Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(9)

“You done?”

“Not yet.”

“Where are you?”

“Not sure,” I answer honestly. “Somewhere downtown I guess.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Staring at his own reflection, what do you think?”

“Ha!” Alek barks. I knew he’d appreciate that, though he leans toward the pretty side too. Just good genes. It’s not his fault.

The peacock leans forward like he’s going to start walking again.

“You gonna meet me?”

I hear Alek nodding, though I can’t see him. I know everything he does. We’re connected.

“Yeah text me the cross streets or something.”

“Got it,” I say, and slip the phone back in my pocket.

The dago snaps his lapels, straightening out the lines of his suit. It is a beautiful suit, I have to admit. It's too bad I’m going to put a hole in it, but it would never fit somebody like me anyway. If I tried to get my arms in those sleeves I would tear them to shreds.

Finally this pretty boy stops admiring himself and takes off walking again. Coming to another intersection, there's a group of little girls, schoolkids or Girl Scouts I guess. He walks through the middle of them without thinking twice. Like there's nothing in the world that could happen to him. Zadrota. Moron.

The light goes green and the walk light comes on, sending the entire group into the intersection. I could take him right now. It wouldn’t be pretty, and I wouldn't get to see his face, but dropping him in the middle of the asphalt would be decent cover. Everybody would flock around him and create the diversion I need to get away. That's just human nature. Everybody's got to look. People can't just mind their own fucking business.

But they're just regular people, what do they know? They don't see him for what he is. And they don’t see me at all. I know this because every time I look around, everybody's eyes just slide right off me like I'm Teflon. I could be anybody. Too ugly to be noticed. I’m certainly not as flashy as the Italian.

He climbs the sidewalk curb and I'm pretty close behind him now, maybe eight feet. So that is starting to feel a little weird. This is a mighty long walk for a made man, and I'm wondering what is he really up to?

He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and puts it up to his ear. I run through possible scenarios in my mind. Maybe he is talking to somebody he was going to meet. Maybe they changed locations so that he had to change his route. That would explain a lot.

Or maybe he knows I’m here. As unlikely as that is, I have to at least consider it.

More probable is, he’s looking to score. This guy wears his fetishes like shiny little badges for everyone to see. Coke. Underaged girls who won’t put up much of a fight. I’ve watched him score one or both a half dozen times while I surveilled him, and I’ve only been in Chicago three days. What a pig.

Normally this guy seems to go for the young ones in tourist bars. Nothing too creative there. He just goes to the loudest club he can find and picks up some girl who looks like she just bussed in from the suburbs. Easy pickings. They see his shiny suit and they’re just all over him.

Of course, a man like that is not going to be able to handle much more of a challenge than your average community college student. I wonder if he even knows what a joke he is.

And now another turn. It's all high rises and chain restaurants at street level. Extra wide sidewalks. It’s past rush hour but I guess these sidewalks are probably full to capacity right around five or six pm. Thousands of people work downtown.

But there's no charm in the financial district whatsoever. It's almost antiseptic. Uniformly great. A few late business people and stock traders walk by in their matching outfits. Cheap suits and shoes. Ladies wearing pantyhose and sneakers, for fuck’s sake.

I wish this guy would just get somewhere more discreet because I don't think I know this part of town. I studied the maps, I'm pretty good at knowing the general layout, but I haven't been here. I’m really wondering what he is up to.

He skirts a couple of subway grates, and I don't know if that's being practical or if he's just a pussy. Afraid of heights maybe? That would figure.

Something is starting to feel strange and I consider calling Alek again, just to have a sane voice in my head. What would he say? Caution.

The Italian slows down in front of a garden that’s set back from street level, fronting a yuppie restaurant. I think for a second maybe he's going in there for dinner, but he doesn't. He picks up the pace, and I have to struggle a little bit to catch up.

I’m starting to want this done because it all has that green, queasy feeling attached to it. After fifteen years in this line of work, I know when something’s starting to unravel. Besides, I'm not confident that I'll be able to find my way back out without ending up in a jam and getting myself turned around.