Page 106 of Taste of Blood
Dante turns to me. “I want you to find him and bring him to me.”
“What’s he done, other than run up debt?”
“He’s a traitor. According to his mate, he’s running with the Python’s crew.”
“He told her that?”
“Not in so many words. But he told her he’s got a new crew, and they’re going to make a big splash in the city. Then he disappeared. She hasn’t seen or heard from him in over a week.”
No wonder Dante’s pissed. Betrayal is like the number one sin in his eyes. If this Cosgrove has defected to the dark side, he could be giving intel on Dante’s whole operation.
“You got an address on the bookie?” I ask Gio.
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Grab fifty-five from the safe,” Dante tells Gio then turns to me. “I want you to buy his marker.”
Gio opens the safe and counts out the money, rolling it up and slapping a rubber band around it before handing it to me. I shove it in my pocket and stand up. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Dante says. “I want this done quick and quiet. No one knows.”
“You got it.”
♦ ♦ ♦
If Alvin Cosgrove is hiding, he’s doing a piss poor job of it. I pay a visit to his bookie and learn his men have been sitting on him all week, waiting for payment. He came by two days ago and promised he’d have half the money by Friday.
Today.
“He’s got till midnight,” the bookie tells me, leaving the ‘or else’ to my imagination.
He’s a short, balding man with a stained yellow button-down straining over an ample beer gut. Human. Middle-aged. Probably got a couple of leg breakers doing his dirty work. His office is a storage room behind a laundromat, so this isn’t a big operation. I figure he’ll jump at the chance to get paid and not care where it comes from.
“What if I buy his paper?”
The bookie narrows his eyes and looks me up and down. “What’s in it for you?”
“What do you care? You’re getting paid.”
He shakes his head and pulls out a worn ledger. “You know he’ll just be back next week.”
“I don’t give a shit about next week.”
He tears off a pink IOU slip and slides it across the desk. “Fifty K, plus interest.”
I pull the roll of bills out of my pocket and toss it down on the desk. “Fifty-five. That enough interest for you?”
“You don’t mind if I count it, do you?” He reaches out to grab the roll and I slam my hand down on his.
“Not till I get the address.”
“Okay, okay. He’s at the Cloud Nine, seedy motel over on Lexington. Registered under the name Alvin Smith.” He scribbles the address on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Fucking snake.
I pocket the address and walk back through the laundromat, pulling out my phone.
“He’s at a motel in East Harlem,” I tell Dante when he answers.
