“Chops, Peetey.”
Peetey arched his upper lip in response, as if trying to contain a snarl. Carson had this idea that, if he treated the bodyguard politely, Peetey might go a little easier on him should anything go wrong. Yeah. He’ll be sure to shoot me between the eyes before he sends my body parts to different landfills. “So, what’s up?”
Chops laughed softly. “You’re always in such a hurry, Navy.” Carson didn’t know if it was good or bad to have earned his own nickname. “Relax. How’s things? How’s the job?”
Carson sighed, suppressing the urgency to be done with all this, but Chops always wanted to have a minute or two of polite conversation, and Carson felt required to oblige. “Job’s good, boring and easy, but it pays the bills. How are things with you?”
“Eh, ya know. Same old shit. Sometimes people just don’t learn. There’s always somethin’ to take care of.”
“I’m sure.”
“This is a business, ya know, but some people forget that. I gotta make sure they keep their minds in the right place.”
“You’d think they’d figure it out by now.” Carson tried to keep his responses as neutral as possible. He still wasn’t sure what might piss Chops off.
“Too many fuckin’ idiots, ya know…I deal with too many of ‘em.” He shook his head, and Carson saw the hint of a grin on Peetey’s face, just for a second, as if Chops’ words brought back some pleasant memories. “Anyway, let’s get down to brass tacks here.” He took out a manila envelope and handed it to Carson, who opened the clasp and looked inside. Among a few other documents, he saw a picture of a pretty teenage girl and another of a man who could be charitably described as uglier than a sack of mud.
“That’s Chuck Kosciusko. The fuckhead is like 40, and he’s spendin’ time screwin’ around with that 15-year old girl, who happens to be the daughter of a friend of the boss. Even after someone told him the score, he went out with her again! Told everyone at the bar she said she was 19, and that’s what he believes.”
Carson shook his head. Like most everybody, pedophiles disgusted him to his core, regardless of the context.
“Right?” Chops said, agreeing to Carson’s non-verbal affirmation. “It’s like some assholes are begging for it.”
“Yeah, kinda,” Carson agreed. He knew what was coming next. “So, you want me to trash this guy’s apartment, car, send him a message, that kind of thing?” It was what they always asked of him. He could always get in and out of anywhere without being noticed, meaning Chops didn’t have to worry about him getting caught and bringing heat down on them.
“Not this time. He doesn’t have a car, and his place is such a rat-infested shithole he probably wouldn’t notice if you ripped it apart.” He stopped talking then, remaining quiet until Carson noticed the unnatural silence and looked up to see Chops staring at him, brown eyes hard. “I don’t want this message misinterpreted, so it’s gotta be the kind that costs him a few teeth, some blood, and maybe the temporary use of some of his fingers.”
Carson’s body temperature dropped 20 degrees and he could feel the color drain from his face. He stared at Chops, praying he would hear his rough laughter followed by “Nah, just fuckin’ with ya!” but there was absolutely no mirth in that thick, Slavic face. Not knowing what to say, Carson sat stock still, and was actually relieved when Chops voiced a single word, even though it glistened with menace. “Problem?”
“That’s assault. I mean, it’s one thing to break the windows out of some guy’s car or go bust his TV and cut up his sofa, but this is serious. I don’t know if I can do that, even to a scumbag like this.”
Chops nodded, but not in agreement. “Lefty,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Carson, “pull over.”
If the scope of the job scared Carson, Chops’ next four words nearly made him lose control of his bladder. “Let’s take a walk.” Oh holy fucking shit. I’m dead. Chops opened his door and hopped out with surprising alacrity. Carson’s legs felt rubbery as he followed. Chops moved slowly and sedately as they started walking down the sidewalk, and Carson was momentarily sidetracked by how much he had to look down at the mobster. Every time they’d met, they had been sitting down, so he’d never noticed the difference in height. But he could be two feet tall and it wouldn’t matter, not right now. Carson had no doubt he possessed the will and the experience to put a bullet in his forehead.
At least Peetey didn’t get out with them. If he had, Carson would have asked for a second to update his will. That didn’t mean he was safe, because Chops might be planning to do the job himself and had asked him to walk only so he wouldn’t get his Caddy all bloody. Carson’s mind raced. He had a chance of surviving – for the moment. He’d have to kill Chops first, but doing so would bring the entire organization down on him, and he knew he couldn’t handle that much pressure. He tried to be casual about adjusting his jacket so he had better access to his gun, but he was far too nervous to be subtle.
“Relax,” Chops told him. “We’re just going to chat away from other ears.” He jerked his head back towards the car. “And you’re gonna make me fuckin’ nervous if you keep reaching near your piece, so knock it off.”
Carson looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You know?”
Chops blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Of course we know. Jesus, I know you ain’t used to this, but I figured you knew the game. You were a fuckin’ Navy SEAL, for Christ’s sake, and we’re ‘unsavory characters’ as far as you’re concerned. If you didn’t carry every time we met, we’d
