Obviously Langely had some doubts whether he could do a simple delivery job. He felt insulted, but the alcohol dulled his outrage. Slowly, he let a smile spread on his face from ear to ear. “You're talking to the right man,” he said at last.
The next day Langely brought Pete to a small Italian restaurant in Boston's North End. Pete felt dehydrated from his previous night's drinking. A hard, painful thumping knocked in his head and his tongue felt like a wool sock had been wrapped around it. From his outward appearance, though, it would've been impossible to tell he was suffering. His gray eyes were clear, his rough good-looking features appeared at ease. As usual, his grooming was impeccable.
A nod sent the two men to a private room in back. Sitting alone behind a table for eight was a large man with a severely receding hairline and tiny, dull eyes. Langely quickly ran to the man, dropped to one knee, grabbed the hand the large man waved to him, and pressed his lips against the heavy knuckles.
“Thank you, Mr. Carbone,” he said in a hushed, gravely serious tone. “We are deeply grateful for your audience. I would like to introduce you to my friend, Pete Mitchel.”
Langely released the man's hand, and Carbone again casually waved his hand, this time signaling for the two men to sit.
“Does your friend understand how important this is?” the large man demanded.
“Yes, Mr. Carbone.” Langely's head was bowed in reverence.
“You,” Carbone pointed a large sausage finger at Pete. “Do you consider yourself a bright man?”
“Yes, sir.”
Carbone sat motionless, staring at Pete, his small black eyes glazing over. Finally, satisfied, his eyes came to life. With a grunt, he lifted a briefcase onto the table and then pulled two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket – one he handed to Langely, the other to Pete.
“There are instructions inside,” he said to Pete, his eyes unblinking. “And a bus ticket to Las Vegas. You will deliver that briefcase to the address specified. There will be no mistakes. Swear your life to that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, swear your life to that.”
Pete shrugged. “I swear,” he said.
“No,” the large man shook his head. “Your life.”
“I swear my life.”
“Good.” A heavy weariness seemed to fall over Carbone’s face. “I take your pledge to heart,” he said. And with that, he picked up an Italian newspaper and ignored Pete and Langely.
The abruptness of the large man took Pete by surprise, but Langely was on his feet, profusely thanking Carbone for his generosity. He gave Pete an impatient signal to grab the briefcase and the two of them hurried out of the backroom. When they got to the street, Pete looked inside his envelope and saw that along with the bus ticket and instructions, there were twenty crisp hundred dollar bills. Langely let loose with a short whoop of relief and took a thousand dollars from his envelope. “My commission,” he said, a big smile stretched across his face.
Pete laughed. “Not bad for an hours work.”
“No, not bad.” Langely flashed Pete a sheepish look. “Not bad at all. I hope you keep in mind the promise you made.”
“What about it?”
“Well,” Langely hesitated. “You can’t make any mistakes with this, kid. He’s dead serious about that promise.”
The muscles around Pete’s mouth tightened, drawing his lips into a slight smile. He didn’t like what he perceived as Langely’s condescending attitude. After all this was only a delivery job. Any monkey in a suit could do it. “I could end up on the wrong bus and get lost, huh?” he asked.
Langely took a step back and raised both hands in a mock defensive posture. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just pointing out what has to be pointed out. This is serious business. I’m involved too, you know. If anything happens, they’re going to be coming after me also.”
“Sure.” A muscle in Pete’s jaw was pulsing like a rabbit’s heart. “You’re just being helpful.”
“Look, if you have any problems give me a call.” Langely slowly recited his phone number. “You want me to write it down?” he asked.
“That’s okay,” Pete said. “I’ve got it.”
“Well, enjoy the sun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” As Langely moved away, he brought a hand up as a kind of salute. Pete stood silently until the small man faded from sight, and then crossed the street and entered yet another small Italian restaurant, heading straight towards the bathroom.
He quickly went to work on the briefcase lock. It was easy. Within two minutes he had the case opened and its contents forced a genuine smile. In one corner of the case was a Browning .25 caliber automatic and a silencer. The rest of the case, though, was filled with tens, twenties, and hundreds. Pete thumbed through the stacks of bills and counted thirty thousand dollars. He took a deep breath and closed the case.
His palms felt moist. He rubbed them several times across his pants and took another deep breath before heading out onto the street. With thirty thousand dollars as seed money he should be able to do something. He checked his bus ticket. The trip to Vegas wasn’t for three days. That would give him enough time to go back to New York and organize a high stakes poker game. He’d have to kick in about five hundred for fake police uniforms and, of course, take on a couple of partners, but after the game was “busted” his split should at least match the seed money. Thirty grand would probably be enough for a Hollywood scam that had been playing in his mind for years. Right after the delivery to Vegas, he’d head straight to California.
There was a gorgeous redhead walking about thirty yards in front of him.
As plans whirled through his head, he found himself absent-mindedly enjoying the soft rhythmic motion of her hips. He was so absorbed by his own thoughts he didn’t pick up on the motives of the punk heading towards her. It wasn’t until the punk grabbed her handbag, and the woman screamed as the punk hit her, that the scene registered on him.
Pete then moved quickly. Within seconds he had sprinted to the punk, grasping the handbag and holding his briefcase with one hand and using his free hand to reach for an eight inch switchblade to persuade the punk with.
The punk tugged hard on the handbag and then pushed it away using all his weight. Caught off balance, Pete could feel his feet slipping out from beneath him. Next thing he knew, he was sitting on the sidewalk smack in the middle of a puddle. He felt stupid as he watched the punk run away.
The redhead was standing over him speechless. She was wearing a tight fitting business suit that showed off nice curves. Her green eyes were dazzling, but not quite as much, Pete noticed, as the diamond earrings she was wearing. Pete smiled at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I guess I’m a little shaken,” she said, color slowly seeping through her ashen paleness.
“How’s your cheek?”
“What? Oh.” She put a hand up to where she was struck, flinching slightly. “I must’ve rolled with the punch,” she said, smiling. “I think I’m okay.”
Pete nodded, returning her smile. He held up her handbag. “I believe this belongs to you, ma’am,” he said with the utmost courtesy.
All at once she started laughing – a nice, wholesome, friendly laugh. Pete liked it. He also felt stupid as all hell. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, wiping tears from her eyes. “Ha, ha, I’m so sorry. You just look so funny sitting in that puddle. But thank you.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” he said gruffly.
“I really am grateful to you for rescuing me.” Her dazzling eyes twinkled. “My hotel is less than a block away. Why don’t you come with me? We can get your suit dry-cleaned.”
She offered him her hand to help him out of the puddle. The beautiful redhead introduced herself as Lauren Hadley, visiting Boston on business. He introduced himself as PaulMichaels. As they walked, Pete laughed and joked with her, all the while trying to estimate the value of her earrings. They looked real to him. His sixth sense told him they were real. He’d get his chance to palm them off her. If they turned out to be cubic zirconium, he’d give them to Toni, his fiancée. If they were real diamonds, he’d sell them and use part of the proceeds to buy Toni a nice pair of cubic zirconium earrings.
By the time they got to her room, Pete was glad she had made the offer. And not just because of the diamonds. His clothes were soaking wet, from the lower part of his back to his thighs. They were uncomfortable and he was anxious to get out of them.
She pointed out the bathroom. “Paul, why don’t you change in there. You can take a shower and I’ll call the concierge about sending up a man’s robe. This place advertises two hour dry-cleaning. You don’t mind spending a couple of hours alone with me, do you?”
He flashed her a grin. “You do what you have to do,” he said.
“That’s awfully brave of you.” She took hold of his hands and placed them on the side of her face. The skin felt hot. “I’m still trembling from that mugger,” she breathed softly. There was a glint in her eyes.
Pete brought the briefcase into the bathroom and got out of his wet clothes, leaving his wallet, switchblade, and envelope on the vanity. He wrapped a towel around his waist and carried his soiled suit and underwear out to Lauren. As he headed back to the bathroom she called out to him, a warm throaty purr resonating in her voice, asking him not to be too long.
The hotel was a high class one and the room was really more of a suite with a separate sitting area in the bathroom. Pete examined the lock and was satisfied with it. Still, he propped a wicker chair under the door handle. One thing he took a great deal of pride in was his thoroughness. Always one step ahead of the next guy – which was why his recent setbacks had been so tough to swallow. He wasn’t used to his plans crumbling apart, and it hurt him deeply.
As Pete stepped into the shower and turned the hot water on, he could feel his body start to relax. Finally, the bad luck had run its course. Things were back to normal. Better than normal. First two grand for a simple delivery job, then thirty grand to borrow for seed money, and now diamond earrings that were probably worth five grand. And to top it off, an hour or so to tumble around with Lauren’s luscious and willing body. Pete smiled, wondering how long it would take for her peaches and cream skin to blush a deep red.
By the time he got out of the shower he was feeling on top of the world. As he reached for a towel, he noticed the bathroom door was missing. He stared at it, unable to comprehend why it was that way, and then a sickish feeling wormed its way into his stomach. He only half glanced at where he had left the briefcase, knowing full well it was gone.
He stood motionless, his eyes narrowed, his features marble hard. Peering out from the corners of his eyes he could see that the envelope was gone but his wallet and knife were still on the vanity. He let another minute pass before reaching for a towel. As he left the bathroom, he could see the bathroom door laying flat in the hallway. It had been taken off its hinges. When Pete had first entered the room, he had seen clothes scattered about and a suitcase next to the bed. They were no longer there. Of course, neither was Lauren.
Pete sat down on the bed, a towel wrapped around him, and tried to think. It was obvious that he had been set up. The redhead and punk had been tipped off about the briefcase, and he, like the first class putz that he was, handed it right to them.
Now he was stuck in a hotel room without any clothes and without any real hope. He wanted to call Toni. To beg her to drive up from New York and rescue him. He wanted to, but he knew he couldn’t. It would be tough enough under normal circumstances to explain how he was literally caught with his pants down, but it would be impossible with the way things stood between them. Before he left to Boston, they had had a doozy of a fight – one of their worst. Well, he had really only been a spectator, with Toni screaming enough for both of them.
It had ended badly. With tears streaming down her face, Toni announced their engagement was over. She was sick of his excuses about why they couldn’t set a wedding date. She finally realized he was a lousy stinking jerk who had no intention of living up to his word. Then in dramatic fashion, she stormed from their apartment, her sobs echoing painfully from the hallway. During their five-year engagement it was the first time she’d threatened to break things off, and it had Pete worried.
As much as he hated to do it, he called Warren Langely.
# #
Langely paced the hotel room, his small body moving in short jerky motions.” Less than an hour and you lose the case. Less than a goddamn hour!”
Pete sat silently. Langely glared at him, his eyes burning with anger. “A real smart guy, aren’t you? Too smart to listen to me, huh? Well, I’m sorry I insulted you before by trying to warn you to be careful. I guess you showed me!”
Pete met Langely’s angry stare. “I was set up …” he tried to explain.
“Don’t give me that crap. You screwed up, plain and simple.”
Pete shrugged. “Okay, I screwed up. What next?”
“What next?” An indignant snort exploded from the small man. He shook his head with disgust and then curled his lips and let loose with a string of curses. When Langely had arrived at the hotel room, he had brought Pete a soiled work shirt, a pair of worn corduroys, and an army jacket. The clothes smelled heavily of garlic and onions, and itched around the crotch, neck, and armpits. He now listened as Langely compared him to the different anatomical parts of a donkey. He had half a mind to deck the small man, but a sickish feeling deep in his gut held him back.
“Let me explain it to you,” Langely seethed. “Mr. Carbone needed a job done outside of the family. You see, if he went to the fami
ly with it, he’d have to split a good deal of money with them and he didn’t want to. So you screwing up will put him in a very uncomfortable situation. And since I recommended you, I too will be made very uncomfortable. But believe me, not as much as you.”
From his outward appearance Pete seemed calm and unconcerned. Inside, though, he was dying. His instinct was to flee, and he would’ve if he’d had any money. He considered rolling Langely for whatever was in his pockets, but decided against it. He asked how they were going to square things with Carbone.
“I don’t know,” Langely answered dully. “You meet me at Jack’s in two hours and I’ll see what I can come up with. And trust me, you better show up.”
The small man gave Pete a sullen stare and then left in a huff. Pete sat for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Fortunately, the redhead left his shoes. Thank heaven for little things, he told himself as he slipped them on.
Jack’s bar was a little cubbyhole of a place bordering Boston’s Chinatown and theatre district. When Pete showed up there he was still wearing the ratty clothes Langely had brought him, having been too depressed to bother going back to his hotel to change out of them.
The bar was crowded, filled with a mix of hookers, college students, and businessmen. As Pete pushed his way in, he caught sight of Langely. The small man looked in his direction, then left his seat and headed to the back of the bar. Pete followed him. Noises lofted through the air: glasses being slid across tables, a woman shouting angrily, men laughing.
Langely had found an isolated spot. When Pete approached him, he stared at Pete with eyes that were nothing more than cold ice chunks. He spoke in a voice that was painfully low. “I arranged for us to meet with Mr. Carbone tomorrow night. Before that you’re going to make it up to him.”
“W-What do you mean?” Pete said, amazed to hear himself stutter.
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