Forelli’s phone call has given me pause to think about what happened fifteen years ago, and more importantly what happened just over a week ago. Before the ambush, my plans were set: I’d run a distribution network, rough guys up from time to time, but sit back and enjoy the money for the most part. I had a private pool, fast cars, and the beach in mind: the good life. Crime would pay.
But now? Now I’ve got no money, and I’ve gotta hunt down whoever screwed me over. And I am. Not for Forelli, no, but for me. Because whoever that guy is, he’s making life more difficult than it has to be. He took away my pool and my fast car. Now I’m back to having to work over sleaze balls and pack a pistol on me all the time. It’s like I’m a punk kid again, doing Pops’ Forelli’s bidding. Hey, kid, go pick my my car. Hey, kid, go rough that guy over.
I’m not that kid anymore. I’m tired of doing errands. I want money, I want a big fucking house, I want a car. I want to live. I don’t think I can do that under Forelli’s thumb. He’s not going to let me live the easy life down here. Besides, even if I find the money, there’s still Diaz to deal with. I’ve got a feeling that he doesn’t take kindly to competition in this town. Dealers who operate outside the big player get taken down. I found that out this afternoon.
Teal’s phone rang, and I answered it. I heard a voice I didn’t recognize, congratulating me -- by which they meant Teal -- for a job well done. What’s interesting is that they were thanking him for taking care of those “outsiders” -- Harry and the dealer? -- and had more work for him. They wanted me answer a pay phone at the Washington Mall that night. So I do.
I figure -- find out who this guy is, I find out who ambushed the deal, and I find out who took the money. Then I kill him and…then what? That I don’t know. War against Diaz, I guess. Not the kind of thing that interests me.
The voice on the other end wants me to hit Carl Pearson, a pizza delivery man. I know Pearson, from when I worked at the restaurant doing deliveries. They don’t just deliver pizzas: sometimes the warming bags I was given were cold, and the pizza boxes didn’t exactly have pizza in them. Instead of people ordering pizzas and a Coke, they ordered…coke. That’s Pearson’s idea. I guess someone objects to his enterprise.
So, the next day, I figure out his route and then lie in wait. A couple of redlights later, one coke distributor bites the asphalt. I used a gun I’d picked up in a little Cuban neighborhood after the Haitans hit it: dead men don’t really have a use for guns.
Maybe the mysterious voice works for Diaz, maybe the mysterious voice owns Diaz. I don’t know. What I do know is, the drug dealers in this town like the scheme of things, and if I try to establish a network down here I’m going to have to slug it out all the way.
And like I said, that’s not something I’m interested in.
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