Page 16 of Wicked Lies

“At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

“I needed you at seven, but I let you sleep till eight. What’s the matter? You getting soft from too much fuckin’ around?”

“What’s the problem?” Nick stretched and rotated his tight neck muscles.

“The problem is your attitude. Now get your ass down to the warehouse.”

Nick didn’t appreciate being summoned like an errand boy. And why the fuck did Frank want to see him at the Brooklyn warehouse when he kept an office only three blocks from Nick’s apartment on the Upper East Side?

He massaged his temples in an attempt to clear his head. After Angela stormed out last night, he’d indulged in more scotch—much more. He was in no mood to drag his ass to Brooklyn.

He trudged into the bathroom, showered, dressed, and retrieved his SUV from the garage thirty minutes later. Thankfully, the traffic from Manhattan to Brooklyn was light. he guessed he wasn’t the only one who thought Saturday mornings should be spent in bed.

Nick eased the Escalade to the rear of the warehouse with Barnett Coffee Importing painted in white over the cracked brick. He chirped the lock, then dragged himself up the metal stairs and through the door, passing rows and rows of pallets filled with coffee. It was just a front for the interior of the building, which housed a cage for underground fights and rooms that lined the opposite wall filled with an arsenal of illegal guns and other contraband.

At the backside of the cage, Frank kept an office, where he doled out the payoffs for the fighters and dealt with people who disappointed him. It had a totally different feel than the glitzy office he kept in Manhattan and one of the reasons Nick’s head pounded harder.

He drew a deep breath, knocked, and entered—no flashy decor or plush carpet here. This stark, barren space radiated intimidation, yet Frank dressed like he’d just left the golf course. He owned every polo shirt and khaki pants from the Ralph Lauren collection, but no matter how hard he tried, he still looked like a Brooklyn hood.

“You finally got your ass out of bed.” Frank motioned to the wooden chair opposite his desk, and Nick sat.

Frank’s average height and size hid an ego the size of the Empire State Building. Most guys who worked for him, including Nick and Samson, were much bigger than Frank, but what he lacked in size he made up for with a menacing attitude and a one-mindedness in business. He’d managed to outlive or outsmart his competitors and had the police and political figures in his control.

“I pull late nights at the club.” Nick stifled a yawn. “Ain’t getting home till after three a.m.” He left out the fight with Angela 'cause he was never sure of the extent of her relationship with Frank. He put Angela in the club when they first took over, and Nick always wondered where the alliances laid.

In his mid-forties and twice divorced, Frank never discussed his personal life, stayed away from social media, and never talked to the press. Keeping a low profile was a characteristic his associates admired.

“Notgetting home till three a.m.,” Frank corrected.

Just what he needed, another goddamn English lesson.

“I don’t think you got me down here to rag on the way I talk.”

“The way youspeak. No, I didn’t, although more attention to your grammar would prove useful.”

Nick’s back stiffened against the hard wooden chair. Frank and his subtle ways of getting his point across. Even his office was subtle: a wooden desk on a concrete floor, a table against the wall with a printer, and a fax machine. Off in the corner, a small, free-standing bar was stocked with Jack Daniels, Frank’s favorite. He wasn’t a man who cared about pleasing others.

“There’s been some issues with some of our competitors in Brighton Beach.”

Code for the Russian mob who dominated the area.

“Seems they have a new boss, Valentin Kozlov, who’s looking for revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“He’s blaming us for the demise of their last boss, Yuri, and his sidekick, Vic the Weasel.”

Made sense, especially since both of them were iced in Yuri’s office at the Pit nine months ago. Samson went to settle a grudge with the Russian boss, and then Frank showed up. It was never clear who actually pulled the trigger, just that Yuri and Weasel were found bleeding out with no weapons in sight.

“He’s getting pissy about the loss of revenue.”

Probably because Frank took over all the protection money of their dive bars and bets made at the Pit. It was the number one reason Nick was there the other night collecting from Jimmy.

“And he’s starting shit now after all this time?”

“It’s taken him that long to build up his forces. They’ve already managed to hijack two of our shipments coming down from Canada.”

“You got enough firepower to shut them down.” Frank had his goons based in all five boroughs—guys who would pull the trigger on command.

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