He figured, Let’s create some excitement.
He dropped his shoulder low and stumbled forward and ran into the bald guy from behind, as hard as he could.
Thinking he’d at the very least knock the guy off the raised platform.
Make him stumble at least a few steps.
Make him look like an idiot.
Wipe the stern look off his face.
But the guy didn’t budge. It was like he’d been concreted to the floor.
He turned slowly, raised an eyebrow, and seized Rico by the throat.
5
Unlike his colleague, King had enough restraint to enjoy a casual drink without getting carried away.
He couldn’t pinpoint why. Every time he conducted a rudimentary character analysis he came away convinced that he should be more like Slater. They were men of extremes, after all. Their careers were likely to get them killed, their daily physical regimes were intense enough to make the eventual degradation of their bodies inevitable, and their ability to tolerate discomfort rested as a far outlier in comparison to not just the general population, but most of their peers too. So, realistically, approaching everything in life with that sort of intensity should have been a character trait.
One drink should turn to two, then five, then ten, then…
But it didn’t.
Not often.
He and Rory sat under the red glow of an outdoor heater in an exclusive laneway beer garden in Yorkville. The drinks were overpriced, the expected tips were exorbitant, and the patrons were important businessmen and women. The first time King had showed up on the bar’s doorstep, he’d been turned away because of his attire. He wore designer clothing but he didn’t wear suits. Ever. It had taken serious persuasion to be allowed in, but then he’d become a regular. He didn’t take his alcohol consumption to Slater’s level, but at least he drank enough for a warm buzz and tipped handsomely.
Slater had never been here.
It wasn’t his style.
Rory gazed around and said, ‘I thought I was doing well.’
‘You are.’
‘Not like this.’
King shrugged and sipped at an unpasteurised brew. ‘As soon as you get wrapped up in Manhattan’s social contest it’s a guaranteed loss. There’s always someone doing better than you.’
‘Then why are you part of it? From what I can gather, you could be anywhere in the country.’
‘I like it here.’
‘But you’re not playing the game?’
‘No.’
‘You drink at nice establishments. You own some of the finest real estate in the country. I’m sure you eat at expensive restaurants. I’m sure you indulge.’
‘Of course. It’s a byproduct of living here.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Which part?’
‘You say you’re not playing the game, but everything I see shows the contrary.’
‘You train me.’
‘I do.’
‘You see what I go through on a daily basis.’
‘That’s a small part of your day.’
‘You see anyone else working like that?’
‘Only professional fighters.’
‘I only drill striking with you,’ King said. ‘I’m a third-degree black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and I train every day at a Gracie gym near here. Then there’s strength and conditioning. Then work at the nearest shooting range. Then every other avenue imaginable to hone my body — meditation, cryotherapy, infrared saunas, photobiomodulation therapy. It’s a permanent relationship with suffering, and then a marathon journey to recover from that suffering. You spend long enough with that sort of routine and all this socialite-style posturing seems exactly like the farce it is. I guess I take part in it. But I’m detached from it.’
Rory took a swig of his beer and wiped foam off his upper lip.
King said, ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘It gives me a better idea of what you do for a living.’
‘I think you already know.’
‘Is that why we’re here?’
‘We’re coworkers getting a drink after work.’
Rory shook his head. ‘We’re not coworkers. You’re in a whole different league.’
‘Depends what you mean by “league.”’
‘Are you a hitman? For powerful people? People who pay top dollar for human weapons?’
‘In a roundabout way, yeah.’
Rory said nothing.
King said, ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘Without details — uneasy.’
‘Would you like details?’
‘If I asked for them, would you tell the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I trust you.’
‘You don’t know me well enough.’
‘I think I do,’ King said. ‘Sure, we don’t talk much. But I don’t talk much to anyone. There’s more to trust than conversation.’
Rory said, ‘Continue.’
‘You’ve seen me broken by fatigue. You’ve seen how hard I push my body. You’ve never tried to one-up me, or been too hard on me. You’re the perfect blend of stern yet accommodating. I can tell you’re an honourable man outside of our training. I don’t need to interrogate you verbally to know that.’
‘If martial arts hadn’t humbled me,’ Rory said, ‘then I wouldn’t be where I am today.’
‘So ask away.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘The government.’
‘Military?’
‘Not exactly.’
6
Slater stood solemn and quiet, surrounded by hedonism.
His head was swimming from the booze, but he hadn’t lost control. Either he hadn’t consumed as much top-shelf alcohol as he remembered, or he was just getting tolerant to these sorts of quantities.
He hoped it was the former.
So in a rare moment of clarity he shuffled his way out of the booth for a moment to himself. He crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the dance floor, but he wasn’t really paying attention to the throngs of gyrating socialites. He was thinking. And, for the first time in a long time, he was content. He figured he was the perfect level of drunk. Not messy enough to spiral out of control, but far detached from the sordid state that was his usual sober self. Here he could go deep into his own head, unobstructed and unafraid. So he
