Muscles twitched all over Moretti’s head—shaved perfectly clean, on top and on his face—as he chewed his steak. His hands dwarfed his utensils, and he hovered over his plate, staring down upon his food, his pace steady, consistent, something that might have appeared uncouth on a normal person, especially within the sophisticated environment, but seemed powerful and fitting of him.
Finally he finished, and he looked up, blue eyes under thick, gray-white eyebrows, appraising each of the three men facing him, a couple of seconds a piece, moving left to right. He wiped his mouth with a white cloth napkin. A waiter appeared, removed his plate.
Without taking his eyes off Jake’s trio, Moretti handed the napkin to the waiter, who left. “Let me guess. Another non-payment.”
Glover leaned forward on the table, getting himself physically in front of Jake and Charlie as he had at the warehouse. “Bowman tells us they were intercepted again.”
There was a brief moment as Moretti processed what Glover had said, his tongue bulging his lip as he cleaned a tooth, eyes on Glover.
Jake seized the chance to interject. “Bowman was telling the truth.”
Moretti’s stare shifted to Jake. “What makes you so sure?”
“I could see it in his eyes.”
Glover scoffed loudly. “Goddamnit, Hudson…”
Moretti’s attention returned to Glover, narrowing his gaze at Glover’s display, before going to Jake again. “I can respect that. A man’s face says more than his words.” And then he was back to Glover. “You’re the one in charge?”
“Yes.”
“Burton’s top man, correct?”
Glover nodded, shifted. He leaned back, retreating to his original position aligned with Jake and Charlie. “That’s right.”
“Then I’m wondering why you’re letting this get so out of hand. It was two weeks ago that I reached out to Sylvester Farone in Pensacola, son of the man I once trusted, admired. My request was simple enough—I had a family who’d been struggling to make their protection payments. My resources have been running a bit thin. I wondered if Sylvester could spare a few men, a professional courtesy, and he agreed to send you three.”
Moretti stopped then, eyes scanning over Glover, Jake, and Charlie, a dark grin on his lips, daring any of them to speak. None of them did.
Moretti continued. “Then I get a call from one Lukas Burton, tells me he’s an up-and-comer within the Farone syndicate, the next best thing, that I’m gonna be glad to know him. I could smell the stink of his ego through the phone. He tells me that the Farone family is splitting, that he’s heading one of the halves, the half that would end up on top. He further tells me that the man who was heading the three-man team coming to New Orleans to assist me was one of his contingent, his top man.”
He paused again, staring at Glover.
“Burton told me you’d have no problem handling this situation, Mr. Glover, and so far you’ve only made it worse.”
“The thing is—”
Moretti held up a hand, instantly silencing him. “I long ago lost faith in Joey Farone, even before he went mad, and the only reason I do business with his psychotic son was out of respect for the man I once loved. Make no mistake, I have zero respect for Sylvester Farone. But this upstart Burton fellow, the way he spoke—it had me believing, maybe there would be strength coming from Pensacola once more. But if you’re representing him, Mr. Glover, I’m beginning to believe my confidence in Lukas Burton was unfounded.”
“You won’t be disappointed. I swear it.”
Moretti looked him over. The slight smirk returned to his lips. “See that I’m not. One more chance. That’s all you get. Now get out of my face.”
Outside. The city air was still thick with humidity, and in downtown it was seasoned with vehicle exhaust. There was the quiet buzz of foot traffic on the sidewalk. Car horns. The distant rumble of evening revelry on Bourbon Street several blocks away.
Glover stormed down the three steps, headed for the street. Jake stopped short, remaining under the brightly lit port cochère. Charlie did the same, staying at Jake’s side
Glover went to the curb, shoved his hands in his pockets, spun around, made eye contact with Jake. Then he stormed back to the steps, jabbing a finger.
“You’re screwing this up, Hudson. And Burton’s going to hear about it.”
He glared at Jake, who stared right back. The drum of bass rolled past, hip-hop blaring from an old Cadillac’s open windows. A drunken cluster of high-heeled young women stumbled by on the sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously. Glover whipped back around, raced down the steps, and threw open the door of one of the yellow cabs idling at the curb. A few seconds later, the cab signaled and merged onto the street.
“Well, isn’t this going just splendidly?” Jake said, watching the car turn the corner and disappear.
Beside him, Charlie shuffled, pacing back and forth on the granite step. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m telling you, Pete. This is just the beginning. Glover is Burton’s right-hand man. Burton’s planning something. Something big. I just … I…” He trailed off.
Jake wanted to help Charlie. He’d spent enough time around him to know that although Charlie was a criminal, he was, at his core, decent. But as an undercover officer, the best Jake could do for Charlie was to get him out of this life before his list of punishable offenses continued to grow.
Or before he got himself hurt. Or killed.
Jake could easily see a guy like Charlie Marsh getting himself in too deep. There was a naïveté about the guy. A simplicity.
Jake would have him arrested, yes. But before that, he would get him out of this existence.
“You’re scared,” Jake said.
Charlie’s head went down, the long mess of hair dropping from the top of his head, dangling. He nodded slowly.
Jake put a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t the life for you, Charlie.
