Dirty Pool

by Bethany-Kris

  Why Sal wanted him to come here, he didn’t know. He’d never been to this business before, not when Sal preferred to meet up for business or with his friends in one of his many restaurants. But this was the address where Sal made it clear Michel would find him—and frankly, it hadn’t been a request.

  Okay.

  So, he fucked up a little.

  Michel still figured it was partly Sal’s fault for not making sure he had someone to fall back on for business here. He wasn’t new to the game—although in New York, there was no such thing as territory lines for him; he could have gone out and dealt anywhere. Nobody would say shit to the son of Dante Marcello.

  It was not the same here.

  Maybe he forgot.

  A foolish mistake, really.

  The quiet downtown Detroit street was left behind as Michel entered the barber shop. The first person he found in the old school-styled shop was Sal reclined in the barber’s chair with a towel around his throat, and a black cape tossed over his front. A man much older than him—if the graying of his hair and lines around his face was any indication—wielded a single blade razor a little too close to Sal’s throat.

  Michel never understood a man’s desire, but especially not a man in this life, to allow someone to put them in a chair, tilt them back, and give them the power to kill them with one slice. Because that’s literally all it would take. His father once explained to him that it was all about the trust with one’s barber.

  It was an experience.

  Yeah, whatever.

  He’d shave his own fucking face.

  He found Sal first, sure, but the other men in the barber shop were obvious, too. The two men sitting in the waiting area, their backs against the wall—never a window—while they watched the Capo getting shaved in the chair. Michel recognized them, too.

  Low fucks, really.

  Cole Toscano—one of Sal’s few enforcers that he kept close enough for the guy to make a regular appearance whenever Michel was around. And Brock Tocci, who was nothing more than a foot soldier for the Vannozzos.

  The two didn’t even pass Michel a look when he entered. Not that it offended or surprised him any because it didn’t. They didn’t have any control over him being that he worked for Sal directly at the moment, and he didn’t have shit to say to them, either.

  “Merda,” Sal cussed, finally noticing Michel in the doorway. The Capo’s dark gaze turned on him for a brief second as the razor hovered just below his right ear. Michel thought it was probably the coldest the man had ever looked. He realized then that the friendship he gained with Sal and others really only went as far as Michel’s ability not to cause trouble for them. “Took you long enough to get here, didn’t it?”

  “I came straight over,” Michel returned.

  Sal scowled, not looking as though he believed that for a second. “Sure, sure. Take a seat, Michel, and we can chat.”

  The only available chair was next to the fools in the corner, and Michel was not going to sit beside them like they were familiar in any sort of way. Maybe it was his raising, but he’d never known it to be okay for someone like him, with his last name and standing, to lower himself for the comfort of others.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Sal’s gaze narrowed briefly before he muttered, “Your choice.”

  Sure.

  Then, the man in the chair waved a hand at the man holding the razor to his cheek, his mouth barely moving at all while he spoke. “Meet my father—Senior. Or, that’s what we call him to distinguish as we own the same name.”

  Michel nodded at the older man. “Ciao. Nice to meet you.”

  Senior arched one, white brow high as he looked Michel over. “I cannot say the same at the moment, Michel Marcello. Hasn’t that father of yours taught you anything yet about the world outside of New York, or did he just plan for you to learn it as you fucked up?”

  “Easy, Papa,” Sal said, chuckling. “He’s a young one, isn’t he?”

  Michel tried not to be annoyed.

  And failed.

  “I didn’t realize I was on Irish territory until it was too late last night,” he quickly explained. “And I was only doing what you told me to, Sal. Answer the calls, go to the buyer, and do the drop. That was it.”

  Sal grunted under his breath. “Never place blame on someone else when it’s far easier to simply accept what you can change about your own errors.”

  Oh, great.

  Were they having a whole thing here?

  A moment together?

  Michel had a man in his life who liked to spout Yoda shit at him like he was supposed to give a damn. His own father. He was far more likely to listen to Dante than Sal, anyway, not that he figured that would be very good to say out loud at the moment.

  “I know I fucked up,” Michel said simply.

  Senior let the razor glide down the side of Sal’s face, and was the next to speak, saying, “Detroit is not like New York, Michel. There, I doubt you have to consider your actions, or how they will affect other men around you like you will here. I understand that you come from a family and a man where your last name is enough to allow you to sit at the table with the rest of them, but it will not work that way here. Your father, nor your last name, will keep someone from killing you because you’ve caused us an issue.”

  Sal’s finger pointed upward at his father. “What he said.”

  “I don’t expect where I come from to do anything for me here,” Michel replied.

  Because he really didn’t.

  “And I’ll be more careful,” he added.

  Sal sighed, and waved a hand, stopping his father from continuing the shave. Senior stepped back from his son, allowing Sal to sit up in the chair. He tugged the towel away from his lower throat, although his face was still only half shaved. He didn’t seem like he gave a damn about it when his gaze landed on Michel again.

  “We have had problems with the Casey family for years,” Sal explained, “because those Irish bastards are the stronghold here. We have only recently managed to get to a peaceful place with them, and do understand that we cannot afford to go back to war with them. And we won’t.”

  “Not for you, anyway,” the enforcer in the corner muttered.

  Sal jerked a thumb in the idiot’s direction. “What he said.”

  Michel nodded. “I got it.”

  “Good. Make sure of it.”

  Not waiting to be dismissed—he wasn’t a made man, and in all reality, Sal wasn’t as much his boss as just a guy supplying him—Michel turned to leave. It was Sal’s voice over his shoulder that stopped him from going one step further.

  “Did I hear you got close to Gabbie Casey in the club last night, too?”

  Fuck.

  “Where did you hear that from?”

  “Word travels, Michel.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear. If you believe everything, then you’ll stand for nothing, Sal.”

  The man grunted, but Michel didn’t turn around to look at him. It was far easier to see the truth when someone was looking at his face. Or, that’s what his father always liked to say, anyway. Michel didn’t know if it was entirely true, but he wasn’t about to test the theory out right then, either.

  “Just stay the fuck away from the Irish,” Sal said, “and make sure you keep your head down, too. No more trouble, Michel.”

  He lifted a hand over his shoulder. “Understood.”

  • • •

  “You the doc?”

  Michel glanced away from the bartender he’d been chatting with for the last half hour. Apparently, the man had never been to New York, and Michel thought that was a fucking shame. Now, standing just a foot away from Michel’s back waiting was yet another customer. The bartender, knowing what Michel was doing in this club, turned away to leave him to his business.

  He appreciated it.

  Because finally … someone figured out it was better to just place him somewhere to sell their drugs. This club just hap
pened to be mob-owned on the Italian side of things, so of course the employees knew to mind their business when the time called for it.

  Of course, he was trying to follow the rules and stay out of trouble. He was only doing his business where he was supposed to be doing it, or where he had been told to work. That way, no one could say shit if something happened.

  And yeah, he was keeping his head down. He hadn’t approached the Irish, and he had not crossed paths with even one since the weekend before. All good things, he was told. No one was too pissed off about what happened which meant he was expected to just keep moving and doing his thing like nothing was wrong.

  Which meant … no Gabbie.

  That didn’t mean he liked it.

  Michel would be a damn liar if he said the phone in his pocket wasn’t burning a hole just sitting there. It would only take a single call—he had her number, right? One call, and he’d get to see her again.

  He resisted the urge to do exactly that as he turned on the stool to face the waiting customer. Given that he sold outside of a regular, safe place—like his small bungalow, or something—everything he had on hand in his messenger bag was already weighed, and prepackaged. It made for easy, and fast, exchanges out in public.

  Two hands meeting.

  Cash sliding into his.

  Drugs moving to the buyer.

  “I am the doc,” Michel said, trying to keep his tone level. He still hated that fucking nickname, but it seemed like it grew on everyone else before it ever worked for him. Now, everybody who met up with him to buy simply asked if that’s who he was, and then they knew they could get their shit. “Who sent you over?”

  The guy looked to the side, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t answer right away which made Michel stiffen a bit on the stool. The man nodded, and then looked back at Michel with a shrug.

  Something’s wrong.

  Michel knew it.

  His first thought wasn’t cops, though, because he knew better than that. He was a small-time dealer doing this on the side when he was bored. It wasn’t even about the money because he’d have to move a hell of a lot more product to really make a difference. It was highly unlikely that he had even got on any cop’s radar as of yet.

  “Uh, was just told you were the doc if I wanted to pick up some—”

  Michel held a hand up to stop the guy from saying more. He didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes shifted to the side again, in the same direction as before. What was over there in the crowd that seemed so interesting, anyway?

  Fourteen.

  That’s how old Michel had been when he sold his first pill to some football player in his private high school full of rich kids that had more money than they knew what to do with. From that first sale, he’d learned a lot. His last name afforded him a bit of respect at home because fucking nobody wanted to mess with a Marcello, regardless of how much money they had in their bank accounts.

  Still, he learned.

  And fast.

  If something felt wrong, then chances were, it was. He didn’t ignore his gut—nothing good came from him suppressing his instincts. Bad shit always happened then, and he wasn’t willing to risk that this was one of those times.

  “Someone over there where you’re looking?” Michel asked the man.

  Instantly, the guy’s gaze came back to him. His eyes were a little too wide. There was something staring back—worry, maybe?

  The man blinked, and it was gone. A smile quickly replaced his concern, but none of that mattered to Michel. He’d seen what he needed to the first time around, and that was enough to tell him that he needed to get the fuck out of there.

  Someone was over in the crowd.

  Someone was watching.

  Cops.

  Someone wanting to jump him.

  Junkies thinking he’d be an easy victim.

  Who knew?

  Michel wasn’t about to find out.

  He was quick to push off the stool, not even bothering to give the guy a second look as he grabbed his messenger bag from the bar. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Michel nodded at the bartender who, clearly having heard the conversation, was already reaching for a phone to call for someone to meet Michel in the back.

  Because yeah, they’d planned for this.

  That’s why he liked this club.

  “Another time, man,” Michel told the guy who’d approached him as he started walking away. “I’m all out tonight.”

  “Hey, wait—”

  Michel tossed a hand up over his shoulder, but kept walking toward the back of the club. There should have been an enforcer or two in the back alley behind the club. That’s where they were usually located, anyway. He didn’t feel at all nervous as he headed for the hallway that would lead to the bathrooms, and two exits. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, though, just to check …

  Sure enough, three figures cut through the crowd.

  Coming right for him.

  Fuck.

  Michel picked up his steps as he slipped into the shadows of the hallway. He didn’t bother to check behind his shoulder again as he came up to the exit. Another few steps, and he’d be fine because the enforcers would be waiting out back.

  Or they should have been.

  Michel found an empty alleyway when he stepped out of the exit. The door shut behind him far too quickly—it was only an exit, there was no way to get back in. He didn’t really have time to question why the enforcers weren’t back here, not when someone was already following him and he just had to get away.

  Panic welled in his chest fast and swift, like a current within the ocean ready to drag him under and drown him. He had what, maybe thirty seconds?

  Or less.

  Those three people coming after him had been pretty close. Maybe twenty seconds, then. He thought about the knife in his bag, and the small switchblade he kept in his pocket. A gun would have been better, but he’d never been one to carry a weapon like that. His mother liked to say guns were heavy, loud, and hard to hide.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Michel darted down the alleyway, already pulling the switchblade out of his pocket and flicking the button on the side. The blade popped out as he heard the door open behind him, and footsteps echoed down the alley as his walk turned into a jog.

  He didn’t know these fucking alleys.

  This wasn’t New York.

  Nothing about this place was like his home.

  Michel had never been more aware of that than as he turned a corner in the back, and came to a goddamn dead end. “Shit.”

  “There’s the feckin’ cunt!”

  Of course.

  Of course, it was the Irish.

  Michel turned around with the blade in his hand, but he came face to face with three assholes each holding guns.

  “Hey, you’re the doc, aye?”

  Michel swallowed hard. “That’s what they call me, anyway.”

  Why lie?

  “Grand. We got a feckin’ job for you.”

  What?

  • • •

  “The boss can’t find out!”

  “He won’t. That’s why we grabbed a doc, boyo.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Shut yer feckin’ face, huh?”

  “A right wagon, you is.”

  Michel ignored the arguing men behind him as they shoved him down the hall. Where the third asshole had gone, he wasn’t exactly sure. He figured now also wasn’t the time for him to worry about it. Not considering the other two still had guns, and one was digging hard into the spot right between his shoulder blades.

  Was it a hair trigger?

  Was the guy holding it drunk?

  There were a lot of variables here.

  None to his favor, either.

  “Walk faster,” the guy at his back barked.

  Michel tensed. “I don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “The last door on the left.”

  He eyed the dimly lit hallway. He cer
tainly hadn’t driven around the city enough to know where exactly he was, but he suspected the shipping district only because they had brought him to a warehouse. Nothing good happened in warehouses.

  Ever.

  The last door on the left in the hallway was literally the only door on the left, but Michel didn’t think it was particularly important to point that out to the fucks behind him. He didn’t think it would work out well for him to explain their obvious stupidity all the way around the board, but he still had to resist the goddamn urge.

  “Open the door, ya cunt.”

  Michel let out a heavy breath, and looked upward, silently asking God for the strength to get him through this without a bullet in his skull. That would be great. He pushed the handle on the metal door down, and opened it up.

  At first, he didn’t notice anything strange about the room given it was dark. A bit empty, maybe, and the smell … a wet, musky scent that had his stomach turning. He fixed that easily enough by breathing through his mouth.

  Then, he was shoved inside.

  And a light was flicked on.

  Michel was barely able to catch himself before he fell to the floor, and finally he figured out why these idiots had brought him here. He found it in the corner, on a dirty blanket with a pillow propping it higher.

  Or rather, a man.

  A bleeding man.

  From his chest, it looked like.

  Michel sucked in another breath, his panic welling higher as all the pieces of this crazy puzzle started to properly fit together. One after another, it all clicked in his mind, and he didn’t know what to do. That night at the club with Gabbie, there had been quite a few people around when the guy wanting to cop drugs had called him doc as he helped her in the bathroom. It was possible they mistook that nickname because he’d been the one to tend to Gabbie’s cut on her arm, and they just didn’t know any better.

  Rumors traveled fast.

  They spread, and grew into a bigger lie.

  A part of him wanted to laugh.

  Another wanted to scream.

  “Stray bullet caught him downtown,” the Irishman with the gun at his back said. “Thought you might be able to help us out with this problem, and get it out. That’d be mighty grand of you, doc.”