Clean Slate (New Mafia Trilogy #2) (16 page)

The next night I was
back behind the bar at Crimson. Since it was a Friday, the crowd around my bar was
five people deep. Women in barely there tops draped across the black counter,
oblivious to puddles of beer and other booze collecting on the surface. They
vied for my attention, but I ignored their offers, only taking their drink
orders and moving on to the next customer in line. The women would reluctantly
drift away with a pout.

I was halfway through
my shift, when I looked up to take the next order and came face to face with
Uncle Marco. His dark eyes glittered when he smiled, completely devoid of any warmth.

           
“Dom, my boy, where the fuck have you been?”

“I’m not your boy” is
what I wanted to say. Instead I said, “Hey Uncle Marco, it’s good to see you!”
with as much enthusiasm I could manage. “I got a lead on Natalie in Seattle so
I flew out there, but the girl wasn’t her.”

           
“You had to fly all the way out there, without telling
nobody, especially me? Lemme guess, Grant went with you too.”

           
“No, just me. Grant’s mom had something going on
health-wise, so I went instead. I needed to know for sure if it was her or not.
I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.” I lowered my head in submission, hoping he
didn’t see my jaw bulge as I gritted my teeth.

           
“Who else knew?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion and his
lips twisted into a smirk.

           
“No one except Grant. I asked Miranda for a couple days
off, but didn’t tell her why.” I met his eyes knowing if I didn’t, he wouldn’t
believe me. We stared at each other from across the bar, ignoring the drunken
commotion around us.

           
“Don’t ever disappear like that again. Understand?” He
seized my hand in a vice-like grip and squeezed. “And forget about that
puttana, she’s nothing but a distraction.”

I narrowed my eyes at
him. “Natalie is not a whore or a distraction and it’s my business if I want to
go look for her.”

He tugged on my arm,
forcing me to lean forward.
 
“No, it’s my
business you’re fucking with. Your place is here, not chasing after a piece of
ass. Come see me after closing, I need you to take care of something tonight.”
He said in his gravelly voice, low enough for me to hear beneath the pulsating
music.

I clenched my jaw,
biting back the anger only speaking when I calmed down enough. “I’ll see you
after work. Now, can I get you a drink?”

           
“Nah, I’m heading to VIP. Allegra’s working there
tonight.” Marco licked his lips like a cat that just drank from a bowl of cream
and my stomach immediately turned. Allegra was Nat’s age and her father had
been recently killed during the turf war with the Nucci family. I watched as my
uncle moved in the path that Mike, one of the bouncers, created as he parted
the crowd with his bulk. Mike lifted weights like his life depended on it and
the result caused his neck to be swallowed up by his shoulders. He never had a
problem with people getting in his way.

Pulling my attention
away, I focused on filling drink orders instead. Vanessa, one of the regulars,
found an empty stool and sidled up to the bar.

           
“Hi Dom, are you lonely yet?” Her chain smoking habit had
long wrecked her voice and she sounded like a man. Vanessa leaned forward,
practically spilling out of her strapless gold sequined top. She took a long,
exaggerated sip from her straw before popping it out of her mouth and licking
her lips that were still puffy from a recent injection. I would never be that
lonely or desperate.

           
“Nope, good to know you’re so concerned.” I turned and walked
to the other end of the bar to help Richie out who was slammed with fifteen
orders of kamikaze shots and cosmos. It didn’t help that rowdy women were
tugging at his shirt sleeves as if to drag him over the bar. Bachelorette
parties were a bitch.

After the club cleared
out, I finished cleaning and restocking the bar then walked across the empty
dance floor to meet with Marco. He sat in a plush red velvet booth surrounded
by my dad, Uncle Al and Marco’s cousins, Big Tony and Little Tony. Big Tony
maybe topped out at 5’3” and was as round as an oak barrel. Little Tony was
close to 6’ and as skinny as a meth addict.

           
“Hey, there’s my boy!” my dad said when he saw me
approach. “Come here.” He slid over, making room for me. I sat down next to him
and he patted my knee. “Your mother is worried about you. Stop by the house
soon.”

I promised I would
before turning my attention to Marco. “You still need me?” I asked.

           
“Yeah, turns out Danny Z. has developed a nasty habit. He
was supposed to deliver the profits for the last batch of H, but apparently he
decided to keep the product for himself.”

           
“Let me guess, he’s off the grid?”

           
“He has been, but Big Tone and Little Tone were on their
way here and drove past him picking up a hooker out front of the Pierce.” Uncle
Marco was referring to a historic hotel with a sordid history and hourly rates
located in a somewhat respectable area near the University of the Arts, where
Natalie had graduated from. “Guaranteed he’s holed up in there. Go find him and
collect.”

           
“How much am I collecting?”

           
“Take whatever he’s got on him and leave enough of a mark
to remind him who he works for.”

           
“Got it, I’ll let you know when it’s done,” I said,
standing up. “Good night, Dad.”

           
“Be careful.”

           
“Always.” I flashed a grin before leaving.

I unlocked Miranda’s
office and walked in on her and Grant. Miranda was sitting on the edge of the
desk, with her skirt hiked up around her hips and Grant was wedged in between
her thighs, his hands gripping her long, black hair as he moved his mouth over
hers. I only saw two seconds worth, but it was enough to be branded in my mind
forever. They didn’t notice me, with all of the thrusting, panting and moaning
going on, so I backed out and shut the door only to pound on it moments later.
I snorted when I heard the panicked shuffling. Grant flung open the door and
stood in front of me, his shirt was untucked and his hair hung over his eyes,
pulled free of its usual gelled state.

           
“What the fuck, Dom?”

           
“My key wasn’t working and I need to get my shit. What’s
going on in there anyway, huh?” I wiggled my eyebrows at him and he shrugged,
rubbing the back of his neck.

           
“I was helping Miranda.”

           
“Sure you were.” I pushed him aside and saw Miranda
sitting in her chair behind the desk. She was counting money and looking
entirely too composed except for the flush crawling up her slender neck and
blooming on her cheeks, making her olive skin ruddy.

           
“Hey Cuz, you got a fever or something?” I teased and she
narrowed her green eyes at me.

I laughed and squatted
in front of the safe, punching in the code. The lock released and I swung the
heavy steel door open to retrieve my gun then I grabbed my leather jacket from
where it was hanging on a hook above the safe. Making sure the safety was on
first, I secured my gun to the loop sewn into the inside of my leather jacket.

           
“Is Marco sending you out?” Grant asked.

           
“Yeah. Fucking Danny Z. can’t keep the needle out of his
veins.”

           
“Fucking idiot. You cool – with Marco I mean?”

           
“It’s just temporary. I need to do this right for Nat.
That’s what’s keeping me focused.” I looked Grant in the eye and he nodded in
understanding.

           
“I’ll let you guys get back to whatever you were
‘doing’,” I said with a wink before closing the door behind me.

Once I stepped out into
the cold December night, the icy rain pelting against my cheeks, seriousness
took over. I had a job to do and didn’t want to be out all night combing through
a cheap, rat and scabies infested hotel. Resigned to the task, I jogged over to
my Mustang, passing the entrance to Blue and ignoring the slurred invitations
being called to me by Richie’s bachelorette party waiting in line.

After letting the
engine warm up for a few minutes, I was pulling out onto Columbus Boulevard,
heading towards Center City. Traffic was light and the roads were slick with
patches of black ice. Hard to believe just two days ago I was lounging in the
sun listening to the crash of the Pacific.

City blocks in
Philadelphia were like a patchwork quilt. One block was nice and the next was
riddled with abandoned row homes and empty, boarded up storefronts on the
corners. I drove through one such neighborhood on my way to the Pierce.
 
Prostitutes roamed the area, signs of crack
addiction showed in the foam pooling in the corners of their mouths like rabid
dogs. Minutes later I pulled into the Pierce’s parking lot. There were only six
other cars in the lot and a couple of them had flat tires with dried leaves
gathered around the rims, indicating they hadn’t been moved in a very long
time. I looked up at the looming brick building and noticed an end unit on one
of the top floors had boarded up windows with scorch marks around the frame. Moisture
oozed around the bricks in a glistening slime that I imagined was green in the
daylight.

Reaching across to the
glove compartment, I pulled out the suppressor. It was about the same size as a
roll of quarters and easily fit into my jacket pocket. Keeping my jacket
unzipped, I put on a plain black baseball hat, lowering the bill to hide my
eyes before approaching. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalk out front and a
prostitute called at me from across the street. Judging by the deepness of the
voice, I assumed the hooker was a tranny. Keeping my head down and away from
the security camera at the entrance, I entered the lobby. A scrawny guy with
skin whiter than glue, evidence of his nocturnal job, looked up from his
graphic novel when I walked in. He was sitting behind a plexi-glass partition.
His stringy yellow hair hung limp around his face, which was covered with
inflamed acne that looked ready to erupt like mini volcanoes at any moment.

           
“Can I help you?” he asked in a squeaky voice.

Keeping my head tilted
so he couldn’t get a good look at my face, I placed a hundred dollar bill in
the slot under the partition and moved my jacket to the side, revealing the
gun. I heard the guy swallow, practically heard his Adam’s apple bob in his
throat. “Danny Z. – where’s he staying?” I asked. In a prostitute and addict-ridden
hell hole like the Pierce, drug dealers were known by name.

           
“Uh, uh,” he stammered. “He’s in room #1013.”

           
“I need a key.”

The guy scurried around
like a rodent to grab a spare key. He slid it to me and I picked up the blue
plastic diamond shaped keychain that had greasy fingerprints all over it and I
grimaced even though I was wearing gloves. “Thank you and don’t worry, you’re
not going to have to deal with a dead body.” I slipped another one hundred
dollar bill under the window, not missing how the man’s eyes latched onto it.
“You never saw me. Got it?”

The clerk sputtered out
his agreement before I turned around and walked across the cracked black and
white checkerboard tile to the single elevator.
 
The guy might not have to deal with a dead body, but housekeeping was
going to have to clean up a lot of blood.

The elevator was empty
and I took advantage, securing the suppressor or what we like to call a “can”,
to the barrel of my .22.

I stepped out onto the
tenth floor onto an orange shag carpet that had been popular when Nixon was
president. It smelled like it had absorbed every odor since then too: urine,
booze, smoke and mildew made for a noxious combination. Holding my hand over my
mouth to breathe, I walked down the hall to unlucky room #1013. Danny Z.’s luck
was about ready to run out.

Pressing my ear up
against the door, I listened for any sounds in the room. It was dead quiet.
After looking up and down the hallway for any potential witnesses, I unlocked
the door and slipped inside, with my gun cocked and locked. Roaches scurried
along the walls, away from the small amount of light spilling in from the
hallway.

Danny was passed out on
his stomach wearing only white socks with filthy black bottoms and baggy army
green boxer shorts that hung down revealing part of his ass crack. He was
snoring and his usual styled hair was twisted in every different direction.
Three days’ worth of stubble blanketed his face. An anorexic-looking woman,
most likely a hooker, barely took up the other half of the bed. She was naked
and lying on her back; emaciated to the point where her breasts were concave
and the arm that hung hyperextended over the edge had more tracks than Amtrak.
Many of the injection sites dotting her arm were infected, oozing a yellow
puss. Purplish pustules on her inner thighs showed where else she had been
injecting. Part of the bottom sheet by her feet had pulled away, revealing a
yellowing and stained mattress. The room reeked of sweat, sex and cigarette
smoke.