Mystic Wind by James Barretto

Author:James Barretto
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Groaning under his weight, the tired stairs announced Matt Marino’s arrival even before he entered Tony’s Gym. Not that anyone could hear him over the thunderous clanking of free weights and the raucous jock-banter.

Matt scanned the room. The scent of steroids hung in the air.

“Hey,” shouted a muscle-head behind the counter.

With a flip of his hand, Matt waved him off. His quarry was in the corner.

Matt reached his man just as Roger “Rat” Ferriter hoisted the bar back onto the bench rack with an enormous grunt. Rat’s upper torso was shredded with muscle that tapered down to a stomach that looked like it was carved out of marble. All ’roids.

Staring at the ceiling, his back reclined on the bench, Rat turned his head and spat on the floor, inches from Matt’s feet. “I work alone,” he grunted.

“I’ve got a few questions,” Matt said. “Why don’t I spot you.”

“Only a bitch needs a spotter,” Rat said.

“Tough guy?” said Matt.

Turning to his side, Rat stood, revealing himself to be about 6’3”, a bit taller than Matt, blue tatts like snakes running down his chiseled arms.

“Tougher than you, fuck-face,” Rat said, looking around the gym. “And one word from me, and you’re not getting out of here.”

Matt smiled. “We’ll see. Gym-tough ain’t always street-tough.”

Three black 50-pound York plates hung on each side of Rat’s barbell. Matt took a silent breath and reached down with both hands in an overhand grip. He snatched the weight off the bench. With a low grunt, Matt clean-jerked the bar over his head in a standard military press.

He held the bar motionless for an instant, the enormous weight bending the bar slightly. Then Matt put his head down, threw his right leg back and heaved the enormous weight at Rat without buckling an inch.

The crash at Rat’s feet was deafening. Everyone in the gym turned and stared at the two men.

“The fuck!” Rat yelled.

“How’d Tommy Regan end up dead that night at TC’s?”

Recognition glinted in Rat’s eyes. “You’re with that fuckin’ lawyer.”

“I’d watch your mouth. That ‘fuckin’ lawyer’ is my brother.”

“Whatever,” Rat said. “Just like I told him, I don’t know who the fuck killed Tommy. Don’t care, either.”

Matt moved over to the dumbbell rack and picked up a shiny hundred-pounder, holding it up high in the air with one arm, hatchet-style.

Rat got the message. He sat back down on the bench.

“Are drugs being sold out of The Treasure Chest?” Matt asked. He lowered the dumbbell to the floor.

Rat’s lips compressed. “No fuckin’ secret,” he said. “Been sellin’ shit outta there for years.”

“Who sells it?”

Rat shook his head.

Matt looked down at the dumbbell. “I won’t miss this time,” he said without emotion.

A pained look. “Bartenders handle it.”

“Mickey Nolan too?”

“He’s in the middle of everything.”

“What’re they selling?’”

Rat grabbed the sweat rag next to him and threw it on the floor. “Whatever you want. Coke. Smack. Meth. Look, I don’t ask questions. No one does.”

“And why’s that?”

“Fuck,” Rat said. “Maybe somethin’ to do with the line of Harleys out front.

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