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Dario and Tau paced in the darkness as they quietly waited on the sidewalk in front of Micola’s house. It was eleven o’clock sharp, as Eddie backed down the driveway. The three of them spent the short ride in silence, Tau up front with Eddie, Dario in back.
Eddie pulled up to the curb on Desoto Street and shut off the headlights. The surrounding neighborhood homes were quiet, everyone settled in for the night. The back of Jackson’s Garage stood in the shadows two blocks ahead. Tiny homes surrounded it, and an apartment complex stood just beyond.
From the backseat, Dario pushed his arm through to the front of the car near Eddie’s head, his finger pointing.
“That’s it up there,” he whispered. “See that light?”
Eddie saw the light above the door facing a small parking lot that appeared to accommodate only four cars. The lot was empty.
Eddie turned back to Dario. “So what do you know about this O? What’s his weakness? He got family or somethin’?”
Dario nodded. “Gotta’ little girl. I think she’s three, four years old, maybe. Like I said, they live on one-a them fancy lakes in Minneapolis. But I think he stays ‘round here a lot. Don’t know where, though.”
“Alright,” Eddie said. “Let’s go.”
The three men exited the car and made the short walk down the old sidewalk toward the garage. An aging billboard stood on the rooftop facing the front of the building, its message unseen from their vantage point.
“Yo. Eddie, man. You lookin’ fly tonight,” Dario said, as they walked. “That suit is nice!”
Eddie smiled as he flipped his suit jacket open and closed and then secured the middle button. “You’se two could learn a few things about dressin’ up for meetin’s.”
As they approached the old, cement-block building, Eddie heard the deep bass of a rap song vibrating against the rusted metal door just ahead. They crossed the dilapidated parking lot, Dario and Tau walking behind Eddie. He pounded the door with the side of his fist.
A voice from behind the door yelled over the music. “Who is it?”
Eddie heard Dario whisper to Tau. “Man, we gonna’ die tonight.”
Eddie turned and gestured with his hand as if to air-slice their throats. “Shut-up,” he mouthed. He hid his smile as he pushed Dario to the door.
“Yo man. It’s Dario. Dario Tucker? I gotta’ message for O.”
They heard some clicking and watched the doorknob turn. Light spilled through a slight crack as the door opened, showing a sliver of someone’s face peering out at them.
The music drowned out the deep, angry voice. “What kind-a fuckin’ message? From who?”
Dario replied. “Some new dude in town. He’s got a message for O. Wants me to give it to him.”
The unknown person on the other side of the door said, “Oh this-gonna’ be rich.”
His voice faded as he slammed the door shut. Eddie and the boys looked at each other and then back at the door. They could hear the voice yelling and laughing from inside.
“Hey O! You gonna’ love this shit, man!”
The doorman returned. Again, only a slit of the door opened as the music wailed loudly in the background.
“O don’t wanna’ see nobody right now, Dario. Get the fuck outta’ here.”
Before he could shut the door, Eddie slid in his foot and wedged it next to the doorframe, his fingers wrapped around the door’s edge as he pushed it open using the side of his body and shoulder.
“Whoa, whoa, hold-up GQ,” said the tall, heavy Black man, now illuminated by hanging lightbulbs scattered overhead.
Eddie and the boys stood near the man in an open and spacious, but filthy auto repair garage, the fumes of gasoline and rubber filling Eddie’s nostrils. Racks of equipment, tools and supplies were packed onto shelves and in crates all around the floor, though no vehicles were inside for repair.
Eddie gestured with his hand, low and behind his back, for Dario and Tau to stand behind him. They quickly obeyed.
Addressing the doorman—who had stepped back from Eddie’s unexpected intrusion at the door—Eddie calmly looked up at him and said, “You tell that prick O—” his head tipped side-to-side as he spoke—“or whatever the fuck his name is, that he’s got a fuckin’ visitor, and it’s goddamn disrespectful not to accept that visitor.”
He stared up at the man, whose eyes bulged in surprise by the balls of the stocky Italian man in front of him.
Eddie’s argument on etiquette always worked. Criminals often thought of themselves as businessmen, though most times, in Eddie’s experience, calling them businessmen was a stretch. The doorman glared at Eddie for a second, giving him his requisite stare-down. Then, he shrugged and said, “Hold on.”
The hefty man turned and sauntered across the grease-stained cement floor toward a closed door in the far-right corner of the garage. He opened it, closing it behind him. Eddie watched until he disappeared, noting his loose clothing: a Timberwolves jersey, old and worn; jeans, sagging at the back of his ass, the handle of a piece showing at the waist.
The rap continued to blare into Eddie’s ears. He looked around in hopes of finding the source of the noise so he could shoot it dead.
“Jesus, I hate this rap shit,” he said to Dario and Tau. Neither responded to his comment. Instead, Tau shuffled his feet and Dario continued to look over each shoulder, turning in circles now and again.
Eddie chuckled. “You’se two look like you’re about to shit your pants.” He smiled and stood between them, putting his arms around their shoulders. “Relax,” he said. They each gave him a weak smile. The little weasels were his punks and he loved it.
After a minute, the door re-opened and the doorman gestured at Eddie to head toward him. Eddie strutted in his direction. Dario and Tau followed.
At the door’s entrance, the man placed his hands on the chests of the two boys. “These two shitheads stay right here.”
He turned to Eddie and tipped his head. “You can go back.” He looked past Eddie and shouted, “Frisk this guy, Dax.” Eddie turned to see another Black man walk out of a second door he hadn’t noticed.
The second guy, Dax, also black, also substantial in size, sauntered confidently toward Eddie, cold-staring him down as he approached. Unlike the first guy, though, who was overweight and slow, Dax was in excellent shape. Muscles bulged through his skintight black t-shirt. In Eddie’s estimation, he was at least six-three, two-hundred-eighty pounds. He couldn’t spot a piece on this guy, but he definitely had one. No doubt about it. Probably strapped around his ankle.
Dax stopped in front of Eddie and shouted directly into his face. “Turn that shit down!” His breath puffed across Eddie’s face, a hint of onion offending the nostrils. Eddie closed his eyes for a second at the offensiveness of the gesture but said nothing. The volume of the music dropped.
“Thanks,” Eddie said. “Thought I’d bleed from the ears from that shit, ya’ know?”
He laughed at his comment, but Dax did not.
Eddie looked up at him and smiled, as he spread his legs and raised his hands. He knew the drill.
“This ain’t my first frisk,” he said to Dax.
It most certainly was not his first frisk. Dax gave Eddie the familiar once-over before patting him down, inside and outside of his ISAIA navy-and-white-checked suit jacket. He stopped at Eddie’s waistband and pulled out Dario’s .38. Eddie never would have shown up without it. A show of strength and appearance was half the battle.
The man looked at Eddie and took the piece, before finishing the frisk down the sides of Eddie’s dress pants, and up the middle of his legs. Eddie’s eyes followed the man as he frisked him.
When he finished, Eddie said, “I’ll be wantin’ that back.” Dax tipped his head upward as if to say, “we’ll see about that,” before opening a dirty, wooden door with a hole near the bottom. He nodded and stepped aside for Eddie to enter.
Eddie walked in.
Dax paused at the door. “You want me to stay boss?”
The man looked at Eddie. “For this old man?” He chuckled. “Naw.”
Dax left, shutting the door behind him.
