Page 7 of Stabby Little

“Where are the drugs?”

Blood scuffs my fist as I step back from Bolverkr. His jaw is busted and his cheeks drip with red.

That's what happens when you fuck with my bosses. The Diavolo brothers are the most ruthless bastards in this city.

They’ll send me and my partner Jagger after you.

“I don't have your money.” Bolverkr spits at my feet. “I told you that.”

“What happened?” Jagger snarls.

“Three men jumped me when I was walking through Central Park. They took the heroin.”

“You're lying.”

Bolverkr's eyes flicker with rage. “Check the surveillance cameras around the park. There must be video.”

“There's no video.” Jagger cracks his knuckles. “Michael would've informed us if there was.”

Heaving his right arm back, Jagger slams his fist into Bolverkr's jaw.

A crunching sound fills the air as one of Bolverkr's teeth falls out.

It topples onto the concrete next to his foot, before rolling down a drainpipe.

I survey the warehouse as Jagger interrogates Bolverkr. Cobwebs hide in the corners of the tall ceilings and hang from rusty pipes. The smell of copper and mold enters my nose. Black manufacturing equipment that no one's touched in years lines the cracked floor as far as the eye can see. A mechanical clanging whirs in my ears, metallic and intense, like nails on a chalkboard.

This warehouse was a source of solid working-class jobs for New Yorkers in its heyday. Blue-collar men and women. Now that the Diavolos control it, it's drug trade territory.

The Hudson's chief shipping yard is two blocks down. Vessels unload containers here from Latin America and China. Occasionally the Diavolos purchase drugs from foreign distributors instead of their usual manufacturers in Miami.

Jagger and I oversee the shipments.

If one of the guards Michael hires skims off the top, we teach them a lesson.

That's what we're doing to Bolverkr.

Michael caught him swiping bags of heroin out of a shipment on surveillance footage.

He tried to sell it to a rival crime family in the Bronx.

Bolverkr must pay.

“Stop.” Bolverkr's screams ricochet off the rafters. “I'll tell you everything.”

“Where did you put the drugs?” Jagger doesn't mince words.

“I stashed them in a drain pipe on the Upper West Side.” Bolverkr coughs up blood. “It's next to one of those trendy fucking salad bars the Diavolos' enemies use as drug fronts.”

“Why did you choose that spot to park the drugs?” I demand.

“It was a temporary storage place until I could exchange the packages for clean bills.”

“You mean launder money,” Jagger says.

Bolverkr narrows his eyes. “Yes.”

I slam my fist into the spot next to Bolverkr's head. “Why did you take the Diavolos' shit?”

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