Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

Slater said, ‘That’d go well.’

‘You’ve got the face for TV.’

‘And the personality for sending guests to psych wards.’

They waited thirty long minutes. No one materialised from round the side of Holt’s. The guy Slater had spoken to must have deduced the entrance was being watched, and done what he’d been told. He and his buddies were probably in the hospital already, with their phones resting at the bottom of the ocean.

Truth was, Slater had no way of following up with them. He hadn’t bothered sifting through wallets, finding IDs, taking notes for later. They weren’t worth it, and anyway, he knew they’d listen to him. It would take an incredibly courageous and foolish person to ignore that warning. The three Aussies were tough, but deep down they knew what was best for them.

If they’d contacted Mickey, the small-time gangster would be long gone. He’d have slipped out the back, vanishing into oblivion.

Another hour passed. Conversation was sparse. They instinctively saved their energy in case something spiralled out of control later, which things had a habit of doing when they were involved.

Eventually Slater said, ‘You ready to be a father?’

King didn’t answer for a long beat.

Then, still staring forward, he said, ‘Yeah, I am.’

‘Was it planned?’

‘No,’ King said, then a look came over his face. ‘Well…’

‘You were open to the possibility.’

King nodded. ‘We didn’t expect it to happen. But we were careless with birth control, and that had to be deliberate. There aren’t many things we’re careless about. If we are, it’s always for a reason. So … it wasn’t discussed, which means it technically wasn’t planned, but I think we both knew what we were doing.’

Slater said, ‘What are you going to do when the kid’s born?’

‘Same thing we’re doing now.’

‘No,’ Slater said, shaking his head. ‘You’re already on the fence. And this is the first trimester. When there’s a living, breathing child in your arms, it’s going to change everything.’

‘Maybe,’ King said. ‘Right now, I don’t know what that feels like. For a child to be … mine. And I’m not going to pretend I’ll know what to do until the day comes. So what’s the point of wasting time overthinking? I’ve done all the thinking I need to do, and the rest is in fate’s hands.’

‘You believe in fate?’

‘I don’t know,’ King said.

The honest answer.

‘I do,’ Slater said. ‘Guess I considered it wishy-washy bullshit before New York went dark. But of all the people who opened their doors for me when I was being hunted through that apartment building, it was Alexis. Of every situation that could have played out…’

King said, ‘Every time I find myself thinking along those lines, I tell myself only fools see connections that don’t exist.’

‘Maybe,’ Slater said. ‘But in the end, all of this is just stuff we tell ourselves before we inevitably die. That makes it a little easier to believe. Helps me take life less seriously.’

‘You’re in this profession and you haven’t gone insane,’ King said. ‘I’d say you’ve mastered the art of making light of turbulent situations.’

They went quiet again.

Then King said, ‘You know what? I just missed out on a fight, and I didn’t like it. Guess I have at least one addiction after all…’

Slater smiled in the dark.

King said, ‘It’s nearly been two hours.’

‘If he’s not out in fifteen minutes, I’m going in.’

‘What if he’s in there? You think it’s wise to confront him in public?’

‘I’m sick of waiting,’ Slater said. ‘We might not have a choice. And if he doesn’t back down, he might have to disappear.’

King said, ‘Fine. Wanting a hiatus doesn’t mean I’ve lost my nerve.’

Slater nodded. ‘Just checking.’

King turned his attention back to Holt’s and grimaced. ‘Here he is.’

7

Mickey stepped out of the speakeasy and swaggered east.

His stomach home to one too many beverages, he walked with the unique focus of inebriation, treating the rest of the world like it didn’t matter. There was no concern for his blind spots, no pause to consider whether he should watch his back. He’d already been stood up on a date and lost contact with three of his buddies. He’d felt alone, isolated, and he’d turned to the drink to anaesthetise his mood.

Alcohol makes us far more carefree than we deserve to be, and that comes with a price if you work in Mickey’s world.

King said, ‘We take him now.’

Slater said, ‘You sure?’

King said, ‘You were right. This is a simple job.’

‘That’s what we always say.’

King looked over. ‘No it isn’t.’

He got out of the car before Slater could say another word — Mickey was disappearing fast, becoming a tiny silhouette between the seafront establishments and the dark blue ocean itself. It was a picturesque night, and Mickey slowly vanished under a blanket of stars, his clothes buffeted by a warm sea breeze.

King pursued on foot.

Slater reluctantly followed.

They didn’t draw their weapons — they were sure Mickey was alone. He was a rote amateur in comparison to Dylan Walcott, and they’d outsmarted Walcott and his entire extended family only a couple of weeks prior. What did a gangster straight out of the Prohibition Era have to offer that a financial titan couldn’t?

Nothing.

So King and Slater advanced, walking fast, bearing down on Mickey’s drunken form stumbling left and swaying right across the sidewalk. The gangster stopped and put his palms on the seafront balustrade separating the street from a stretch of beachrock. At regular intervals, white foam washed upon the rocks, rearing up from the sea and spewing across them before receding in anticipation of the next wave.

Mickey watched the foam in a trance.

On the other side of the street, King made to cross.

Slater put a hand on his shoulder.

King looked over, but didn’t speak. His expression asked the question. They were too close to Mickey to converse — there were only a dozen or so feet of asphalt between them, and the laughter and conversation from a nearby Italian restaurant was too muted, too distant, to serve as a distraction.

They were frozen in shadow, well