"You're makin' a mistake," the older Salucci brother told Robert before he turned with a dramatic swirl of his trench coat. He stalked off, his younger brother and bodyguard in tow. They got into the black Bentley that had been running the entire time, and the driver peeled off with a squeal of tires.
"Finally," Chance muttered. He gave Paul's jugular a caressing glance. Paul had eaten about a dozen doughnuts before this meeting, Chance knew, because the heavy smell of fried sugary goodness wafted up to him even from his light pole perch. Chance licked his lips. Mmm, dinner and dessert, all at the same time.
Chance dropped down from the tall broken streetlight. It never ceased to amaze him how some humans could be so oblivious to their environment—especially ones who prided themselves on being cunning. If Robert, Paul, or Ritchie had even once looked up, they would have noted that the south street light was significantly taller than the ones around it. They might not have been able to see what—or who—was perched on it in the darkness, but they could have realized that something was there.
Instead, they just gaped at him when he appeared behind them with nothing more than a faint rush of wind to announce him.
"Nice night, isn't it?" Chance remarked.
Robert was the first to recover. His hand slid inside his jacket and he pulled out his gun.
"Yeah, it is. Paul, Ritchie? You gonna stand there, or are you gonna pull your pieces and maybe point them at this asshole?"
Chance watched with amusement as they scrambled to obey, replacing their formerly amazed expressions with tough ones.
"You just don't fucking learn," Paul breathed. "We do, though. Ritchie, pat down this joker and make sure he's not hiding any more bulletproof vests. Or wires."
Chance spread his arms out obligingly as Ritchie came closer. The other man was wary, no doubt remembering how Chance easily had dodged his attempts to pummel him before. Don't worry, Chance thought coolly as Ritchie gave him several quick, thorough pats. If I wanted you dead, your blood would already be warming my stomach.
"He's clean," Ritchie announced.
Chance wrinkled his nose with mild distaste. "Can't say the same about you. Really, man, soap is nothing to fear."
Ritchie reared back like he was going to punch him, but Robert grabbed his arm.
"Did I tell you to hit him?" he asked in a dangerous undertone.
Ritchie gave Chance a hateful glare before facing his boss. "No. Sorry."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "All right." Then he turned his attention to Chance. "They told me you had a smart mouth. Okay, smart mouth, we're going to take a walk. And then we're going to take a ride. You got a problem with that?"
"If I did, I suppose Bowling Ball and Smelly would just shoot me again," Chance drawled.
Robert shook his head. "Not them. You know what they say. When you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself."
Chance let out a bark of amusement. "My thoughts exactly."
They led him at gunpoint to the far end of one of the finger piers where a boat was moored. Robert waved, and a man on board waved back, powering the craft to life.
Chance was rather impressed that Robert had arranged to have another getaway from the docks. The Salucci brothers hadn't had that foresight. They seemed more brute muscle than operative brains. In a straight physical fight they might win, but if it was a matter of strategic planning, Robert would prevail. Not that Chance cared. The lot of them could drop dead and society would be far better off. In fact, he'd probably be helping society very soon when it came to that. Just not before he had his questions answered.
Chance went aboard the boat, surmising that this was an excellent opportunity to get Robert to himself and dispose of Paul's body, if he did decide to indulge and eat him. When the four of them were clustered around the back of the boat, the driver sped off without much consideration for the waterway's "no wake" zone.
Ritchie and Paul gestured with their guns for Chance to sit on the aft bench, which he did, stretching his legs before settling down comfortably.
After about twenty minutes of glaring at him while the boat navigated the waterway, Robert spoke.
"So, what's your name?"
"Chance."
Robert grunted. "Bullshit. What's your real name?"
"Ask your men. Didn't they find any identification when they rummaged through my pockets the other night?"
"You know fucking well you didn't have a scrap of ID on you that night. Plus, Paul and Ritchie tell me you must've been wearing Kevlar, on account of you bein' here instead of resting in plastic under six feet of dirt. What I want to know is, what kind of a man walks around with no ID while wearing Kevlar? Seems pretty paranoid to me."
Chance shrugged. "If you say so."
Paul leaned in and shouted in Chance's face. "Answer the question, asshole!"
"Quit pissing me off," Robert said in a more mild tone. "In my current mood, I have no intention of letting you off this boat alive, so you're gonna need to work to change my mind."
That was meant to scare Chance, but he found it ironic instead.
"I can personally guarantee that I won't be getting off this boat alive," he replied.