Read Online One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) by James P. Sumner - Free Book Online
Authors: James P. Sumner
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he could find, and arrange a meeting at a local bar. It was a modest establishment previously owned by Roberto Pellaggio, and Manhattan was on good terms with the current manager.
He walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his collar turned up against the wind. While it wasn’t too cold, he was feeling the effects a little more after sustaining his injuries and the subsequent stint in hospital.
He felt the Walther PPK against his arm. He had it in a holster under his suit jacket. He was no stranger to violence, and was comfortable using a gun if he needed to. In the past, he had simply relied on his reputation to avoid any confrontations, but now things were different, and he realized that, at least for the time being, he would be wise to protect himself.
He took a left on Liberty Street and walked along until he came to Walkers Sports Bar. Out of habit, he glanced around before opening the door and walking inside.
It took a moment for his aging eyes to adjust to the poorly lit interior. It was quiet, as places like that tended to be at that time in the morning. The bar ran along the right hand side, with one guy standing behind it cleaning the glasses. He looked up, nodded once at Manhattan, and then resumed his duties.
Manhattan walked through the bar area toward a huge TV screen mounted on the far wall. The whole area was full of tables and chairs, for when big sporting events were being shown there. Approaching it, he saw stairs off to the left, leading to another large, open plan bar area above. He went up and saw another bar facing him, although there was no one behind this one. To the right were some tables and a door leading to the restrooms. On the left, at the back of the room, was a group of men—maybe fifteen or so, all of varying heights and widths and ages. There was low, idle chatter among them, which stopped as Manhattan appeared.
He walked over and stood in front of them, eyeing each one individually for a moment, seeing who was present.
“Gentleman,” he began as he took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a nearby chair. “Thank you for coming.”
Tarantina stepped forward and extended his hand to Manhattan. He was short and slightly overweight, but still a well-built man. In his late forties, his weathered face had seen some difficult days, and his dark eyes had a stern glint in them, that hid something but betrayed nothing. He had thick, dark hair was flecked with gray, and a moustache the same.
Manhattan shook his hand firmly.
“Paulie,” he said. “I appreciate you arranging this meeting on such short notice.”
“Anythin’ for you, Boss,” he replied in a strong Philadelphian accent.
“Here’s where we stand, gentleman,” said Manhattan, now addressing the crowd. “When Roberto Pellaggio died, his surviving son, Danny, took over the family business with myself acting as his advisor. We put things into motion that didn’t pan out, and as a result, Danny was killed and I was shot and hospitalized.”
He paused and surveyed the crowd. There was no emotion, no concern, just understanding of the facts. Also, no sign of any loyalty to the Pellaggio’s, just as he’d hoped.
“I’ve called you all here today,” he continued, “because I believe you are all like me—looking for an opportunity to start over... create something that will become great. I’m looking to build a new business on the East Coast, where I started out many years ago, and I want you all to be a part of it. Thanks to the work by our friend, Paulie, I’m aware of a number of small-time operations and businesses in this city, which I believe would benefit from new management. I’m eternally grateful to all of you for your support, and I can promise you, quite honestly, that you’ll be rewarded handsomely for it. In the meantime, if you have any contacts of your own that you trust, you’re welcome to introduce them to our new family.”
There was a murmur of agreement and
He walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his collar turned up against the wind. While it wasn’t too cold, he was feeling the effects a little more after sustaining his injuries and the subsequent stint in hospital.
He felt the Walther PPK against his arm. He had it in a holster under his suit jacket. He was no stranger to violence, and was comfortable using a gun if he needed to. In the past, he had simply relied on his reputation to avoid any confrontations, but now things were different, and he realized that, at least for the time being, he would be wise to protect himself.
He took a left on Liberty Street and walked along until he came to Walkers Sports Bar. Out of habit, he glanced around before opening the door and walking inside.
It took a moment for his aging eyes to adjust to the poorly lit interior. It was quiet, as places like that tended to be at that time in the morning. The bar ran along the right hand side, with one guy standing behind it cleaning the glasses. He looked up, nodded once at Manhattan, and then resumed his duties.
Manhattan walked through the bar area toward a huge TV screen mounted on the far wall. The whole area was full of tables and chairs, for when big sporting events were being shown there. Approaching it, he saw stairs off to the left, leading to another large, open plan bar area above. He went up and saw another bar facing him, although there was no one behind this one. To the right were some tables and a door leading to the restrooms. On the left, at the back of the room, was a group of men—maybe fifteen or so, all of varying heights and widths and ages. There was low, idle chatter among them, which stopped as Manhattan appeared.
He walked over and stood in front of them, eyeing each one individually for a moment, seeing who was present.
“Gentleman,” he began as he took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a nearby chair. “Thank you for coming.”
Tarantina stepped forward and extended his hand to Manhattan. He was short and slightly overweight, but still a well-built man. In his late forties, his weathered face had seen some difficult days, and his dark eyes had a stern glint in them, that hid something but betrayed nothing. He had thick, dark hair was flecked with gray, and a moustache the same.
Manhattan shook his hand firmly.
“Paulie,” he said. “I appreciate you arranging this meeting on such short notice.”
“Anythin’ for you, Boss,” he replied in a strong Philadelphian accent.
“Here’s where we stand, gentleman,” said Manhattan, now addressing the crowd. “When Roberto Pellaggio died, his surviving son, Danny, took over the family business with myself acting as his advisor. We put things into motion that didn’t pan out, and as a result, Danny was killed and I was shot and hospitalized.”
He paused and surveyed the crowd. There was no emotion, no concern, just understanding of the facts. Also, no sign of any loyalty to the Pellaggio’s, just as he’d hoped.
“I’ve called you all here today,” he continued, “because I believe you are all like me—looking for an opportunity to start over... create something that will become great. I’m looking to build a new business on the East Coast, where I started out many years ago, and I want you all to be a part of it. Thanks to the work by our friend, Paulie, I’m aware of a number of small-time operations and businesses in this city, which I believe would benefit from new management. I’m eternally grateful to all of you for your support, and I can promise you, quite honestly, that you’ll be rewarded handsomely for it. In the meantime, if you have any contacts of your own that you trust, you’re welcome to introduce them to our new family.”
There was a murmur of agreement and
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