The two men who entered the Priest’s den a week later were not what he had expected, but then the Priest had learned that nothing was ever quite as he might have expected it to be. The first was a black man dressed in a gray suit that looked as if it was being worn for the first time. His black patent leather shoes shone brightly, and a black silk tie was knotted perfectly at the collar of his spotlessly white shirt. He was clean shaven and exuded a faint scent of cloves and incense that was particularly appealing to the Priest under his current, excrementally tainted, circumstances.
Behind him was a smaller man, possibly of Hispanic origin, wearing an amiable smile that briefly distracted from the fact that his clothes had seen better days: no-name denims, last year’s sneakers, and a padded jacket that was obviously of good quality but was more suited to someone two decades younger and two sizes larger.
“They’re clean,” said Vassily, once the two men had submitted, with apparent good grace, to a frisking. Vassily was deceptively compact and his features were gentle and delicate. He moved with speed and grace, and was one of the Priest’s most trusted acolytes, another Ukrainian with brains and ambition, although not so much ambition that it might pose a threat to his employer. The Priest gestured at a pair of chairs facing him across the table. The two men sat.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked them.
“Nothing for me,” said the black man.
“I’ll have a soda,” said the other. “Coke. Make sure the glass isn’t dirty.”
The smile never left his face. He looked over his shoulder at the bartender and winked. The bartender merely scowled.
“Now, what can I do for you?” asked the Priest.
“It’s more a matter of what we can do for you,” said the small man. The Priest shrugged. “Cleaning, maybe? Selling door-to-door?”
There was an appreciative laugh from his soldiers. There were three of them in all, plus the bartender. Two were seated at the bar, the ubiquitous coffee cups before them. Vassily was behind the men and to their right. The Priest thought that he looked uneasy. But then, Vassily always looked uneasy. He was a pessimist, or perhaps a realist; the Priest was never entirely sure which. He supposed that it was all a matter of perspective.
The small man’s grin faded slightly.
“We’re here about the paper.”
“Paper? Are you looking for a route?”
There was more laughter.
“The paper on the detective, Parker. We hear you want him taken out. We’d prefer it if that wasn’t the case.”
The laughter stopped. The Priest had been informed that two men wanted to discuss the detective with him, so this opening gambit was not unexpected. Usually, the Priest would have left such discussions to Vassily, but this was not the usual situation, and these, he knew, were not usual men. He had been told that they merited a degree of respect, but this was the Priest’s place, and he enjoyed goading them. He respected those who respected him, and the mere fact of the men’s presence in his club irritated him. They were not pleading for the detective’s life; they were trying to tell him how to run his business.
The bartender placed a Coke in front of the small man. He sipped it and scowled.
“It’s warm,” he said.
“Give him some ice,” said the Priest.
The bartender nodded. One of the men seated at the bar leaned over and filled an empty glass with ice by scooping it through the ice bucket. He handed it to the bartender. The bartender dipped his fingers into the glass, retrieved two cubes, and dropped them into the Coke. The liquid splashed onto the small man’s jeans.
“Hey,” he said. “That’s rude, man. And seriously fucking unhygienic, even in a place that smells as bad as this one.”
“We know who you are,” said the Priest.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘We know who you are.’”
“What does that mean?”
The priest pointed at the small untidy man. “You are Angel.” The finger moved slightly to the left. “And you are named Louis. Your reputation precedes you, as I believe people say under these circumstances.”
“Should we be flattered?”
“I think so.”
Angel looked pleased. Now Louis spoke for the first time.
“You need to burn the paper,” he said.
“Why would that be?” asked the Priest.
“The detective is off-limits.”
“By whose authority?”
“Mine. Ours. Other people’s.”
“What other people?”
“If I said I didn’t know, and you didn’t want to know, would you believe me?”
“Possibly,” said the Priest. “But he’s caused me a lot of trouble. A message has to be sent.”
“We were up there, too. You going to put a paper out on us?”
The Priest wagged his finger. “Now you are off-limits. We’re all professionals. We know how these things work.”
“Do we? I don’t think we’re in the same business.”
“You flatter yourself.”
“I’m flattering somebody.”
If the Priest was offended, he didn’t show it. He was, though, surprised at the men’s willingness to antagonize him in turn when they were unarmed. He considered it both arrogant and unmannerly.
“There’s nothing to discuss. There is no paper on the detective.”
“What does that mean?”
“I cut my own lawn. I shine my own shoes. I don’t send out for strangers to do what I can take care of for myself.”
“That puts us at odds.”
“Only if you let it.” The Priest leaned forward. “Is that what you want?”
“We just want a quiet life.”
The Priest laughed. “I think it would bore you. I know it would bore me.” His fingers moved the photographs on the table, rearranging them.
“Friends of yours?” said Louis.
“Police.”