To start at the beginning of the story go here.
“Hey now,” were the words I managed to get out with the Corsican pointing his pistol at me. When there wasn’t the roar of gunpowder, I continued, “You don’t want to pull that trigger. We’re close enough to the station that if you do, the gendarmerie will come running.” The revolver was big enough that I wasn’t sure how Lanzo had hid it till then. It looked old, probably from a police unit before they switched to semi-automatics, but was clean of rust or any other sign that it might not be reliable.
Whatever Lanzo had stepped on had caused his foot to start bleeding. Despite that, he maneuvered to stand while steadying his aim at me. Behind the barrel, his eyes held the indecision of a man who wasn’t accustom to having the upper hand. I just tried to keep his gaze and not stare at the muzzle of the pistol. Eventually, he waved it at me, gesturing for me to stay where I was. I just nodded and did what he told me.
Lanzo grimaced and picked up his boots in one hand. Hands still in the air, I bent one at the wrist to point at his foot. “I can help with that.”
He growled at me to shut up and glanced around the alley. His eyes flitted around at all of his different options, none of them good, but one of them having to be chosen. After several moments in which he struggled to stay on his feet while keeping the revolver level, he settled on the direction he was heading before his injury. He waved the pistol at me again, causing both my heart rate and hands to go up further. With the barrel, he indicated me, then the ground. “Get on your knees.”
I did as he said, moving slowly. After I settled, Lanzo began to move away from me and to God knows where. He hadn’t gone more than a few feet when he ordered, “You stay there.”
A part of me was grateful that he wasn’t stupid enough to pull the trigger, but the rest, the bigger part, was just watching him slip away. I had no idea how I was going to find him again. Unwilling to let him escape, I said the only thing that I thought might stop him without earning a bullet in return. “You know your friends want to kidnap her, right?”
That stopped him, but it earned me an angry glare that made me think I had miscalculated, that I was going die in that narrow alley, in a small city, in a country no bigger than Texas. I breathed deep into that.
He only replied with a denial. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“The girl, Nika. Your friends – Max, the Algerian, and the fat one? They want to kidnap her. Ransom her back to Mitnick.” I thought about it for a moment and inexplicably added, “The Beard.”
“The Russian?”
“He’s from Belarus.” Not a great time to issue a correction, but for some reason I couldn’t help myself.
Lanzo spit out the next rush of words, cursing in a language I didn’t understand. He concluded with a predictable, “You’re lying.” I found myself almost saying, “No, he’s really from Belarus,” but I decided against it.
Instead I went with, “Hey, I get it, Max and the Idiots, they’re your boys.” I found myself slipping into American slang, hoping it might placate Lanzo as it did some Frenchmen. I tried to remember he was Corsican, though, a different beast and one I wasn’t familiar with. “And they told you they just want to help you rescue her, right?” I didn’t know if Max had gotten around to telling Lanzo that particular lie, but judging by the quick darting of his eyes I had hit somewhere near the truth. “But why would they do that? Other than earning a death sentence, what would it get them?”
“They have protection from Sartre.” Even as Lanzo said it, I could tell he had his doubts.
“They have protection from Sartre because I got it for them. Max tell you that?” I wasn’t sure where I was on the map of Max’s falsehoods, but each answer from Lanzo gave me a little more to work with.
“Connerie.” With that dismissal, Lanzo remembered the pistol and leveled its drifting barrel.
“No bullshit,” I replied calmly and quickly, the images of every man I had ever seen bleed out running through my mind. “You know I work at the casino. The Night Governor owns the casino. I work for Sartre.” I didn’t usually work in syllogisms, but I thought I was doing a pretty good job given the circumstances.
“You protected Mitnick.” I couldn’t blame Lanzo for thinking my shakedown of him in the holding cell had been to protect Mitnick, even if it was wrong.
“Only because you fucked with him in the casino,” I replied. How stupid that had been flew with the statement. “If you had waited a day, Sartre would have done it for you,” I added, indicating the altercation between the crime bosses, knowing Lanzo must have heard about it by now. “Sartre doesn’t care about ransom money. Mitnick is trying to muscle in on his territory. Sartre just wants to fuck with him. The girl, Nika, she’s important to Mitnick, so Sartre sent me here.”
“But your friends, they don’t want her free. They want money. They figure enough money, and eventually you’ll forgive them for whatever happens to Nika.”
Lanzo blinked sweat out of his eyes, but rather than issuing another denial he asked, “Why do you care?”
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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