Free The Betrayers by James Patrick Hunt Page B

you, Stan. I know who your friends are. Believe it or not, I’m the best friend you have. You’ve got a situation now and I’m going to help you out of it. You understand?”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    â€œYou and your friend Max, if you want to call him a friend, you hired Jimmy Rizza to torch your nightclub three years ago. Relax … I’m not here to blackmail you. I’m just letting you know that I know. Okay? I know a lot of things.”
    â€œMan, that was—”
    Regan lifted his hand, gesturing for silence. He knew the guy was wondering now how Regan knew him. They had never met before. But Stanley Redd had never quite gotten a handle on mob culture. It was not a thing you could just dip your toe into, then walk off.
    Stanley Redd and Max Collins were pals—a sort of Ben Affleck/Matt Damon combo who had been moderately successful entrepreneurs. Nightclubs, start-ups, that sort of thing. Quick money, cocaine, strippers. They were smart, book smart, but they had been lucky too. But like a lot of young types who get rich, they tended to discount the luck factor.
    Moreover, they wanted to be cool. Having money wasn’t good enough. They wanted to be hip. They wanted to be street. It was when they got into the nightclub business that they hooked up with Jimmy Rizza and his little brother. Stanley and Max were attracted to the Rizzas. Not in a physical way, per se. But because they were dangerous, funny, raucous, lively. They were interesting. The way they talked, the stories they told, so … entertaining. Stanley said they should have
their own show. He liked introducing them to women, and enjoyed later having to put rational fears at rest by saying, “No, he’s all right. He’s just from a different world than you and I.” Showing them that he wasn’t afraid because he understood them, you see. It was neat being part of that world, maybe persuading yourself that you were only near it and not in it.
    But Regan knew it didn’t work that way. Once you let guys like Jimmy Rizza in the door, they stayed. And the favors that Jimmy Rizza did for you usually became common knowledge in the criminal enterprise. It was its own little community and secrets were often shared.
    Regan said, “Stan? I just need to know one thing: where is Max going to be tonight?”
    â€œWhat?”
    Regan squeezed Stan’s wrist, watched the man wince as he fought the urge to cry out. Regan knew it was not hurting him that much, that the tears came more from fear of what else Regan would do. Again, imagination.
    â€œStan? Don’t test my patience, all right? You don’t want to do that. Where is Max Collins going to be tonight?”
    Stanley Redd pictured himself sitting on a stool in a back room, naked and bloody, bruised and broken and humiliated. It was working on him and they both knew it.
    â€œHe’s got a girl. Jesus, uh, he’s got a girl. He keeps her in an apartment—”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œMarina City. The Towers.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhich apartment?”
    â€œI don’t know. Christ, I swear I don’t know.”
    â€œYou’ve been there, haven’t you?”

    â€œYes, but—uh, wait. It’s on the forty-second floor. That’s all I remember. The south tower.”
    â€œWhat’s the girl’s name?”
    â€œStacy. Stacy Racine. He goes there usually between six and eight in the evening. That’s all I know, I swear.”
    Regan looked into the man’s eyes for a moment. Then he released his grip.
    â€œOkay, Stan. I hope you’re right.”
    Regan stood up and placed a five dollar bill on the bar before walking out.
    Stanley Redd, hearing his heart thrum in his ears, hoped he was right too.

THIRTEEN
    They walked out of the penitentiary and past a crowd of activists holding signs that said FREE VICTOR. Got in the car and left the smell of the