"So, what's her name?" I asked, adjusting the hidden .45 caliber barrel on the go.
"Mary," replied Danny, my partner on this assignment, walking side by side with me.
"And how did she meet Mark?"
"I don't know, the way people meet... She used to be an actress."
"Has she been in anything I might have seen?"
"I think her biggest role was in some pilot episode."
"What's that?"
"You serious? They shoot a pilot to sell a show to the network. If it sticks, they greenlight the season. If not, it dies right there. She was in one that got canned."
Entering the building, we walked through the hall and stopped waiting for the elevator.
"Do you remember Anthony Palchevski? Half-Italian, half-Polish, they called him Tony Big Thumb?" Danny asked casually.
"Yeah, I think. That big guy?"
"I wouldn't call my friend fat. Just broad-boned. It happens."
"Probably know who you mean, so what about him?"
"Well, Mark Lesher really worked him over. Rumor is it was about his wife."
The elevator door opened, and we entered with my partner.
"And what did he do—screw her?" I asked with a hint of interest.
"No, no, no—nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"He gave her a foot massage," Danny replied like it was normal.
"A foot massage?" I was surprised, and Danny just nodded, adjusting his fancy goatee.
"And that's all?"
Danny nodded again.
"And what did Mark do?"
"He sent a couple of guys after him. They grabbed him by the scruff and threw him off a balcony. Four stories. Guy went straight through the glass roof of a conservatory. Since then, he's had speech problems."
The elevator doors opened on the right floor, and we exited with Danny, immediately checking the corridor for witnesses.
"That's brutal," I said, stepping out. "And yet, you know what I'll say: if you don't want fire, don't play with matches."
"What do you mean?" Danny asked, walking on.
"You don't give a foot massage to Mark Lesher's young wife."
"And don't you think that's too much?" Danny raised an eyebrow.
"Anthony probably didn't expect such a reaction from Mark, but he should've expected some reaction."
"It was just a foot massage. A foot massage means nothing. I give my mom foot massages," Danny said, throwing his hands up.
"That was too intimate a touch to Mark Lesher's young wife. It's almost like eating her pussy... Well, no, not exactly, but it's playing on the same damn field."
"Hold on," Danny stopped completely. "Eating a girl out and rubbing her feet are two completely different things, man."
"Different things, same field."
"No way. Listen, maybe you do massages different than me, but touching a woman's feet and sticking your tongue in her holy of holies ain't the same league, ain't the same sport, hell, not even the same planet. A foot massage means nothing."
"You ever given a foot massage?" I asked, already anticipating the punchline.
"Don't school me on foot massages—I'm an expert," Danny replied.
"Done it many times?"
"Hell, I got technique—no tickling, smooth as silk."
"You ever give a guy a foot massage?" I asked with a sly half-smile.
Danny gave me a long, motionless stare—he didn't like that question.
"Fuck you," he muttered, continuing down the corridor.
"And how many times?" I pressed, grinning.
"Fuck you," he repeated.
"Won't give me a foot massage? I'm kinda tired..."
"Drop it, you're starting to piss me off—here's our door."
We stopped in front of door number 416, checking the corridor again for witnesses and continuing our conversation in whispers.
"What time is it?"
"7:22 AM," I replied, glancing at my Rolex.
"A bit early. Let's wait."
Stepping back a few feet, we leaned against the wall across from each other, keeping it low.
"Listen, just because I won't give a guy a foot massage doesn't mean Mark was right throwing Anthony off that balcony onto the damn glass roof instead of handling it man-to-man. That's not right. If someone did that to me, they'd better pray I can't walk, 'cause I'll put a bullet in them." Danny's eyes went cold.
"I'm not saying he did the right thing. But you're saying a foot massage means nothing, and I'm saying it does," I explained. "I've given a million foot massages to a million women, and every time it meant something. We just pretend it means nothing. That's the thrill. It happens, no one says anything, but you get it, she gets it, and Mark got it too. So Anthony should've been careful. That's his wife—we both know he wasn't gonna laugh it off."
"Interesting point of view. But let's focus, we're on the clock."
"What's her name again?" I asked at the door.
"Mary. Why are you so interested in the boss's wife?"
"You see, Mark's going to Europe for a while, and he wants me to keep her company while he's gone."
"Keep her company?" Danny mimed a pistol to his temple.
"No, not like that! Just take her out somewhere. Make sure she's not lonely."
"You're taking Mary on a date?" Danny was surprised; for him, that crossed the line.
"It's not a date," I replied. "It's like hanging out with a buddy's wife. Just company."
Danny looked at me like I was an idiot.
"It's not a date."
Danny kept staring.
"I don't wanna be a jerk."
Danny shook his head and pushed the door. It opened instantly—some skinny kid ducked into the corner.
The apartment looked like a dump, a one-room studio. Two more nervous kids inside: one slick-haired punk in a denim shirt at the table with fries, Coke, and a burrito—our main target. The other was a rail-thin kid on the couch in gym shorts.
"How's life, boys?" Danny asked, stepping in. The skinny one twitched, but Danny waved him down. "Relax."
Leaving the talking to him, I strolled into the kitchenette, lit a smoke, watching them all from behind—relaxed, but ready to draw.
"You know who we are?" Danny scanned them with his stare. "We're working for your partner Mark. You remember Mark, right?" Silence. He kept going. "So I'll assume you're Bobby, huh?"
"Yeah, that's me," the slick-haired one said.
"I thought so. So, you remember your partner, Bobby?"
"I remember."
"Good for you. Looks like Victor and I interrupted breakfast, sorry. What're you eating?"
"Burrito."
"Burrito—the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast. What kind?"
"Cheesy."
"No, I mean, from where? Taco joint, food truck?"
"From Tito's Tacos."
"Tito's. Heard they're good. Never had it. That true?"
"Tasty," the kid muttered, pale as hell.
"Mind if I try yours?"
"No."
"This one's yours, right?" Danny grabbed the burrito and bit in. "Mmm. Delicious. Victor, you ever tried cheesy burrito?"
"No," I said, amused.
"Don't wanna try? Real tasty," he offered me.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you like burritos, try this one sometime. Me, I don't usually eat this junk 'cause my girlfriend's vegetarian, but nothing beats a good burrito. What's this?" he pointed at the soda.
"Coke."
"Coke, nice. Mind if I take a sip?"
"Of course."
"Mmm, perfect." Danny wiped his mouth, then turned to the skinny guy on the couch. "Listen, Slim, you know why we're here?" The kid nodded nervously. "Then why don't you tell Victor here where you're hiding that shit?"
"It's in the cabinet..." the swarthy kid in the corner piped up.
"I don't remember asking you," Danny snapped, then turned back. "Well, Slim?"
"The case is in the cabinet in the kitchen," the skinny one blurted.
I opened the cabinet and pulled out a black case.
"Got it." Punching in the code, I popped it open. Oh, yes. This was IT. I froze, mesmerized.
"We good?" Danny asked. I didn't answer, still staring at the contents. "Victor! We good?"
"We're good," I said.
"Listen, what's your name?" Bobby tried to play polite. "I know his is Victor. Yours?"
"My name's Alex, and don't butter me up," Danny replied sharply, hand brushing his pistol.
"I just wanted to say how sorry we are about what happened with Mr. Mark. We acted with the best intentions..."
Danny cut him off with a gunshot—skinny guy dropped, chest blown open. I smirked. Danny never changes. Bobby froze, eyes wide with terror, mute.
"Oops. Sorry. Didn't mean to cut you off. Please, go on. You were saying something about 'best intentions,' right?" Danny taunted.
Bobby sat silent.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Fine, let me ask you. Describe Mark Lesher to me."
Bobby sat dumb. Danny exploded, flipping the table, standing right over him.
"What country are you from?"
"What?" Bobby stammered.
"I don't know that country—'What.' They speak English in 'What'?"
"What?"
"You speak English, you freak?" Danny bellowed.
"Yes."
"So you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Then describe Mark Lesher!"
"What?"
Danny looked at me; I winked. He fired, hitting Bobby in the shoulder. The kid screamed, shaking in the chair.
"Does he look like a whore?" Danny roared.
"No!" Bobby cried.
"So why'd you try to fuck him like a whore?"
"I didn't want to."
"You did, Bobby. You wanted to fuck him. Ever read the Bible?"
"Yes."
"There's this passage I like. Ezekiel 25:17: 'The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men...'"
I knew where this was going. I drew my gun, and together we emptied our clips into Bobby. He sat slumped for a second, then hit the floor. Silence. Only the swarthy kid in the corner whimpered.
"...Oh shit... oh shit... so cold-blooded..."
"Your buddy?" I asked.
"Yeah, Victor, this is Mike. Mike, this is Victor."
"Tell him to shut up before I lose patience," I said flatly.
"Mike, shut up," Danny growled.
Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open—another guy with a Glock.
"Die, die, die!" he screamed, firing wildly until his mag clicked dry. He froze when he saw us untouched.
"I don't understand..." he muttered.
Our bullets slammed him back into the bathroom. I tried to smile, but blood bubbled from my lips. Darkness closed in. He got me after all—that was my last thought.