John Connolly - The Reapers

The Priest gestured at a pair of chairs facing him across the table. The two men sat.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked them.

“Nothing for me,” said the black man.

“I’ll have a soda,” said the other. “Coke. Make sure the glass isn’t dirty.”

The smile never left his face. He looked over his shoulder at the bartender and winked. The bartender merely scowled.

“Now, what can I do for you?” asked the Priest.

“It’s more a matter of what we can do for you,” said the small man.

The Priest shrugged. “Cleaning, maybe? Selling door-to-door?”

There was an appreciative laugh from his soldiers. There were three of them in all, plus the bartender. Two were seated at the bar, the ubiquitous coffee cups before them. Vassily was behind the men and to their right. The Priest thought that he looked uneasy. But then, Vassily always looked uneasy. He was a pessimist, or perhaps a realist; the Priest was never entirely sure which. He supposed that it was all a matter of perspective.

The small man’s grin faded slightly.

“We’re here about the paper.”

“Paper? Are you looking for a route?”

There was more laughter.

“The paper on the detective, Parker. We hear you want him taken out. We’d prefer it if that wasn’t the case.”

The laughter stopped. The Priest had been informed that two men wanted to discuss the detective with him, so this opening gambit was not unexpected. Usually, the Priest would have left such discussions to Vassily, but this was not the usual situation, and these, he knew, were not usual men. He had been told that they merited a degree of respect, but this was the Priest’s place, and he enjoyed goading them. He respected those who respected him, and the mere fact of the men’s presence in his club irritated him. They were not pleading for the detective’s life; they were trying to tell him how to run his business.

The bartender placed a Coke in front of the small man. He sipped it and scowled.

“It’s warm,” he said.

“Give him some ice,” said the Priest.

The bartender nodded. One of the men seated at the bar leaned over and filled an empty glass with ice by scooping it through the ice bucket. He handed it to the bartender. The bartender dipped his fingers into the glass, retrieved two cubes, and dropped them into the Coke. The liquid splashed onto the small man’s jeans.

“Hey,” he said. “That’s rude, man. And seriously fucking unhygienic, even in a place that smells as bad as this one.”

“We know who you are,” said the Priest.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘We know who you are.’”

“What does that mean?”

The priest pointed at the small untidy man. “You are Angel.” The finger moved slightly to the left. “And you are named Louis. Your reputation precedes you, as I believe people say under these circumstances.”

“Should we be flattered?”

“I think so.”

Angel looked pleased. Now Louis spoke for the first time.

“You need to burn the paper,” he said.

“Why would that be?” asked the Priest.

“The detective is off-limits.”

“By whose authority?”

“Mine. Ours. Other people’s.”

“What other people?”

“If I said I didn’t know, and you didn’t want to know, would you believe me?”

“Possibly,” said the Priest. “But he’s caused me a lot of trouble. A message has to be sent.”

“We were up there, too. You going to put a paper out on us?”

The Priest wagged his finger. “Now you are off-limits. We’re all professionals. We know how these things work.”

“Do we? I don’t think we’re in the same business.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“I’m flattering somebody.”

If the Priest was offended, he didn’t show it. He was, though, surprised at the men’s willingness to antagonize him in turn when they were unarmed. He considered it both arrogant and unmannerly.

“There’s nothing to discuss. There is no paper on the detective.”

“What does that mean?”

“I cut my own lawn. I shine my own shoes. I don’t send out for strangers to do what I can take care of for myself.”

“That puts us at odds.”

“Only if you let it.” The Priest leaned forward. “Is that what you want?”

“We just want a quiet life.”

The Priest laughed. “I think it would bore you. I know it would bore me.” His fingers moved the photographs on the table, rearranging them.

“Friends of yours?” said Louis.

“Police.”

“You go after the detective, and you’re going to create more problems for yourself with them as well as us. They can be persistent. You don’t need to give them any more reasons to breathe down your neck.”

“So you want me to let the detective slide?” said the Priest. “You’re concerned for me, concerned for my business, concerned about the police.”

“That’s right,” said Louis. “We’re concerned citizens.”

“And what is the percentage for me?”

“We go away.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The Priest’s shoulders sagged theatrically. “Okay, then. Sure. For you, I let him slide.”

Louis didn’t move. Beside him, Angel grew tense.

“Just like that,” said Louis.

“Just like that. I don’t want trouble from men of your, uh, caliber. Maybe somewhere down the road, you might do me a favor in return.”

“I don’t think so, but it’s a nice thought.”

“So, you want a drink now?”

“No,” said Louis. “I don’t want a drink.”

“Well, if that’s the case, our discussions are over.” The Priest leaned back in his seat and folded his hands over his small belly. As he did so, he raised the little finger of his left hand slightly. Behind Angel and Louis, Vassily’s hand reached behind his back for the gun tucked into his belt. The two men at the bar stood, also reaching for their weapons.

“I told you he wouldn’t agree,” said Angel to Louis. “Even if he said so, he wouldn’t agree.”

Louis shot him a look of disdain. He picked up Angel’s glass of soda, seemed about to take a sip from it, then reconsidered.

“You know what you are?” he said. “You a Monday morning quarterback.”

And as he spoke, he moved. It was done with such fluidity, such grace, that Vassily, had he lived long enough, might almost have admired it. Louis’s hand slid beneath the table as he rose, removing the gun that had been concealed beneath it earlier by the man who had accompanied the cleaning crew. In the same movement, his other hand buried the glass in Vassily’s face. By then, Vassily had his own gun drawn, but it was too late for him. The first two bullets took him in the chest, but Louis caught him before he fell, shielding himself with the body as he fired upon the men at the bar. One managed to get off a shot, but it impacted harmlessly upon the woodwork above Louis’s head. Barely seconds later, only four men remained alive in the room: the Priest, the bartender, and the two men who would soon kill them both.

The Priest had not moved. The second gun that had been concealed beneath the table was now in Angel’s hand, and it was pointing directly at the Priest. Angel had remained motionless while the killing went on behind him. He trusted his partner. He trusted him as he loved him, which was completely.

“All of this for a private detective,” said the Priest.

“He’s a friend,” said Angel. “And it’s not just about him.”

“Then what?” The Priest spoke calmly. “Whatever it is, we can reach an accommodation. You have made your point. Your friend is safe.”

“You expect us to believe that? Frankly, you don’t seem like the forgiving type.”