Page 21 of Wicked Things
And then she’s gone.
NINE
ZETH
Michael: She’s good. She just went downstairs to do a consult, and then I’m driving her home. Nothing to report.
I tuck my cell away as I head across the street, toward the warehouse where the Barbieri family have set up their restaurant. I need to focus. Like, really focus. I have a better chance of doing that now I know Michael’s had eyes on Sloane in the last ten minutes.
I’m about to walk into the lion’s den here, and I have no means of knowing what will happen as soon as I’m inside. I’m risking everything. If I can’t get through the kitchen, I’m going to have to find another way in and that’s not gonna be fun. That either means shinnying up a drain pipe, or going balls to the wall and just walking in through the front door like a motherfucking boss. A part of me would prefer things to go down that way. It’s more dignified than trying to sneak in, but I’ve got to be fucking real about this. This is me against, what, thirty? Forty men? I’m a badass, but I’m not a fucking superhero. There has to be some element of stealth involved, otherwise I’m going to find myself being murdered very quickly and very painfully. These Italians are almost as inventive as I am when it comes to inflicting pain on others.
It’s not easy traversing the perimeter of the warehouse. There are cameras all over the place, I’m sure. They wouldn’t want someone sneaking up on the place and setting it on fire, after all, right?
I draw up my hood and I walk down my side of the street, keeping my head down.I walk until I hit a deserted cross street, then I cross and take a right. Eventually I loop back on myself, coming up on the other side of the warehouse, to the north, close to river. There are no entrances here. No drainpipes or fire escapes I can climb either. It’ll have to be the kitchen entrance around the other side then. I jump and pull myself up and over the high wall separating the street from the dark, narrow alleyway that leads to the restaurant’s kitchen.
I half expect to run into a group of huge, heavily armed guys, sitting out here smoking cigarettes or something, but the dingy, sour smelling alley is deserted.
Is kitchen door looked? I try the handle, and it doesn’t budge. Makes perfect sense. I came prepared, though. I take out the slender set of lock picks I’m carrying in my back pocket and I flick through them until I find a suitable tool. I have the thing swinging open in less than five seconds. I should enter competitions for busting open doors; I’d be a national fucking champion. Slipping inside, I find myself inside a dry store room. The door at other end of the store is open, and a broad shaft of yellow light slices through the darkness.
I peer through the narrow gap, assessing the situation beyond: a large, industrial kitchen, with polished steel benches and ranges. Large, commercial ovens and fryers. Five men dressed in chef whites, standing at stations around the room, chopping, stirring, basting, frying, plating. They talk amongst themselves in Italian; I know a little of the language, but not enough to keep up with them. They’re all clearly distracted by their tasks. I push the door open, reaching for my gun, ready to shoot any of them if they so much as look at me. But the weird thing is, they don’t. They must register my presence, but none of them lifts their heads as I make my way through the kitchen. One of them says something, practically shouting over the noise they’re all making, and the other four burst out laughing. I keep walking. As I walk out of the other door, the guy plating the food finally looks up, acknowledging me.
“Here. Take this,” he says, holding out a plate of steak and artfully arranged steamed vegetables. “The table at the far end of the restaurant,” he tells me in a heavily accented voice. “Mr. Barbieri is expecting you.”
Well, fuck me dead. I’m beginning to feel a little predictable over here. I arch an eyebrow at the plate, using the barrel of my desert eagle to scratch at my cheek. I should tell this punk to go fuck himself. I’m not a goddamn waiter. I’m not Barbieri’s errand boy, either. That’s the whole reason why I came to New York, to tell him as much to his face. I amnevergoing to be his bitch. So carrying his dinner to him seems counter productive. On the other hand, if he’s so obviously expecting me then carrying a plate of food to him is certainly going to be easier than trying to shoot my way through a busy restaurant to get to him.
Fuck it.
I snatch the plate from the guy, rolling my eyes. The desert eagle goes back into the waistband of my pants. I exit through a set of swinging doors, then head through another, following the sounds of chatter and laughter toward the restaurant floor. The space is packed, every seat at every table occupied with beautifully dressed men and women, conversation bubbling over like the champagne from their glasses. Waiters buzz from one table to the next, topping up wine, clearing tables, delivering food. They’re dressed formally, in white shirts and black waistcoats, with crisp black bowties at their throats. If anyone thinks it strange that I’m forging my way across the floor carrying a single plate, wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a deep scowl, then I don’t see it on their faces.
Barbieri is sitting along at a table at the far end of the restaurant. A plate sits in front of him already, complete with steak and mashed potatoes. When I arrive in front of him, considering simply pulling out my gun and shooting him in the face here and now, the emaciated looking fuck gestures with his fork to the chair opposite him.
“Sit down,” he says. “Eat. I couldn’t wait to begin, I’m afraid. You took far too long to show your face, Mr. Mayfair.”
I look down at the plate in my hand. Great. So I just carried my own dinner to the table, not Roberto’s? How fucking presumptuous can a person get? I dump the food down on the table, growling under my breath. “I’m not hungry,” I inform him, taking a seat.
He wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin, chewing. He swallows, then finally looks up at me. “You’re a difficult man, Mr. Mayfair. When someone tells you to go left, you go right. When someone tells you stay, you go. When someone tells you go, you stay. It’s very frustrating for a man like me to try and communicate with a man like you.”
“The problem is you’re communicating all wrong.”
“Oh? How so?” He seems genuinely interested, his dull brown eyes watching my intently.
“For a start, no one tells me what the fuck to do.”
“I see. Didn’t Charlie Holsan tell you what to do on a regular basis?”
I smirk, tapping the steak knife next to the plate in front of me. “And look what happened to him.”
Roberto shrugs. “You’re right. He died. But at great cost to you, no? Namely, your sister, Lacey? Would you not say your disobedience to your master caused the death of someone you loved?”
I go tense, my skin prickling all over. “Don’t fucking talk about my sister. It’d be best if you never say her name again.”
Roberto cuts into his steak, blood pouring out of the almost raw piece of meat. He pops a forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head as he chews. “You really should…eat your steak,” he says. “It’s our specialty. The secret’s in the beef. Slaughterhouses these days use stun guns and bolts to kill their animals humanely. Not the place we buy from, though.” He waves his fork from side to side at me as he shakes his head. “They are old school. They still stun the beasts with a hammer. They cut their throats and drain them while their hearts are still beating. We have it shipped here all the way from Louisiana. Everyone’s always going on about how the animal’s fear sours the meat, but personally I think a touch of fear actually tenderizes it perfectly. Tell me, didn’t a certain DEA agent recently exhume your precious dead sister?”
Fire charges through my veins, my entire body reacting violently to his words. I have to fight to keep myself from vaulting over the table and wrapping my hands around his goddamn throat.
“I see that I’ve upset you,” Roberto says. He puts his knife and fork down neatly beside his plate, bridging his hands together. “I apologize. I’ve never been known for my tact.”
Understatement of the goddamn century. I grip the edge of the table with my right hand until my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t come here to talk about Lacey, or Lowell.”
