He’s been working at this hotel for over a decade, never let us down before. That I know of.
That. I. Know. Of.
Well, if that isn’t telling.
Bronson gazes at the ceiling as if searching for Godly inspiration. “Money just wandered away,” he sings. “On the books, not in the pockets. You just woke up one morning, and the bikers had moved in, pitching tents in your cranium, Willy? Hiding drugs in your chest?”
Madonna mia.
I press my thumb into the raw meat of William’s jaw, feeling the tremor of flesh within, all the way downin the soles of my shoes.
Fucking petrified.
Poor fucker.
“Did you know that my Family is visiting from Sicily?” I ask. It is redundant. He knows because I told him three months ago in fewer words. I trusted him then. I don’t take kindly to broken trust. “That they will be staying here, in this facility.” I clasp my hands together. “Asleep. Vulnerable. Expecting safety. Important men and women, Se? I cannot have people in this hotel that I do not trust, and I cannot have illegal drugs stored in the walls. What a mess that would be if an informant were to go to the feds. What would that look like? I’ll give you a moment to mull that over… It would look like the drugs belong to my Family. A setup. Is that what you’re planning?”
Saliva slides from his lower lip as he talks, drawing on all his strength and the final bubbles of adrenaline. “They don’t know. I swear it, Mr Butcher. The bikers… T-they don’t know. I just wanted the extra money for storing the drugs. Fed some through the books. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are. It’s okay. Come clean. Be honest with me, my boy,” I coo. “I’ll make it all better.”
“My little girl is sick,” he goes on. “I needed the money for her chemo. I didn’t want to involve anyone else.” He wails and weeps, tears and saliva hanging from his open mouth, body swaying in place. “I swear it. You have to believe me. You’re like family to me, Mr Butcher.”
How sweet.
“I would never want the bosses to get hurt,” he adds. “The Bikers, their president, Martin, he doesn’t know the Dons are staying at the hotel. I swear it. I swear on my life. That would be… I’d never betray you like that, Clay.”
As Bronson squats at his side, untying him from the chair, I cup his sweaty face, kissing his left cheek.
Then his right.
“I believe you,” I say.
He sobs and smiles.
I step backwards again and watch.
Bronson grabs him, dragging him over to the huge industrial washing machine we have at the end of the row; the one for king-sized duvets and bulk hauls of laundry.
He screams. “No!”
It has a colossal metal barrel filled with bleach and soapy water, vibrating and spinning rapidly. The sheets and blankets inside are tossed and turned about.
I slowly follow them.
My shoes rap on cement.
“God! No!”
At the end of the lane, I hit the red button on the wall, cutting the machine off mid-cycle, releasing the locks.
When Bronson opens it, water and towels pour out. The powerful scent of detergent and bleach overwhelms the air, making it increasingly hard to breathe.
“Please, Clay!”
I straighten. “I will pay for your daughter’s chemotherapy, William. As you said, we are like family. The truth is, if you had spoken to me about your situation, I would have given you the money then and there.”
William’s guttural cries echo around the room as Bronson forces him into the round mouth of the machine, slapping bloody fingerprints around the chrome drum. The sound a man makes when he is about to die is something I never forget. I've heard it many times now, and each scream carries its own distinct and haunting pitch.
