The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

“Alright. Fine, take note,” Roman iterated the address to Bugsy’s mansion. Ryatt smirked, not jotting it down; he was already on its street corner.

Thirty minutes later, Ryatt stopped the Caddy at the front gate and pressed the intercom to announce his presence.

Roman came outside and got in the backseat. “Nice ride. Yours?”

“Ours.”

The mansion was at least 20,000 square feet with a pool and tennis court. Was this the same person who had harassed a poor blind woman for unpaid interests on $5,000?

Roman directed Ryatt to a garage, where the Alfa Romeo was parked.

They both got down and walked to the front door.

“Where are your friends?” Roman asked.

“With the truck.”

“And where is the truck?”

“Here.”

“Here?”

“An hour later, it’s here, if you do everything like I… um… request you to do.”

Roman pointedly looked down at Ryatt’s holster. In a blink of an eye, Ryatt swiped the gun out. Roman’s laid-back brain was late by a second when it decided to react. Eyes bulging, he fumbled to reach his back. All this time, Ryatt could have killed him ten times over if he had wanted to.

Ryatt shook his head. “No, Mr. Roman.” He grabbed Roman’s doughy wrist and placed the revolver on his palm. “I’m handing you my gun. I understand you can’t let me carry it when I meet Mr. Hat.”

Roman held his chest and let out a chortle. “You cheeky little fuck.” He jabbed Ryatt on the arm playfully. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Roman pocketed the SW. “Put your arms out on your sides.”

Ryatt did, and he was given a complete pat down.

“Satisfied?”

“Uh-huh.” Roman nodded. Then he took out a key and worked on the door lock like a burglar. His behavior piqued Ryatt’s interest, he seemed too fastidious as he inserted the key into the doorknob and turned it. Like it would jump and rip his face if he moved any faster.

Fascinated, Ryatt took a closer look. The lock had a slim slit for a keyhole like other locks, but unlike them, it had a hollow above the slit.

“What’s that hole?” Ryatt asked.

“If someone tries to tamper with the door without a key…” Roman slowly pushed it open and beckoned Ryatt to step in. On the other side of the doorknob was a sizable revolver, attached to some peculiar homemade contraption. The hollow facing outside was its muzzle.

“Boom.” Roman laughed. “Every door to the property has one.”

“Why don’t you fix it two feet higher and kill the intruder altogether?”

“Nah, it doesn’t work like that. We know because we’ve tried. It depends on the asshole’s height. If he is too tall, the bullet hits his shoulder and he runs away. Too short, and it completely misses him.”

“So the midsection: it presents a wider target than the head, hence lesser probability of failure.”

“Correct. Also, we don’t want to kill him. Not that quickly anyway.”

“You have to ‘interrogate’ the poor fuck,” Ryatt said. “Then publicly make an example out of him, to deter other potential hitmen.”

Roman smiled, which didn’t reach his eyes. So they had interrogated people here, maybe in the basement. Drilling the eyeball or nail-gunning testicles to a chair? Ryatt had heard stories about Bugsy. None of them portrayed him as merciful.

Roman led Ryatt inside through a lengthy hallway. A tall Christmas tree was perched in front of the largest TV Ryatt had ever seen. An indoor fountain gurgled water; its drizzle carried pleasant coolness and not so pleasant chlorine. Bronze statues of men with ancient weapons stood guard around the walls.

“Enough staring.” Roman waved his arm towards a flight of stairs at the far side of the living room.

Ryatt climbed the steps, and when he reached the landing, Roman said, “Take a left.”

Ryatt did and came across another series of bronze statues flanking the corridor, this time not of medieval warriors. They were of Kamasutra postures.

“Nice, uh?” Roman winked.

No. Bugsy was a sex fiend. The fact angered Ryatt when he thought about this filthy animal abducting his mom.

Roman opened a mammoth teak door to the right, and in they went.

Bugsy sat at a mahogany desk, and two chairs were placed across from him. Numerous framed photographs hung on the walls: Bugsy fishing, hiking, running, swimming, kayaking.

In most of the photos, he wore his ridiculous hat that drooped to the side of his face. A fucking Al-Capone-wannabe.

On a showcase behind Bugsy, a phonograph played some opera music; it was that soprano shit where women sang high-pitch numbers and broke glasses.

Roman sat in one of the chairs but neither offered a seat to Ryatt.

“So, kid, why you wanted to see me?” Bugsy took out a cigar from a green velvet box on the table. “Just leave the truck to us, get paid, and crawl back to your hole, eh?”

“There’s no guarantee you’ll let us live after we give you the truck.”

“What the fuck are you babbling about?” Bugsy snipped the cigar’s tip and lit it with a match. His words distorted as he spoke with the cigar in his mouth. “We ain’t gonna whack you. You’d already be fish food if we wanted to.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hat, but I can’t take that risk. I can’t bring it here.”

“So we pay now and expect you to give us a call with the location of the truck?”

“That’s not—”

“We tread with little to no trust when we do business with negroes.” Bugsy glimpsed at Roman who laughed and slapped his left knee.

“I know you can’t pay upfront.” Ryatt swallowed and tried to wet his mouth that had suddenly become dry. It was no time for indignation. “How about you and Mr. Roman come with me?”

“What if you take us to a quiet street and rob us? I mean, we’ll hunt you down and