Oh, money. I faintly remember something like that. My humble abode seemed to echo that statement. If luck was a thing then I had none of it - the only time I am needed, it’s in a 40 year old subway at 3AM. What’s wrong with these people? What are they so afraid of? All they have to do is meet me in a coffee shop at rush hour. They’re more likely to be spotted by the people they don’t want to see when they’re the only ones around. Jesus, no fucking manners anymore. Well, it was close enough 11PM already so I decided to head out. Only a short venture down the stairs - that I frequently put a foot through - stood between me and the shitty streets that seemed perpetually a dark grey hue, a hue acquired only by being slapped for hours by rain.
The Leon station wasn’t too far from me, only about half an hour on foot. So with a bit of spare time on my hand, well, there was only one thing for it. Now before I even say it, I know I’ll be judged. Fucking cliché on legs. Look at me, already using curse words in every fucking sentence. Well, abra-fucking-kadabra, my life is a noir film.
I walked through the door, the music jumped up a few octaves as I pushed the door closed behind me. The place was like a sauna, but only the guys here wore clothes. The doorman gave me a nod, might as well have been my best friend I see the guy so often. I kept on walking to the back room, everyone thought they knew what that room was for and that worked just fine for me and my boys. Dave and Jack were already there, sitting around a table covered in papers, a cloud of smoke floating around them, illuminated by the one overhead light in the room.
“Anything new?”
Jack chimed. The kid wasn’t new around here, he knew his assets and used ‘em. He was the first guy I employed to actually approach me for the job. “Knew my type” he said, hah! The guy’s smart and he knows it, gonna go far so long as things don’t go wrong for him.
“Some guy wants me to meet him at Leon station, mentioned a murder. Weird thing: this person wants me to meet him at 3AM. One of you mind coming with me?”
I was somewhat proud of finally being able to respond to his question with an answer worth hearing.
“No problems, boss. Got any ideas which friend I should bring?”
He replied merrily.
“Can’t go wrong with the .45!”
I remarked, like I was discussing which kind of car I dreamt about. Things had got like this. Streets weren't safe around here. Everyone’s packing. The 80 year old picking up her pills in the pharmacy? Probably a Ruger type.
I moved further in the room and sat down at the table with ‘em. The table was covered in fake ID’s. Some new guy in town was handing them out like candy at a playground. Fucking idiot, obviously hadn’t realised that people ‘round here tended to have first names and genders. The good thing about this new business was that we wouldn’t have to deal with this low key shit till we finished the murder case. If anyone in the liquor shops hassled us about the amount of kids trying to buy alcohol, all we had to say was “Lady, we’ve got a murder to solve”. Shut them right up.
Dave was a family man, no way he’d want to come on something like this. Jack was getting ready, loading ‘Roxanne’, his gun, and making sure it was working. We put our vests on, slid on the leather gloves and swaggered to the door. Hard not to, knowing you’ve got a solid layer of Kevlar right under your stained shirt and crumpled tie. The only perfect thing about our appearance, and it was apparent only in our confidence, huh. I nodded at the doorman, he opened the door. For once the rain seemed to make no noise and the streets seemed clean. Thing were looking up. We made course on foot for Leon station.
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