Flannery’s ears are red, but his temper is a slow simmer. We’ll finish before he heats up.
“Sixty-five percent of the contract area falls in Lombardi territory, but Flannery’s prep work should not be overlooked.” I pull my glasses off and look at both men. “Lombardi gets the contract, but Flannery can have twenty no-show jobs on the work at one hundred thousand per year for a two-million-dollar payout for the life of the contract.”
A no-show job is when someone is on the payroll that isn’t required to show up, so twenty Flannery men will have positions in Lombardi Sanitation, get paid, and never lift a finger for him. It’s not the answer Flannery wanted. There is a lot more money to be made with the contract, but he knew it wasn’t his territory, so it’s better than nothing, bloodshed, or destruction of his property. The latter two would have been the escalation Lombardi eventually resorted to.
Meeting Two: Kyle Turner, Owner of Turner Construction, the leading construction company for the Western Seaboard
I shake Kyle’s hand and take a seat while one of my guards pours us both some Remy Martin Louis XIII—a La Lune Noire staple and Kyle’s favorite.
“Thank you for accepting a private meeting, Mr. Noire.” He rubs his hand over his mouth, stress evident in the gesture. “I’m in some trouble.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” I assure him. “How can I help?”
“I did a job for ahigh-profilefamily last year. Since then, they’ve found themselves the subject of an investigation, and in turn, I’ve got Feds everywhere. They’ve bugged my home. They stop by my job sites. They intimidate my foremen. It’s unnerving and also bad for business.”
Turner Construction builds stunning homes and specialty buildings, but most notably, the company helps several groups that occasionally need to misplace things. Like bodies.
I swirl the cognac around my snifter. “Have they found anything?”
“Not that I’m aware.” He sips his own drink, settling his nerves. “I am … thorough.”
Despite Kyle’s jittery demeanor, he’s carved out a niche in the underworld. He makes his own special cement—all organic. It is truly thefoundationof his wealth.
“Got any agent names for me?”
“Sanders, Fillmore, and Patel,” he supplies.
“I think I can take care of it. Let me make a call.” I pull out my cell and dial a contact.
“Yeah?” Agent Matthew Colehorn—aka Cole—clips.
“I have a colleague who would preferyourattention on his business over Sanders, Fillmore, and Patel.”
“Those motherfuckers?” He crows a sardonic laugh. “I bet. And this is my problem, why?”
“Ah, Cole, how easily you forget that you owe me.”
“I’m having fucking déjà vu,” he snarls, though he’s harmless. This is all part of his shtick. “Haven’t we had this conversation?”
“Often, but you always crawl back for more.”
“That’s me. A cheap and greedy whore.” He huffs because the man has little self-discipline. “Business?”
“Turner Construction,” I offer as Kyle takes another swill of his drink.
Cole clucks his tongue several times as his fingers frantically peck a keyboard. “I’ve got it. I can move those guys to a juicier case so they won’t complain. And I’ll put Armstrong and Mason on Turner with me. I’ll even do a sweep for any plants myself, so consider it done and us fucking even.”
“You got it.” A smile plays on my lips as I dip my chin to Kyle to let him know we’re good before I challenge Cole. “Until you need your next seven-card-stud fix.”
“Exactly.” He chuckles, helpless to yet another of his many vices. “See you next month. I’ll need a high-stakes private game.”
“Done.” I end the call and tuck my phone in my suit pocket. “You should have relief quickly. Let the dust settle while Cole checks everything out before you alert your clients that it’s safe to move forward.”
“Thank you.” He exhales what must be nearly a year’s worth of anxiety. “You used a favor. I really appreciate it.”
I stand, button my suit jacket, squeeze his shoulder, and latch my gaze to his. “It’s fine. You’ll owe it to me now.”
Meeting Three: Killian Ryan, Irish Mafia, and Bruno Torrez, Mexican Mafia, from Chicago
