may not really have used her real name. Doubtful on both counts. The Grant in Sammy’s pocket may not have bought me much.
In one week, the following Tuesday, I needed the last payment for Vince. Fifteen grand. If I didn’t come up with it, I’d owe twenty-five grand the following week, a ten-grand late fee. After that, the pink monkey would firebomb my apartment and remove the nose of my closest family member or friend. I needed those paintings, those goodies Huey lost. Max said he’d pay fifty grand for them. I was supposed to get forty percent, that’s standard for the setup, netting me twenty grand, but the crew would never stand for splitting thirty grand. Huey would take his forty percent, leaving Frank and Kootie with only nine grand. That’s way below scale. So if I only got thirty I’d have to lower my percentage to keep the troops happy, which would make me unhappy. I’d have to negotiate that fifty up. I was expecting Max to offer one hundred, which would put me square with Vince with plenty to spare. Of course, I could try to finesse some money out of Huey’s end from that, but not another ten. This sucked.
If Billy Bank was a dead end on Ms. French, my next connection was Huey, Frank, or Kootie. If they didn’t take it directly, they leaked it to someone else, because I didn’t tell anybody. They were the connection I had to work on. If that didn’t give me dividends, the goofballs who took the pips from my three stooges were almost certainly in the business. So somebody must know them. Before the day was over I would have to feel up the neighborhood to see if I could scare something up. That’s what I did for a living, after all, what I did best. Something, even something small, should pop. Goofballs don’t keep secrets very well, not inside the industry.
Not for nothing, but I was still getting pretty anxious about having to start looking from scratch.
My phone vibrated, and I had a new e-mail. I was hoping it was Blaise, that he might have some information on my goofballs that would give me a lift.
It was from Max at USA.
Lunch me. 12:00 Sushi Ole.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
SUSHI ISN’T MY THING, AND I think Max knew it. Which I guess was OK because I hadn’t been very hungry since Jo-Ball’s head exploded. Ensuing events hadn’t exactly kicked off any cravings, either.
Usually I can eat, like to eat, need to eat. My six-foot-six frame needs nourishment, and let’s remember that I’m a man of appetites. Just not for cold rice rolled up in clammy seaweed, or dead fish that hasn’t been shown some hot coals. Somehow adding wasabi is supposed to make everything OK. It doesn’t. Well, more for the rest of you who like this stuff.
I’m not crazy about the atmosphere at sushi places, either. The seats and tables are designed by a smaller race of people for a smaller race of people. I’m just saying.
It didn’t help that this sushi place was in downtown Manhattan. You don’t want to be in or around the financial district at lunch if you can help it. All those giant buildings empty onto the street, and there’s a sense of desperation as hundreds of thousands of workers hit the bricks in search of food. Delis and restaurants in the area had a hard time meeting demand, much less making ends meet what with the commercial rents down there. In a sit-down place the tables were practically on top of each other. In delis, people ate standing up. I don’t like eating standing up. The neighborhood was so pressed for noon nourishment that food carts appeared at corners, creating long lunchtime lines, further snarling up the sidewalks and foot traffic.
Fortunately, I exited the subway at Fulton Street station a little early, so the lunchtime herd hadn’t begun its daily stampede. I started toward J&R, a music store. Thought I might browse the Latin jazz section. I’d been thinking about adding to my Ray Santos collection.
My phone blurped. An e-mail came in. It was from Blaise, as promised.
There
In one week, the following Tuesday, I needed the last payment for Vince. Fifteen grand. If I didn’t come up with it, I’d owe twenty-five grand the following week, a ten-grand late fee. After that, the pink monkey would firebomb my apartment and remove the nose of my closest family member or friend. I needed those paintings, those goodies Huey lost. Max said he’d pay fifty grand for them. I was supposed to get forty percent, that’s standard for the setup, netting me twenty grand, but the crew would never stand for splitting thirty grand. Huey would take his forty percent, leaving Frank and Kootie with only nine grand. That’s way below scale. So if I only got thirty I’d have to lower my percentage to keep the troops happy, which would make me unhappy. I’d have to negotiate that fifty up. I was expecting Max to offer one hundred, which would put me square with Vince with plenty to spare. Of course, I could try to finesse some money out of Huey’s end from that, but not another ten. This sucked.
If Billy Bank was a dead end on Ms. French, my next connection was Huey, Frank, or Kootie. If they didn’t take it directly, they leaked it to someone else, because I didn’t tell anybody. They were the connection I had to work on. If that didn’t give me dividends, the goofballs who took the pips from my three stooges were almost certainly in the business. So somebody must know them. Before the day was over I would have to feel up the neighborhood to see if I could scare something up. That’s what I did for a living, after all, what I did best. Something, even something small, should pop. Goofballs don’t keep secrets very well, not inside the industry.
Not for nothing, but I was still getting pretty anxious about having to start looking from scratch.
My phone vibrated, and I had a new e-mail. I was hoping it was Blaise, that he might have some information on my goofballs that would give me a lift.
It was from Max at USA.
Lunch me. 12:00 Sushi Ole.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
SUSHI ISN’T MY THING, AND I think Max knew it. Which I guess was OK because I hadn’t been very hungry since Jo-Ball’s head exploded. Ensuing events hadn’t exactly kicked off any cravings, either.
Usually I can eat, like to eat, need to eat. My six-foot-six frame needs nourishment, and let’s remember that I’m a man of appetites. Just not for cold rice rolled up in clammy seaweed, or dead fish that hasn’t been shown some hot coals. Somehow adding wasabi is supposed to make everything OK. It doesn’t. Well, more for the rest of you who like this stuff.
I’m not crazy about the atmosphere at sushi places, either. The seats and tables are designed by a smaller race of people for a smaller race of people. I’m just saying.
It didn’t help that this sushi place was in downtown Manhattan. You don’t want to be in or around the financial district at lunch if you can help it. All those giant buildings empty onto the street, and there’s a sense of desperation as hundreds of thousands of workers hit the bricks in search of food. Delis and restaurants in the area had a hard time meeting demand, much less making ends meet what with the commercial rents down there. In a sit-down place the tables were practically on top of each other. In delis, people ate standing up. I don’t like eating standing up. The neighborhood was so pressed for noon nourishment that food carts appeared at corners, creating long lunchtime lines, further snarling up the sidewalks and foot traffic.
Fortunately, I exited the subway at Fulton Street station a little early, so the lunchtime herd hadn’t begun its daily stampede. I started toward J&R, a music store. Thought I might browse the Latin jazz section. I’d been thinking about adding to my Ray Santos collection.
My phone blurped. An e-mail came in. It was from Blaise, as promised.
There
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