Greg Gifune - Night Work

After he had holstered the gun, Vic removed a brick of heroin wrapped in plastic from his coat pocket, tore it open with gloved hands, and tossed it into the car.

A black Lincoln Continental silently glided up alongside the GMC Jimmy. Vic DeNicco climbed inside, and they pulled away, slowing for a stop sign before turning at the top of the block.

Frank had eventually managed to fall asleep, but only in short spurts. Harsh morning light poked through the holes and slashes in the window shade, and the sounds of the city slowly coming to life convinced him to at least entertain the idea of getting up, splashing some water on his face and venturing out in search of coffee.

His beeper went off, and he sat up straight in bed. Still attached to his belt, he pulled it free and quickly read the numbers as they rolled across the digital display. Odd, he thought, recognizing the office number.

He went to the payphone in the lobby and returned the call, convincing himself that if it were some elaborate trick, he would simply hang up and find somewhere else to hide. One night at the Wellington Hotel was more than enough.

"Good morning," Vincent's voice answered cheerfully. "Entertainment Enterprises."

"Good morning," Frank said reluctantly.

"Frank! Man, are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Come on in. Everything's been taken care of."

Frank glanced over his shoulder at the empty lobby. "That was quick. What happened?"

"I can go into detail once you get here," he said. "But I spoke to Michael and he managed to straighten things out. I also found Gus. I ran into him and that broad at his house."

"And?"

"I was wrong, Frank." Vincent breathed heavily into the phone. "I'm sorry."

"I knew it," Frank said, managing a smile.

"Our leak came from somewhere else. I've got a few ideas, but we'll cover that when you land."

"Where's Gus now?"

"He's meeting us here in a few minutes," Vincent told him. "So get here as fast as you can. There's still a few loose ends we need to take care of, know what I mean?"

Frank nodded into the phone. "I'll be there in about an hour."

"Great," Vincent said smoothly. "I'll be waiting."

Frank arrived at the office a little after nine o'clock. Vincent's car was the only one in the lot. The reception and telemarketing area was empty, and Frank checked his watch. His employees should have been there by now, but weren't. The office was quiet.

"Vin?" he called out.

"You made it."

Frank turned and saw Vincent standing in the doorway to his office. "Where the hell is everybody?"

"I didn't know how long our troubles were going to last so I gave everybody a couple days off."

"Oh," Frank sighed, the knot in his stomach loosening. "I got a little nervous there for a minute."

Vincent started off down the hallway, waving for Frank to follow him. "Come on, we'll talk in your office."

Frank slid behind the desk and sat in his leather swivel. Vincent remained a few feet from the front of his desk. "Let me get you up to speed on what's happening."

"Please do."

"I haven't exactly been honest with you, Frank."

"What about?"

"Quite a bit, actually."

Frank swallowed. "Where's Gus?"

"He won't be coming."

Were it not for his physical exhaustion, Frank would have reacted more violently. "Please tell me you didn't hurt him."

"No more lies, Frank. Gus didn't make it."

"You motherfucker!" Frank sprang from his chair. "I fucking told you – "

"You told me? No, I tell you."

"What the fuck did you do?" They stood staring at each other, chests heaving, fists clenched but held at their sides. "What the fuck did you do?"

Vincent pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it directly at Frank, arms locked. Stunned, Frank took a step back from his desk. "What… what the hell are you doing? What is this?"

"This?" Vincent asked, motioning to the gun. "This is a military-issue nine millimeter Beretta. It's a great piece. Weighs a little over two and a half pounds – fully loaded, of course. A round from this mother goes almost thirteen-hundred-feet a second, Frank. Tag somebody with this and they go down every time. Now, do me a favor and sit the fuck down on your own so I don't have to prove it."

Silently, Frank lowered himself back into the chair.

Charlie stepped from the shower and quickly toweled himself off. He wiped a spot large enough on the mirror to see his face, and smiled widely at the reflection. Not bad for an old fart. With a small comb he styled his wet hair, wondering if he ought to start dyeing it. No, he thought. I like the beginnings of gray at the temples, offsets the red. Besides, Beth likes the gray. Makes me look distinguished – isn't that what people always say?

He blew himself a kiss, wrapped a towel around his waist and moved into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, his bare feet cold against the chilly tile. Leaning against the counter, he poured himself a steaming mug and took a sip. He didn't have much planned for the day; had slept later than usual, and decided he'd stay close to home.

An icy breeze tickled his shins. He noticed the kitchen door was ajar. Beth was working a double-shift and wasn't expected home until later that night. Maybe she left it open on her way out, he thought. She was always so frazzled in the morning.

He moved cautiously to the door, opened it and poked his head outside. The street was clear and his car sat alone in the driveway. Nice going, Beth, our heating bill should be through the roof this month.

The floor creaked.

Charlie turned in time to see two dark forms standing behind him.

Something flashed near his face. Something metallic.

"Are you out of your mind?" Frank asked. "You're gonna fucking shoot me?"

"Not unless I have to."

"I thought Turano was the enemy."

Vincent lowered the gun and smiled. "John Turano's been dead for two days, Frank. Michael's guys don't miss. But you've turned into such a fucking mark, I knew you'd buy it."

Frank leaned forward on the desk; afraid he might collapse. "Who were the people looking for me at my apartment?"

"Couple of Mike's guys. I had some business to take care of and I needed you out of the way for a while. I couldn't have you stuck up my ass pissing and moaning. Jesus, you know how you get."

"Why couldn't you have just talked to me about it?" Frank reached for the middle desk drawer and Vincent quickly raised the gun.

"Careful."

Frank pulled a pack of cigarettes from the drawer and tossed them on the desk. Vincent relaxed, lowering his weapon. Frank lit a cigarette and attempted a more relaxed posture.

"It's funny," Vincent said. "You hang with a guy for most of your life and you figure you know him. I thought you were like me, Frank. Strong. But you're not. You're weak. I hate weak." He pulled a chair in front of the desk and sat down. "You're smarter than me – I got no problem admitting that – and that's why early on I needed you. But I'm smart too. In a completely different way, of course, but I'm not as dumb as I look."

"I never thought you were dumb, Vin."

Vincent smiled. "I really thought we could make this work, goombah. Hell, you're like a brother to me – you know that – but changes had to be made, and you'd already gone and gotten yourself all worked up sweating the small shit."

Frank hoped his fear was not as obvious as it felt.

"Plus, you're a drunk. I never knew that about you. I don't like drunks. They make mistakes – usually stupid ones. Like causing trouble with Nick Strong – a guy who only stands to put more money in our pockets. Like not being able to separate business and personal problems. Like letting your wife fuck other guys. It's a small business, Frank; people talk. Damn, if I'd known you were passing her around I would have taken a turn myself. Then there was your old man's death. That pushed you right over the edge."