Rat Face, Part 3:
He had been told the door would be easy to find, but didn't see no door.
Rat Face walked cautiously down the alley. The mist was thick and reeked of raw diesel.
Past the wet-meat stink of piled trash, the street noise dampened. Water trickled down the brown brick walls. Tangles of moss clustered in the cracks. It reminded him of his early days in the slave camps of North Florida -- days he tried to forget. But how can you forget shit like that?
A dozen more steps. The mists lifted, and there it was -- narrow, black, impenetrable.
He knocked. The steel was thick and his knuckles barely made a sound. He rapped until his knuckles bled. He was not going to make the mistakes he'd made in the past -- not today, not with Wando.
Finally a thick latch squealed, and the door opened. From it emerged a man the size of a Cadillac.
"You're late."
"No I ain't fucking late. Get your head on straight, Big Boy," Rat Face said.
The big man smiled. Gold teeth.
"Right this way . . . Rat Face."
Wando's office was bigger than Rat Face's dream apartment.
She stood at the window in the red neon glow of the street below. Black hair, white blouse, red slacks, bare feet. Rat Face didn't understand how she could have survived the Plague Years, let alone wield control of West City's Criminal Underworld. It was unbelievable. If he had to bet, he'd bet on her not existing at all. And yet here she was.
"Stealing hotdogs from children," she said, turning to face him. "Is that how you pass the time these days?"
Rat Face flinched. He didn't flinch for nobody, but he flinched.
"How'd you know about that?"
She ignored his question. "I need you to do something for me," she said.
"Do what?"
"I need to you kill Lex."
He had been told the door would be easy to find, but didn't see no door.
Rat Face walked cautiously down the alley. The mist was thick and reeked of raw diesel.
Past the wet-meat stink of piled trash, the street noise dampened. Water trickled down the brown brick walls. Tangles of moss clustered in the cracks. It reminded him of his early days in the slave camps of North Florida -- days he tried to forget. But how can you forget shit like that?
A dozen more steps. The mists lifted, and there it was -- narrow, black, impenetrable.
He knocked. The steel was thick and his knuckles barely made a sound. He rapped until his knuckles bled. He was not going to make the mistakes he'd made in the past -- not today, not with Wando.
Finally a thick latch squealed, and the door opened. From it emerged a man the size of a Cadillac.
"You're late."
"No I ain't fucking late. Get your head on straight, Big Boy," Rat Face said.
The big man smiled. Gold teeth.
"Right this way . . . Rat Face."
Wando's office was bigger than Rat Face's dream apartment.
She stood at the window in the red neon glow of the street below. Black hair, white blouse, red slacks, bare feet. Rat Face didn't understand how she could have survived the Plague Years, let alone wield control of West City's Criminal Underworld. It was unbelievable. If he had to bet, he'd bet on her not existing at all. And yet here she was.
"Stealing hotdogs from children," she said, turning to face him. "Is that how you pass the time these days?"
Rat Face flinched. He didn't flinch for nobody, but he flinched.
"How'd you know about that?"
She ignored his question. "I need you to do something for me," she said.
"Do what?"
"I need to you kill Lex."
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