Before Spike let him go he patted him down to check for a handgun.
“I’ll stand.”
Pope smiled as he rose and walked over. He wrapped an arm around Jack’s shoulders and presented him to the group as if he was being sold as a prostitute.
“Gentlemen, this is Jack Weslo.” He turned to Jack. “We were just discussing business, and I was saying how good your last fights were. A few more and I think you could be ready for Albuquerque.”
“That’s why I’m here. I have a proposition for you,” Jack said.
“Really? Please. Go ahead.”
Jack pulled his bag around and Spike stepped forward. Jack smiled. “It’s just money. Relax.” He unzipped the bag and took out all he had in cash and dropped the bricks on the table. “That’s seventy-five thousand dollars.”
The men gazed at it as if it was nothing more than pocket change. In their world it was. Jack had seen far more in his time working for the mob, and doing jobs for others but it was all he had left. Fifty of his own money, twenty of Dana’s and five from his recent fights. “I want Albuquerque tonight. Bring out your best.”
A smirk appeared on Pope’s face. He wagged his finger. “As much as I admire your tenacity,” he said, raising his voice at the end, “that’s not how it works. We make the deals, we determine the amount and so on.”
“You afraid I might win like Tyson did?”
Pope’s smile vanished and his lips pursed together. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the money. “No. I believe you are everything and more. The real deal.” He smiled. “That’s what Tyson said, right?” He rolled his head to one side. “How is Tyson?” He feigned concern. “What a shame. Terrible world, isn’t it?”
Jack wanted to pull a gun and kill them all but he needed to remain composed. He’d also left his firearms outside, as he knew they would check him.
“Wouldn’t know. I was out of town yesterday.”
“Right.” He nodded rolling his lower lip under his teeth. “That would explain your absence at the fight. I gather Tyson didn’t explain the penalties for not showing?”
“No.”
“Well you’re fortunate that he stepped in at the last minute. Not many managers would do that, would they?” he said smiling at everyone. They all shook their head like typical yes-men. Jack despised him. He couldn’t wait to wipe the smug grin off his face.
Pope looked back at him. “Seventy-five thousand. Not many fighters are willing to put up that kind of money. You’ve got balls; I’ll give you that. But like I told Tyson. You want to fight? Sure, I’ll get you in the cage.” Jack reached for the money and Pope placed his hands on it. “No. It stays here with me. Call it insurance that you’ll show up. I think you understand, yes?” There was a pause.
Jack pulled back and nodded.
“Spike, give this man the address for the Albuquerque Plaza. We’ll see you there tonight at midnight.”
“I’ll find it myself,” he said walking past Spike and scowling at him.
“And Jack, remember. Show up this time. I don’t like being let down twice.”
Chapter 23
They were easy to find. Pope’s expendables congregated in a seedy bar called Last Round just off San Francisco Street. Seeing that none of Tyson’s original attackers had shown their face at the gym on the two occasions Jack was there, he figured Pope kept his legitimate and illegal operations separate, which also meant keeping his dogs on a short leash. These were the kind of animals that would willingly do his dirty work at the drop of a hat for nothing more than beer money. Gafino had used that method for years. His guys operated on the streets distributing narcotics. They never met him; neither did they know who was giving the marching orders. That way if they were ever arrested and someone squealed, it wasn’t traced back to him. Gafino made a whole game out of it. It was like multi-level marketing and he was at the top making money off the backs of those who didn’t have a pot to piss in. They were thugs, nothing more. Hard cons that often had just got out of prison. No prospects. No future. No real way to earn money. Working for him beat banging on doors trying to get a real job. They didn’t ask questions. As long as the green flowed, so did the blood.
Last Round was a basement bar accessible only by a narrow, steep staircase. There were a couple of panhandlers outside who asked for change, or a cigarette. Jack gave neither; his mind was too focused on the task at hand. He could feel the weight of the two Heckler & Koch P30L handguns secured inside his shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Inside the basement it was dark and dingy, the floor was covered with trash and it felt sticky on his boots as if alcohol was spilled frequently and no one cared to mop it up. The joint wasn’t fancy, the full bar was standard and there were three beers on tap. As Jack entered late that afternoon, it took a second for his eyes to adjust then he smiled as he saw staff too self-absorbed in their phones to notice him. There had been a video camera outside but a frayed cable hanging down made clear it wasn’t in service. There were none inside, a common practice for bar owners who allowed shady business deals to take place. They might have catered to all types but they attracted the scum of society.
Jack knew he didn’t have the luxury of time to follow through with what he wanted to do to each of them. He was also taking a big risk of being caught by the cops but that was the price of taking care of business. It wasn’t foreign to him, nor did he shy from it. Death had to be swift, without mercy and he
