Free The Vulture's Game by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page A

thud in the center of the hood, startling both men. They each reached for guns jammed against their hips and tried to make out the figure standing on the left side of their car. The rain was coming down heavier now and their breathing had fogged up the windshield and side windows, limiting their visibility. They could barely make out the figure of the man as he disappeared further into the darkness.
    “Hang on until we’re sure he’s gone,” Jerry said. “Then grab the bag so we canget the hell out of here.”
    “Why wait?” Bobby said, and snapped open the passenger door and stepped out of the car. He held a gun in his right hand and reached for the satchel resting on the center of the hood. He clutched it in his left hand, glancing around the empty street as he did.
    “Looking for me?” I said. I was standing by the rear of the car, still covered by shadows, my hands resting comfortably by my side.
    Bobby lifted the gun and pointed it in my direction.
    “Don’t bother with that,” I told him. “First, I’m not armed. Second, there are three shooters focused on you and your partner, ready to drop you if they suspect you’ll pull. But there’s a third that’s even more important than those first two.”
    “I’m listening,” Bobby said.
    “Lean in and ask your partner to get out of the car,” I said. “Get him out here before he tries anything stupid. He needs to hear what I have to say as well.”
    Jerry got out from behind the wheel and stood on the other side of the car, both front doors open, the light from inside roughly illuminating their faces. I pointed to the satchel in Bobby’s hand. “Feels light, doesn’t it?” I asked.
    Bobby nodded.
    “That’s because it’s empty,” I told him.
    “And why’s that?” Jerry asked.
    “Because you weren’t sent here to pick up a satchel,” I said. “You were sent here to be killed. By the three men with scopes on your chest. It was a deal worked out by your boss.”
    Jerry shifted uncomfortably, foot to foot. “Why us?”
    “Payback for killing Anthony Contorti,” I said.
    “Who the hell is Anthony …?” Jerry asked, struggling to remember the last name.
    “Contorti,” I said. “That’s the old man you two killed in the house fire three weeks back.”
    “Hey, look,” said Bobby, “we had no idea that old man was going to be in that house. We were told it was an empty torch.”
    I nodded. “But your boss knew he would be there,” I said.
    “So me and Bobby are going down for killing somebody we didn’t know we were killing?” Jerry asked. “Is that the bottom line on all this?”
    “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be standing here talking,” I said.
    “So, then, what is it you do want?”
    “Your boss,” I said.

MIDTOWN MANHATTAN OFFICE BUILDING, AUGUST 12, 2002
    4:00 P.M.
    “And so he sends
you
to talk to
me
. Come in here, my
office
, my
building
, sit across the desk from me and pretend as if we’re on equal footing. Is that the full picture or am I missing some pieces, like maybe you’re hard-ass enough to bogart me into seeing things your way?”
    I shrugged. “We’re not on an equal footing,” I said. “Far from it. You’re the player here, making up your own rules as you go along, changing them as you see fit. I was simply asked to meet with you to have a conversation. See if there’s a way for both sides to do business together.”
    “And why would I want to do that?” he asked, sitting in a thick leather chair, both hands resting flat on the surface of a mahogany desk that had his initials embroidered in gold lettering on the front and sides. “Why would I
need
to do that?”
    “Those are both good questions,” I said. “And you’re the only one who can answer them. And your answers will decide how all this will play out.”
    He stood and pushed his chair back, hard enough for it to bounce against the wall behind the desk. He glared down at me, his cheeks flushed, his right hand balled into a