Dressed to Kill by Vincent Zandri

Author:Vincent Zandri [Zandri, Vincent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bear Noir
Published: 2017-02-26T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Two

Albany, New York 60 Hours Later

I was debating whether or not to eat the second half of my Italian combo with extra provolone submarine when the goons walked in without knocking. They were big. Bigger than my five feet ten, and chestier. Not like gym rats but more like chronic 'roid users. Muscles for show rather than the smaller but more utilitarian muscles I worked on in the Albany Strength gym five days a week. Mine weren’t nearly as glamorous or tough looking. But they worked the way I expected them to on those occasions when I was required to punch someone or be punched, and that was just fine by me.

The first goon, a black man whom I took for the leader, shot me a look from underneath a pair of sleek wrap-around Ray-Ban sunglasses. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a matching blue tie and a gray button-down shirt underneath. His shorter, whiter, but just as stocky partner wore an identical suit, shirt, tie, and sunglasses. Both of them had earbud wireless radio devices shoved in their left ear canals so that they could communicate with whoever was monitoring them from the outside. My guess was they thought they looked Jason Bourne-cool and that other people were in awe, if not fear, of them. I thought they looked like funeral directors.

As they searched the room with their eyes, turning every now and then on the balls of their feet, I just hoped they didn’t decide to search my sandwich. I was still hungry after all.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The taller one shot me another crooked glance. No response.

“Someone die?” I said.

Tall Goon gave Short Goon a look like I wasn’t supposed to say that. Or it wasn’t in their script anyway.

“What?” Tall Goon said. “Who said anything about anyone dying?”

I sat far back in my grandfather’s old hand-me-down swivel chair, worked up a friendly smile. “You look like funeral home directors.”

Short Goon bit down on his bottom lip. “He’s being an asshole, Stanley. Told you everyone thinks he’s an asshole. He must have learned that shit when he was warden at Green Haven. The boss ain’t gonna like him. Thinks he’s a know-it-all. Know what I’m sayin’, Stanley?” “Forget him and concentrate on the job, Brent,” Stanley said.

“Who called me a know-it-all?” I said. “I just wanna finish my lunch.”

Tall Goon/Stanley completed his search of the room. Apparently satisfied that I didn’t have a bomb rigged up for his boss or that I wasn’t hiding a Fox News reporter in the corner or that the place wasn’t bugged for sound, he made for the door and waved whoever was hidden behind the wall to come in.

When the suited man came through the door, Brent and Stanley took their places beside the open door. Each of them unbuttoned their jackets, allowed them to open just enough for me to make out the black grips on their service automatics.

Intimidating.

The half sandwich set before me smelled good. I didn’t want to be talking to clients right now no matter how important they were.

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