Page 121 of A Breath of Life
The Bishop studied me a second before rising and approaching the sideboard. He poured two generous glasses.
He brought me one, and since my hands worked, he let me hold it that time.
I glanced at the ceiling for a moment before meeting his gaze. “What are we celebrating…Michael?” I dared him to react.
Not a flinch or a flutter of eyelashes. Not a single twitch of nerves. A quirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not my name.”
“It’s someone’s.”
“No one I know.”
“Bullshit. I saw the look on your face earlier. A year ago, Clarence paid someone named St. Michael ten thousand dollars. Within days of that transaction, his wife was killed in a B&E. On the anniversary of her death, Clarence is tagged with the ace of spades and meets the sharp end of a knife in an alley.” I glanced at the Bishop’s case of knives and other implements. “I know that was your handiwork. You’ve said as much. How much did he still owe Ace?”
The Bishop smirked and sipped his drink. “Got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“Do I?” I waited patiently for him to elaborate. Most criminals liked to boast and brag when given an opportunity. They took pride in their work. They liked recognition and attention.
This man was no different, and I’d given him plenty of opportunities to talk. It was a matter of time before he caved.
Another sip. Another assessing once-over, then he spoke. “I believe he owes upward of one point two million… for the assassination. It’s accrued interest.”
“Of course it has.”
“Clarence was warned.”
“So you people claim.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are, Mr. Krause.”
“What was your cut?” I asked, ignoring his comment.
The Bishop didn’t answer and instead offered me another cigarette. The lure of yet another unshaken habit was too strong to resist. I had been battling with addiction my whole life. Alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs at one time. My willpower was weak on a good day. Unless everything was perfectly in line and stable, I was doomed to succumb to weakness. It was coded into my DNA. I knew I should say no, but I didn’t.
“Ace is a generous man,” the Bishop said in response to my question, “but I won’t talk finances with you, Mr. Krause. Unless you can afford my services, there is nothing to be gained.”
He lounged in his chair again, removed his phone from a pocket, and spent a minute scrolling through something before discarding the device on a nearby table. Above us, the hum of the gathering continued.
The Bishop and I shared three more drinks, each with generous pours, so they equated to roughly six each. Years of alcohol abuse combined with my larger size gave me a high tolerance, but the Bishop was a wiry man, and the Consigliere’s top-shelf bourbon packed a punch.
Before long, a glassy sheen coated his eyes, and his reservations diminished. With a loosened tongue, he shared about some of the jobs he’d done for Ace, still cognizant enough to hold back details so that I couldn’t use them against him. Most of my questions went unanswered, no matter how carefully I worded them, so I didn’t gain any worthwhile information.
At one point, when I asked how his position as an assassin might conflict with his faith, the Bishop touched the Roman collar with a smirk. “Most people trust a man of god without question. Others in my line of work choose to move in the shadows, but with this disguise, I can walk in the bright light of day and go unseen.”
“So it’s a costume. Nothing more.”
The Bishop hummed and sipped his drink. “I’m never suspected, Mr. Krause. In fact, I’ve been caught at my own crime scene with blood on my hands and gave the police a detailed report of the man who got away. I was stained because I’d attempted to save the deceased’s life. No one questioned my story. They took everything at face value. I was even permitted to kneel and pray for the soul of the slain man. People see what they want to see, and a man of god is beyond reproach.”
“You’re a sick fuck.”
He shrugged, unaffected by my assessment. “I’m resourceful. You have to be in this business.”
As we talked, the music, the hum of muffled conversations, and the thickening cloud of sweet cigar smoke leaked down the vent into the dungeon. The first ten times I asked what was going on, I got no reply.
Well into his cups, I tried again.
The Bishop glanced at the ceiling before getting up to refill our drinks. As he poured from the decanter, he muttered, “Ace runs an exclusive gentleman’s club at this location. They gather in the evenings for drinks, gambling, and to enjoy other pleasures of the flesh.”
“Exclusive?”
