Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

Mary and Leopold looked at each other.

“Not exactly,” said Mary. “We found Mr. Gordon’s body late last night. He was murdered.”

Biggs sat up. “Murdered? The guy’s dead? Jeez, he was a scumbag but... hell. I’m never gonna see that money now, am I?”

“Your concern is touching. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“You kidding? Probably every single person he ever screwed over. You got a pen and paper?” He laughed. “Might take a while.”

“No, that’s fine, Mr. Gordon. We have everything we need.” She glanced at Leopold and flicked her eyes toward the door. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Biggs belched and slumped even further down the sofa. “Pleasure meetin’ you.”

“Looks like we’ll need to pay Mr. Creed another visit,” said Leopold, as the three of them made their way back up the stairs. “I knew he was hiding something.”

Mary pushed open the door into the hallway. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Do these bankers ever go out to eat?”

“That’s where they do most of their business. A guy like Creed would probably be meeting clients somewhere expensive. On company money, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll ask my contact to check Creed’s schedule for the day.”

“I’m guessing this is another one of those times I shouldn’t ask questions.”

“See, I knew you’d get the hang of this working relationship,” said Leopold. “We’ll surprise Mr. Creed at lunch, catch him off guard.” He pushed open the steel door that led out to the alley and headed for the car.

As they rounded the corner, Leopold froze. The gang of young men he had noticed earlier had apparently taken an interest in his Mercedes—six of them were now inspecting the vehicle, taking it in turns to peer through the glass and test the doors. One of them looked up as Leopold, Mary, and Jerome approached.

“Hey, hey, what we got here?” the apparent ring leader shouted. His voice was deep and cocky, the hood of his coat pulled over his head. “Sweet ride. How much this cost you?” He turned to his companions and laughed. “Thinkin’ bout gettin’ me one of these. Needs a paint job, though. Maybe some new rims.” He rapped the windscreen with his knuckle.

“Let me call backup,” said Mary, her voice a whisper. “Don’t engage. We don’t know if they’re armed.”

“Of course they’re armed,” said Leopold. “But that doesn’t mean they get to mess with my car.”

“I think it does, actually.”

“Maybe where you come from.”

“We both come from New York.”

“You know what I mean.” Leopold looked up at Jerome. “Any ideas?”

The bodyguard looked at the gang of men. “Just stay behind me and don’t speak. Things always get much worse when you speak.”

Leopold considered a response, but too late. Jerome strode over to the hooded leader, closing the distance remarkably fast. The young man stood tall, chest puffed out, and met Jerome head on.

“You got somethin’ to say, homes?” the kid said.

“Step away from the car.”

“You gonna make me, big man? ‘Cos last time I checked, there’s six of us and three of you. One, two, three.” The hood prodded Jerome with an index finger, emphasizing his point.

Leopold turned to Mary. “That wasn’t a good idea,” he said.

Too fast for the gang leader to react, Jerome grabbed hold of the finger prodding him in the chest and wrenched it backward. There was a cracking sound and the kid yelped, eyes wide, his bravado gone. Jerome twisted the finger to the side and pulled, forcing the arm to hyperextend. The kid turned to compensate and Jerome pulled him in close, a thick forearm across the throat. The other five gang members twitched nervously, their leader held fast in the bodyguard’s grip.

“This would be your opportunity to leave,” he said, still holding onto his opponent’s finger.

The other gang members looked at one another, shuffling their feet. Nobody spoke. Jerome sighed and gave the leader’s broken finger another twist. The young man screamed, the pain now clearly beyond anything he could handle.

“Leave, right now,” said Jerome, “or I’ll pull his finger off. And after that, I’ll move on to the rest of you. I’d be lying if I said a part of me wouldn’t enjoy that. But I’m afraid we’re pressed for time, so I’ll just have to shoot you.” He let go of the finger and released his hold on the kid’s throat. The kid dropped to his knees. With practiced speed, Jerome pulled out the firearm holstered beneath his jacket and pointed it at the closest of the other gang members.

“All right, all right.” The new target held his palms up and backed away. “We’re goin’. Just don’t shoot.”

Jerome pressed his foot against the leader’s back and shoved him forward. “Take this with you,” he said, keeping his gun up.

The kid got to his feet and scrambled away to join his companions, cradling his broken finger as he went. Within a few seconds the gang had disappeared around the corner and Jerome holstered his weapon.

“Okay, we can go now,” he said, unlocking the car. “Apologies for the delay.”

Creed’s restaurant of choice nestled between a hair salon and clothing store. The sign outside boasted “A Fusion of East and West” and the tables were packed full of people in suits ordering lunch from oversized menus. Leopold pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped inside, the smells from the kitchen hitting his nostrils immediately. The interior was all glass and chrome and leather.

“This place smells kinda funky,” said Mary, following behind.

“It’s called fusion food,” said Leopold. “It’s undergoing something of a resurgence at the moment. The chefs take two different cuisines and blend them into something new.”

“Just like Reese’s did with peanut butter and chocolate.” She chuckled to herself and picked up a menu. “Whoa, Jesus, I think I’d better stick with the candy after all. What the hell is with these prices? And why do they need such a big menu? There’s only like five dishes to choose from.” She squinted at the tiny italic text. “What exactly is grilled ahi?”

Leopold sighed. “We’re in the middle of the financial district. The clientele have a lot of money to spend. Speaking of which, I think I see our man.” He pointed across the room toward the back corner where Creed sat at a large table with half a dozen lunch guests. “How about we go say hello?” He took a step toward the dining area.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” a maître d’ dressed in a crisp suit appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way.

Leopold stopped in his tracks. “We’re not here for lunch. I need to speak with a gentlemen at that table.” He pointed.

“I’m sorry sir, our diners value their privacy. We can’t allow anyone through without a table reservation.”

“Then can I make one?”

“For today?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the maître d’. “We are fully booked for the next two weeks. Would you perhaps like to make a booking for next month?”

“No, I don’t want to come back next month,” snapped Leopold. “I want to speak to that man over there.”

“I’m sorry sir, but—“

Mary interrupted, pushing her way past Leopold. She held up her NYPD shield. “Listen. Either you let us through or I book you on an obstruction of justice charge. How does that sound?”