“You are a humorous man, Angelo,” Giraldo says. “Help me, will you, please?”
He gestures at a crowbar. Shrugging, I pick it up and join him. I pry open the crate and Giraldo takes the lid. Then he nods down at bags and bags of white powder with the words King Kong printed on the front, and a colorful drawing of an ape hefting a barrel over his head.
“What is it?” I ask.
He smiles broadly. It’s so different to the way he’s smiled all night, I wonder if it’s his first genuine one. “This, mio amico, is how we young men will take what is rightfully ours. Allow me to introduce King Kong, the strongest derivative of ketamine in the whole world. The high is clean and potent and blissfully short-lasting.”
He pierces the bag with a penknife and snorts some powder off the blade.
He offers me some, but I shake my head and decline. There are enough demons swirling behind my eyes tonight without adding drugs to the mix.
Shrugging, he takes some more. “We have pills, too. It’s good, Angelo.”
I watch his whole face change, his eyes light up. I watch how he falls into the chair, grinning softly. I watch his hands pawing at his face in wonder, as if he’s forgotten he has a face.
And in this, I see dollar signs.
I see power.
I see the drug that will make my claim to the throne undeniable.
“You have a connection,” I surmise, sitting opposite Giraldo.
He nods, leaning forward. He reaches into a drawer and takes out a big bottle of water, downing almost half of it. Afterward, his eyes are still glassy but at least he can talk. “An old friend of mine. We went to high school together. I won’t say his name. But he makes this stuff in a lab down in El Paso, got a watertight shipping operation, a well-known brand as a front. It’s genius.”
“And you want to handle distribution in Boston while I handle it in New York.”
He nods. “Yes. What do you think?”
“I think,” I say, placing my hands on the table, “we need to talk numbers.”
An hour later, we’re driving back to the pizza joint. It has started to snow lightly. I watch the snowflakes melt on the window, thinking about the deal. Giraldo will have the King Kong shipped to New York using the same front his contact uses, and I will handle distribution. His cut will be twenty percent, but after a few months of business, I’ll work that down. I’ll find a way to go to the supplier directly.
We shake hands and Giraldo drives away, probably to head back to the club and snort some more Kong. I walk around the back of the restaurant to my Ferrari, eyes alight with excitement for the future.
And then I see him.
Dujar.
He’s standing by my vehicle, looking as rotund and eggy as ever. He is running his hand over the hood of the car, and I suppress a growl of irritation. I don’t want his filthy paws on anything of mine.
Whistling, he turns to me. “What a beautiful vehicle,” he remarks casually.
I go for my gun, cursing myself for being a goddamn fool. I’m on foreign soil and I didn’t even bring Levi or Felice. What the fuck was I thinking? Dujar raises his hands. All around, his men watch from the shadows, but none of them go for their gun.
“I am not here for that,” he drawls. “Please don’t make this difficult.”
I lower my gun a few inches, glancing into the darkness. The men are smoking, shuffling their feet. One is checking his phone.
“Tell them to go wait out front,” I say. “I’m not going to be fucking sucker-punched, Dujar.”
There are about fifteen in the shadows. Dujar says something in Albanian and immediately the men head for the alleyway, leaving us alone, except for the one who stands at his shoulder. He’s around forty, with a bushy black beard and dark eyes.
When it is just the three of us remaining, Dujar slides his hand over his comb-over and sighs. “I do not like this enmity between us, Angelo.”
I lower my gun to my side, but don’t put it in my holster. I know that any second this could turn sour. “Is that why you’re surprising me in the middle of the night?” I laugh bitterly. “So we can become friends?”
He shrugs. “I was in town. I heard you were as well. I wanted to talk.”