“Manhattan,” he answered.
“Boss, it’s me,” said Tarantina. “Just checking in before we make our move.”
“Excellent. Is everything in order?”
“Sure is. We’ve got teams of two or three guys stationed outside every business I mentioned to you. We’ve hired some outside help for the initial leg work, so we’ve got close to thirty guys workin’ for us right now.”
“That’s good news. Any problems so far?”
“None—it’s as smooth as silk as things stand. As a precaution, I’ve sent four guys over to see Johnny King—he’s the guy I said might offer the most resistance, given he already owns a large portion of the city as it is.”
“And what’s his story, this King?”
“From what I found out, he’s been around for a while. Owns a few clubs, got his finger in a few pies—prostitution mostly, but some drugs. Works out of a nightclub over on Hamilton Street. He’s even got a couple of cops on his payroll. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”
Manhattan thought about it for a moment before replying.
“Leave him to me,” he said finally. “I think a more tactful approach would be appropriate here. I’ll pay him a visit myself. You and two of our best will come with me.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Manhattan?”
“Yes, I think violence and force can only get us so far. If he has as big an operation as you suspect, then he could prove a valuable ally. I’ll approach with the offer of a partnership, detailing our takeover of the rest of the city. If I extend the olive branch, it might save us from any unnecessary trouble, and still give us control of his assets.”
“No problem, Boss. I’ll pick you up from your suite in an hour.”
“Make it two hours,” said Manhattan. “Let his club open first. It’ll give him a sense of security having more of his own men on site. It’s nothing for us to worry about, I’m sure. We’re going in as friends. At least for now.”
“Your call,” said Tarantina before hanging up.
Manhattan regarded the phone in his hand for a moment, and then put it back in his pocket before putting on his jacket and heading down to the hotel’s restaurant for an early dinner.
18:36
An hour and half later, Manhattan was finishing his second glass of red wine as he pushed the leftovers of his steak to one side on his plate. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. He was drinking a 2001 Merlot, which was a personal favorite of his. He’d grown accustomed to certain luxuries over the years, thanks to the financial security his lifestyle had given him.
He checked his watch. Tarantina would be coming for him soon. Looking around, he thought about his plans for taking control of the city one last time before launching the operation. The restaurant was probably half-full and, due to the cost and reputation of the hotel, occupied by a who’s who of important people from the city. He recognized the Assistant District Attorney sitting with his wife a few tables over from him. And he was sure one of the Supreme Court Justices was at the back of the room in a large party. The power in the room was intoxicating, and he was eager for a taste of it.
He himself had somewhat of a reputation, because of his former affiliation with the Pellaggio’s, and he knew that would assist with the transitions and help things go smoothly. Also, he knew that this would, at the same time, help distance himself from his former dealings with that family, and establish him as a big player in his own right in the world of organized crime. He smiled to himself, finally happy that he was no longer someone else’s right hand man. It would take a lot of work, setting up his own network, and he had a limited knowledge of the East Coast, despite growing up there, because of his long years working over in Nevada. But he was confident, and even a little excited, at the prospects that lay ahead.
He looked over toward the restaurant entrance and saw Tarantina appear. He nodded at him and signaled the waiter for the bill, which he added to his room’s tab.
He left his table and walked out, greeting Tarantina as he approached him.
“Is everyone ready?” he asked him.
“Everybody’s in place and awaiting the order, Boss,” he replied.
“Good. In a couple of hours, we will own it all.”
They walked into the lobby of the hotel, then out to the street where a car was waiting for them. It was a rented sedan, dark blue and anonymous. There were two other men inside—one driving, one in the back. Manhattan got in behind the driver, while Tarantina rode shotgun.
Outside, the light was fading and the streets were starting to fill up with people going out for the evening. A light rain had begun to fall and the wind was stronger than it had been earlier in the day. In the light traffic, they made the short drive to Johnny King’s nightclub in less than fifteen minutes. It was a brightly lit establishment called The Palace, which took up a modest amount of the block, and already had a small queue outside.
The driver pulled up out front and everyone got out, with Manhattan leading the way. As they approached the doorman, he turned to Tarantina.
“Make the call,” he said. “Tell everyone to make their move.”
Tarantina nodded and quickly typed in a text message, which he then sent to everyone.
“Done,” he said after a moment.
Manhattan took a deep breath and made his way to the front of the queue, much to the disgrace of the people lined up there. He ignored them and spoke directly to the doorman. He was firm, but pleasant.
“Can you please tell Mr. King that Jimmy Manhattan wishes to speak with him?” he said.
The guy looked him up and down, and then quickly did the same with his companions before taking out his phone and making the call. He quickly explained why he was ringing, and then simply nodded in silence as he listened. After a moment, he held the phone against his chest.
“Mr. King said he ain’t ever heard of you,” said the doorman. “If you wanna talk to him, make an appointment or get in line like everybody else.”
Unfazed, Manhattan simply smiled.
“Please tell your employer to take a moment and ask around,” he replied. “As of about three minutes ago, I now run this city. My associates and I simply wish to work out a mutual arrangement that benefits both our organizations. I’m here as a courtesy and as a friend. But this is the only time I’m willing to discuss such matters. I’m sure under the circumstances Mr. King can spare us a few minutes?”
The doorman looked a little worried, and carefully repeated the message to King on the phone. After hanging up, he made way for them.
“Mr. King says to go right in. He’ll be down in a minute to greet you.”
“Many thanks,” said Manhattan, with a smile that said he knew all along what the outcome would be.
They strode confidently through the entrance and into the nightclub. It wasn’t your standard place, catering more for the mature and refined customer. There was a small stage on the far right with a jazz musician playing some light background music on a saxophone. The tables and chairs were of a high quality, placed throughout the expanse of the main floor and well-spaced, with a small lamp on each table. Despite still being early, the club looked full. There was waiting staff patrolling the floor, picking up empty glasses and delivering full ones. At the back of the room was a set of double doors with a single man standing in front of them. Manhattan glanced over his left shoulder and instructed the two men accompanying him to wait at the bar. They both nodded and walked over, somewhat conspicuously, to rest on the counter.
He stopped and then looked at Tarantina.
“This is a nice place,” he said. “We’ll see what King’s office is like and maybe base ourselves here. I like the atmosphere and it’s better than The Carrington.”
“It’s a nice joint,” Tarantina replied, nodding in agreement.
As they walked across the floor, the double doors opened and a man walked out wearing a pinstripe black suit, with a man on eit
her side of him, who also wore suits, along with an earpiece.
“That’s him,” said Tarantina, nodding toward the man who approached them.
Manhattan had read up on Johnny King, prior to the meeting. He knew King was quite young, compared to himself at least. In his mid-forties, he had established himself more than a decade ago as the man to respect and fear in Allentown. He dealt mostly in prostitution and extortion, but did earn a modest sum from importing and distributing crystal meth as a sideline. He had a tanned complexion, and his brilliant white smile touched every inch of his face, making him look more like a politician than a gangster.
Manhattan took a deep breath to relax himself before extending his hand as they met.
“Mr. King,” he said. “I’m Jimmy Manhattan. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
King shook his hand firmly in response. “Likewise,” he replied, with a hint of skepticism. “My boy outside tells me you wanna talk to me?”
“I’d like to discuss some business with you, yes.”
King gave him an uncertain look before gesturing silently for Manhattan and Tarantina to follow him, which they did. He led them back through the double doors and into the other part of the club beyond. It looked like a VIP area, with the smaller room lit by a subtle light blue all around. There was another bar, but with fewer waiters. The area was far quieter, and looked much more exclusive.
They followed King and his bodyguards across the area to the end, where they went through another door and up a large staircase. At the top, they turned left and walked along a dimly lit corridor, adorned on either side by contemporary works of art. At the end of the corridor was the main office. King strode in and sat in an expensive-looking leather chair behind a lavish, dark mahogany desk. His men stood either side of him, arms folded.
The room was a decent size, with a large landscape painting facing the door behind the desk and filing cabinets in either corner against the wall. A thick, expensive, dark carpet covered the floor. The walls were a light beige color, offering a contrast to the ambience of the room.
Manhattan sat down in one of the two chairs facing the desk without waiting for an invitation. Tarantina stood just behind him. King regarded them silently for a moment, leaning back in his chair and bridging his fingers in front of him.
“So,” he began. “You have a business proposition for me?”
Manhattan smiled. “Of sorts, yes.”
“So... let’s hear it.”
“As I mentioned to your man outside, this evening I have absorbed the majority—in fact, almost all—of the local businesses in this city that conduct some manner of illegal activity.”
King scoffed.
“Are you being serious? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a former associate of Roberto Pellaggio, and later his son, Daniel. What we ran over in Nevada made this entire city look like a 7-Eleven. I’ve relocated my interests to the East Coast, and I have been reliably informed that you were the man in charge around these parts. Instead of dictating changes as we did everywhere else, I thought I’d extend you the courtesy of inviting you to merge your assets with mine. I’m sure we can work well together, to a mutually beneficial end.”
King looked at each of his bodyguards in mock disgust.
“You sound like you’re trying to do me a favor, you arrogant sonofabitch!” He stood as he spoke. “Let me extend you a courtesy—this is my town, you understand? And you have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of. Now, I’m gonna let you walk outta here and I’ll pretend this never happened. But if I see or hear from you again, I’ll fucking bury you! Are we clear?”
Manhattan sat, listening patiently, and when King had finished, he regarded him silently for a moment, before standing, straightening his suit, and dusting himself down.
“Mr. King,” he said. “I thank you for your time and your honesty. I respect that you have been upfront with me and let me know where we stand.”
Without another word, he turned and headed for the door. Sensing Tarantina’s anger at the disrespect shown toward them, he placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he got level with him.
“Come on, Paulie—this is one business we’re seemingly not going to add to our list of interests.”
And with that, they both left King’s office and headed back downstairs. They walked through the club the way they had come in, purposefully but in no hurry. Manhattan was keen to make a point that he wasn’t leaving with his tail between his legs. He signaled to the two guys at the bar that they were leaving, and all four of them walked back out to the street, got into the car and, drove off.
“Boss, are you really just gonna leave this asshole to run his business alongside ours?” asked Tarantina.
Manhattan smiled. “Of course not,” he replied. “I know just how to handle Mr. King.”
13.
MEANWHILE…
22:19
Wilson Trent sat in a large, brown leather chair behind his desk. His office was located in the penthouse suite on the thirtieth floor of a building he owned in the Manchester neighborhood, overlooking the Ohio River. On the first few floors were local, honest businesses which he was happy to accommodate, as they masked his other, less reputable, enterprises that also operated out of the building. The rest of it was luxury apartments that many of the men who worked for Trent lived in and worked out of.
His suite was spacious and sparsely decorated, giving it a very contemporary, modern feel. He had always been fascinated with the concept of Feng Shui. So what little decoration he had—a large plant on the right in the corner, a pet goldfish in a bowl on a small table to the left, various works of art on the walls and rare samurai swords in a display case by the right windows—were all arranged to best accentuate a positive environment for him. Some people who worked for him joked about his strange, spiritual beliefs, albeit never to his face.
The entire wall behind his desk, plus half of either side of the room, was made entirely of glass that ran floor to ceiling, offering a beautiful panoramic view of Pittsburgh. Trent was looking out at the city, still bustling with life below him, and the river that ran purposefully next to it. Above, the night sky was dark as the moon and the stars were hidden behind the low, menacing cloud. He enjoyed the view, and he often spun around to soak it in for a few minutes while he was working.
With him was his accountant, Joseph Bernstein. He was a well-dressed man with greased, jet-black hair and a permanent suntan that made his already perfect white smile seem luminous. He sat on one of the two leather sofas that were in front of the desk, facing each other length-ways.
“So is everything to your satisfaction?” Bernstein asked.
“It all looks in order, yeah,” replied Trent, who then spun around to face the room and rest his hands on his dark, solid oak desk.
As he was about to say something else to Bernstein, there was a knock at his door. He sighed wearily.
“What?” he shouted at the door.
It opened, and Duncan and Bennett entered. They were escorting a young, blonde woman wearing tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a short, furry jacket.
“What’s going on?” asked Trent, raising an eyebrow casting an approving glance over the new arrival.
“Boss,” said Duncan. “Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but it’s important. This woman just showed up downstairs, said she’s got something she needed to show you that couldn’t wait.”
Trent massaged his temples, then sighed and looked over at Bernstein.
“We’re done,” he said. “Get the fuck outta here.”
Bernstein nodded, and without a word, gathered his belongings and hastily made his exit past the new arrivals, closing the door behind him.
Trent looked at Duncan and Bennett in turn, before checking his watch. “It’s twenty-two minutes past ten,” he said. “This better be fucking good.”
Duncan gestured to the woman to step forward, indicating she could talk.
“Mr. Tren
t,” she began. “I’m Tammy. I work at Shakes, over in Hazelwood.”
“And why aren’t you over there right now, working?”
“Because of this,” she replied, producing a USB flash drive from her pocket.”
“And what’s that?”
“The club got raided last night,” she explained, confidently, like she knew she was doing her civic duty reporting it to her boss. “This guy walks in, kinda tall, cute-looking… I go over, y’know, see if he needs anything.”
“Get to the point, my dear, before I lose my patience.”
“Well, he starts askin’ all these questions about who’s in charge. I figured him for a cop at first, but then he took out Eight Ball, Mike the bartender, and followed Justin into the back. I heard shouting and shooting, then this guy walks back out. I go back to look and see Justin all kinds of dead—even had two fingers missing off his hand. Anyways, I figured you’d wanna know. This here is the security feed.”
Trent clenched his jaw muscles, suppressing his anger. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. He was pleased she’d come to him with the information. He signaled to Duncan, who took it and walked around the desk to stand next to him. Trent gestured to his laptop, which was still open in front of him, and Duncan plugged the memory stick into it and played the video file stored on there.
Trent watched as the unknown man walked in and spoke to Tammy. He was then approached by Justin and another guy, both of whom he took out before shooting the bartender and heading to the back area. Another feed then picked him up going into the office, shooting Justin’s fingers off, getting into the safe before shooting him in the head and emptying the contents and then...
Staring right into the camera.
Trent’s short temper took over and he exploded with rage, slamming his fist down hard on the desk and letting out a visceral growl, causing everyone in the room to jump in surprise.
“Sonofabitch!” he yelled.
“Boss, are you alright?” asked Bennett, who was still standing by Tammy.
Without answering, he stood and turned to Duncan, pointing at the laptop—the video file paused on the screen showing the man’s face in vivid detail.
One Last Bullet: An Action Thriller (Adrian Hell Series Book 3) Page 8
