(Outside Vaughan's, New York City, 11:49 AM)
He strode down the concrete-slabbed sidewalk beside the busy road, his weak legs trembling as his eyes shuffled through the monotonous faces passing by. Trying to calm himself down, he started tapping his fingers one by one in a repetitive pattern: thumb to fore-finger, to middle-finger, to ring-finger, to pinky . . . to fore-finger, to middle-finger, to ring-finger, to pinky. . . . The vivid sun shone in thin rays of light through his dense glasses as he spotted the thin, maroon sign hanging from the building to his left. "Vaughan's", it read. Samuel gulped what was left of his saliva down his hoarse throat. After taking one last considerable whiff of his cigarette, he gently dropped it onto the rigid floor, stepped on it—the sole of his sneaker pressing tightly over it—and breathed out what felt like the longest breath, the warm smoke drifting through his slightly parted dry lips. Not a second later, he found himself placing his quavering hand on the crisp-cold, horizontal, metallic handlebar of the worn, white, wooden door. He pushed into it. With an eerie creak—just like in the movies—the door slid open. . . .
(Brooklyn, New York City, Residence of Kenneth Kipper, 11:49 AM)
Kenneth Kipper sat on his couch at his house in Brooklyn, his lush red hair appearing brown upon the dim lights of his room. Kenny was a middle-aged man from North Louisiana with a high status among the crime world of the Americas. New York being a place with plenty of crime, he naturally bought a house there. But that wasn't all: he had two houses in the States, and two in South America. His right-hand man, Giuseppe, sat next to him, a cold beer in his hands. Giuseppe had not seen Kenneth in a few weeks as he was back home taking care of his ill mother. "Hey, Kenny," he started with his thick Brooklyn accent, "what's new with business? Any new deals?"
Kenneth, not taking his eyes off the football game on his television, answered, "Uh . . . yeah. I made a deal with a young man named . . . Sam Peaks or summin'—a really nervous kid, if y'ask me; always shakin', he is. Anyway, we had a meetin' and he wanted me to whack this one guy he knows." Kenny burst out laughing. "Hah! This young kid, scared shitless, hands and legs tremblin', asked me to WHACK! one of his friends. Can ya believe it?"
"And you accepted?" asked Giuseppe.
"Yeah, why not? Quick cash."
"How much we talking?"
"Five grand. But then we realized that there was no way that the kid was gonna get any money like that, so I didn't even bother to head to the pick-up spot, myself; I sent Limpin' Nino, instead. He'll deal with the kid. One way or the other."
(Vaughan's, New York City, 11:50 AM)
Like a tsunami running at full speed, the sour stench of raw fish instantly hit Sam, irritating his nostrils. He blew out through his nose, trying to get rid of the vulgar scent, but it didn't seem to help. Looking ahead, his back toward the door, an unoccupied, timber wood desk full of beautiful, smooth grains came into sight. The lights were just dim enough to reveal a silver service-bell stood on the right-hand side. As Sam started toward the bell, he suddenly felt a firm hand land on his shoulder. "Jesus!" he shrieked, dropping his duffle bag and pivoting around.
"Hold your horses, there, kid!" a high, nasal voice spoke. It was a man. An elderly man. He had a pair of great, big, bright blue eyes which bulged out of their sockets, just like a bulldog's. "Look's like we've got Mr. Macho Man over here," his sarcasm drove him to say.
"Holy shit, he's tiny!" Sam thought as he eyed the stout man limping around him, on his way to the desk. The man looked about four feet, ten inches tall, and wore golden suspenders over a white shirt with black pants.
Finally, he reached the other side of the desk; Sam could see him struggling to hop up onto the high stool. "Right, how can I help you today, sonny?" he asked, massaging his scruffy, white beard.
"I believe I have a reservation with a 'Kenneth Kipper'?" he went on.
"And you are—"
"Samuel Pierce."
"Samuel . . . Pierce," the elder repeated, whispering under his breath as he searched the Reservation List, his finger slowly dragging down the lined paper. It came to a halt. "There we are." He tossed the Reservation List aside, walking back around the desk. "If you'll just follow me, Sammy," said the old-timer, leading him toward a hallway at the right of the room.
And so they went.
The hallway was dark, lit by dim wax candles; the floor—creaky. As they walked deeper into the hallway, the sound of car honks slowly started to fade away; as did the vile scent of raw fish, and the sense of life. Suddenly, they stopped. "Here we go, Sammy," the old man said, opening a door to his left. In Sam went.
There was a wooden table with couches on either side. Looking right, he saw a fat man with sharp eyes, their black irises like black holes—and indeed they were like black holes as Sam was getting sucked into them. He forced his gaze away. Sam had met Kipper before, and this was definitely not him. "Excuse me, kind sir, but may I ask where Mr. Kipper is?"
The man said nothing.
"Shut up, Sam," he thought. Briskly, he sat down on the couch on the other side of the table, an apologetic look on his face.
The man still said nothing.
Sam reached under the table and lifted the bag of cash he had brought along with him. As he did, he noticed that the solid man in front of him had a wooden leg. He hit his head on the table as he flinched. "Sorry, there was a big bug down there," he lied. Sam dropped the bag onto the table, cautiously pushing it across. The heavy man, still having not said a word the whole time, looked inside.
(Vaughan's, New York City, 12:07 PM)
Six cops, "N.Y.P.D." printed on their backs, barged in through the front door of Vaughan's, pistols fastened in their firm hands. "WHERE?" one shouted. He looked around for an employee.
There was someone behind the reception desk—an old dwarf with a bag, not too much smaller than himself, by his side. "The back!" he replied.
To the back, the cops went, checking every room as they did. The first room—empty, the second—empty, the third—empty . . .
Then they reached the final room. . . . "N.Y.P.D.!" They slammed the door open.
There sat two couches on either side of a wooden table. On each one sat a corpse, sagging: one young, skinny man, and one older fat man.
"Shit," Officer Miller sighed, lowering his gun. "Get the old midget, ask him if he has any security cameras set up here."
Officer Brown retreated to look for the man. "Mills?" he shouted back down the hallway.
"Yeah?" Miller replied.
"I think he's gone!"