By Jess Dukes
The weathered brick warehouse was filled with racks, stacked from floor to ceiling with industrial stainless steel sinks. The men pushed Anton into a chair behind a small office desk in the corner.
"Where is Pierre? I can give him his money right now." Anton tried to look past the men, but the warehouse was dark except for the light coming through the open door. In a flash, a disinfected fist crashed through Anton's cheek and nose, throwing him into the wall behind him. He expected that he would at least be alive long enough to pay off Pierre. The one who paid the taxi fare dialed a cell phone.
"It's Bragg. We found him. He's waiting for your call." A minute later the phone on the desk rang.
The gunman raised his gun to Anton once more. "It's for you."
Anton climbed off the floor, held his shirt to his gushing nose, picked up and answered, "Pierre?"
"Anton! You murderin' fool! Stroke of luck my friends running into you that way, huh? Listen. I'm leaving town."
"But I have your money. I was going to give it to you on Friday as planned."
"Well, I'm glad you're on the ball with this thing, but I think I want that girlfriend of yours to give it to me. I saw you with her this morning, and I have to say she's not an eye strain, for a tramp. So let's set that up, alright?"
"Pauline? No! She's not involved. She knows nothing."
"Aw hell, Anton. Don't lie to me. Is that smart? Look around you, ruskie. Now, I know you dropped something off with her this morning, so grab a pen out of that desk there and scratch this down on your arm. I'm gonna give you my address and I better see some Pauline action by Friday, or I'll send Bragg and Vince over to her house and she can join you-know-who at the bottom of the river, got me?"
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