“He doesn’t know.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Not probable,” the man corrects, puffing out a small cloud of cigar smoke from the shadows. He licks his lips and pulls a small amount of ash from his mouth. “But then again, nothing about the man is ever probable.”
“You’re telling me he has no idea?”
“You can ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”
The comment makes Alfonso recoil, and a shiver crawls up his spine. He’s tall, lean, and his sunken cheekbones, large nose, and thin mustache give him the look of a weasel. A black trench coat hides his shaking hands. The nerves are getting to him and the thought of speaking with the Boss about this is only making it worse.
“If he really doesn’t know, he needs to.”
“Sounds like a job for his number one, and that ain’t me.”
Alfonso pulls a flask from his jacket pocket and shoots the remainder of its contents.
“Well don’t say I’m not a man willing to face my fears.”
Alfonso steps out from the lone light in the dark alley. He reaches for the handle of a plain nondescript door amid a wall of brick.
“Good luck.”
The puff of smoke from Ricardo’s cigar follows Alfonso into the building, though he does not. He stays behind, standing with one foot on the wall, out of the light’s reach, masked by the darkness. Only the slight burn of his cigar is visible, ever so slightly lighting the large beard hiding his face.
“Good luck indeed,” he repeats for no one.
***
Inside, the building is everything the outside isn’t. It’s clean, bright, light, and fun. Live music echoes through the halls. Laughter is heard coming from a room nearby. And no matter how much it rains outside, inside everyone’s mood is always sunny. Well, everyone’s mood except for Alfonso, but he has a task to complete, and not one he has taken lightly.
He likes to think of himself as a man who can get things done. A man that can be counted on to see a job through to the very end. This job, however, is not one he wants to see the ending of. Ten faithful years he’s given the boss, rising through the ranks, proving not only his loyalty, but his talent and ability as well. As he walks through the halls, he can’t help but wonder, is all that in jeopardy now?
With one final deep breath, he pushes the door open at the end of the hall. The music is loud, and the chatter is constant as the night is yet again a wild success. Waiters move through the crowd with ease, delivering drinks not asked for, but expected. Credit cards are not handed over and tips are not given. Neither is necessary here. The drinks are free, and the staff is paid well. Everything is taken care of by the Boss. All the guests need to worry about is having a good time, and Alfonso can see that they most certainly are.
He makes his way through the tables, winding and weaving between young pretty girls and the few men rich enough to get their attention. His pace is neither quick nor meandering. A fine line needs to be met to keep others from noticing a man that is meant to only exist in the background. He toes that line perfectly, always has. That’s how he’s become the right hand man to the Boss. No ego, no pride…simple execution, that’s the secret.
But all that, his work and his life, are now in jeopardy. The Boss doesn’t know and there’s no telling how he’ll react when he finds out. Alfonso just hopes he won’t have to be the one to tell him. Right hand or not, this news is radioactive. It could be welcomed with excitement or greeted by fury, and the potential for good does not merit the risk.
Alfonso moves past the crowd, through a door, and up the stairs. The mezzanine level, a balcony overlooking the masses below, is where he’ll find the Boss. The man enjoys the revelry of others, but only from a distance. He wishes to watch, rather than join. A sentiment the guests are happy to encourage. Whether it’s anxiety, a short fuse, or the stupidity of others, the Boss often ends encounters with far more blood splatter than most.
Unfortunately, to Alfonso’s surprise, the Boss is not in his suite. He’s not in the bathroom or kitchen either. He’s not anywhere in the mezzanine, and couldn’t have left the building, which leaves only one option. A bead of sweat drips from Alfonso’s brow. If he was nervous before, he doesn’t even know how to describe what he’s feeling now. The Boss must be downstairs…with his guests.
Eyeing the door, he knows he could just leave. He could simply walk out of this place, never look back, and he might survive the night. Change cities, change names, leave it all behind and he would be safe. But then what? This life, this job, it’s all he knows. It’s all he’s good at. No, he won’t run. He won’t abandon the Boss now. Besides, just because the Boss is downstairs with the guests, doesn’t mean—
A crash from down below echoes and Alfonso knows it’s begun. He races downstairs, back through the crowded tables and past the band. Anonymity, subtlety, they aren’t important now. His job now is simply to get to the Boss. Find the man and get between him and whoever he’s about to kill. If he can make it in time, if he can stop this from happening again, maybe he can save the night or at least not endanger the future.
Luckily the single crash has not disturbed the crowd. The few who even acknowledge it, probably think a waiter has simply dropped a tray of drinks, but Alfonso knows the truth. He hasn’t found what caused the crash, he doesn’t have to, because he knows. The waiters here are professionals, the best in the business. Any crash heard is not at their hand, it’s the result of the rage of one man, the Boss.
Slipping through the crowd, making his way to the back of the venue, he still can’t find the source of the crash. He still can’t find the Boss. Time is running out, once it begins, it’ll only take a minute. The Boss is swift, his concentration utterly complete, once a decision is made, nothing can deter him. Nothing except for maybe Alfonso.
The bar! A glass falls from the rack and is caught expertly by the bartender just before it crashes to the floor. With a smile, he flips it in his hand, slams it on the counter, and fills it with a drink. Professionals, every last one of them. Alfonso feels a slight sense of pride, knowing he helped hire each one. But professionalism aside, that glass practically jumped off the rack and Alfonso knows exactly why.
He slips past the bartender and pulls one of the taps at the bar. A compartment opens on the floor behind the counter. Quickly, he moves down the stairs and back up the other side. The door leading to the room behind the glass backdrop to the bar is slightly ajar. Light streams into the stairwell, accompanied by yelling.
Alfonso slams through the door and into the secret room. He isn’t sure what he expected to see, but this surely isn’t it. The Boss stands with his back to the door. His tapered shirt accentuates his already broad shoulders and narrow waist. He stands just over six feet tall and though lean, his dedicated fitness routine is clearly visible, even through his clothes. He takes a sip from his crystal whiskey glass, the bruises on his knuckles and the black eye clearly reveal he’s been fighting.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The words may be aggressive, but the tone isn’t. In fact, the complete control in his voice is almost more unnerving.
“Sorry Boss, I thought maybe you had gotten into another fight, but perhaps I was wrong.”
In front of the Boss, a beautiful woman lays across his desk. Curls, curls, and more curls dance around the woman’s head, falling in front of her face and bouncing to the side. Unlike the young airheads who usually populate this place, this woman’s maturity is both alluring and unsettling. Her dark eyes are piercing as she sends daggers toward Alfonso. Despite the evil stare, she sits tantalizingly free, one heel dangling from her toes, one flung across the room. The desk is pressed up against the one-way glass behind the bar. What they had been doing, was what caused the glass to fly off the rack and the crash to scare Alfonso into thinking he would be spending the night trying to cover up yet another murder.
“Boss?” the woman asks, her eyes devouring the man before her.
“Call me Banks,” he responds, taking another sip of whiskey.
“No, I kind of like boss,” she says, pulling on Banks’s tie. “Now enough interruptions. Get over here and show me who’s boss.”
“I’ll go, sorry again Boss,” Alfonso says as he begins to back out, kicking himself for thinking the worst.
“Trash chute.”
The words catch Alfonso just before he can close the door. Banks’s head may be turned toward the woman, but his eyes never fall on hers.
“Sorry sir?” he says from within the stairwell, not wanting to step back into the room.
“You’re going to need to deal with the trash. I’ve taken the liberty of throwing it out.”
His heart sinks. He knows exactly what kind of trash the boss has thrown out. Undoubtedly the kind that thought that short skirt in there, was his.