Free Urban Renewal by Andrew Vachss

one womb at birth.
    “Just follow me,” the man said, turning his back and moving away.
    The two men trailed behind him, exchanging looks but not speaking. The poolroom was about half full. Most of the tables were being used for something other than their intended purpose. Some held a display of handguns, others were surrounded by men watching a dice roller throw against a board held in place by a triangular brace. Some tabletops were covered with cards, others with kilo-calibrated scales.
    Every race, creed, and color was represented in some way,as if this were the basement of the United Nations, with only practicing criminals permitted entrance.
    The short man with the inanimate eyes led them to a table in a far corner. A man was seated there, the bull’s-eye tattoo on the back of his right hand clearly visible as he held a cigarette to his lips.
    In response to a silent direction, the twins took seats to either side of the man they had come to meet.
    The man took another drag on his cigarette, ground it out, and looked from one twin to another, still saying nothing.
    “We got some information we think you might be interested in,” Harold said.
    The man with the tattoo on the back of his hand still said nothing.
    “Information that’s worth money,” Harold continued.
    “Okay,” Cross said. “What is it?”
    Sensing that a lengthy conversation wasn’t part of the package, and no drinks were going to be offered, Harold got right to it: “Guy tried to hire us. To hit someone who works at that club of yours.”
    “What guy? What club?”
    “The club, that’s the Double-X. The guy, that’s what you’re gonna pay us to tell you.”
    “Pay you how much?”
    “Say, five grand?”
    “Say goodbye.”
    “No, you don’t understand. We can tell you more than the name he goes by. His car, what he looks like, you know—so you can see him coming.”
    “Tell me what you have. I’ll tell you what it’s worth.”
    “That’s not how it works.”
    “That’s how it works
here
.”
    The twins exchanged a quick look, telepathically communicating:
We came here for money. We call this guy’s hand, get up, and walk out, we walk out with nothing
.
    “Guy calls himself Jean-Baptiste. Some kind of pimp. Drives a charcoal Lexus coupe with matching wheels—big, but not stupid-big. Got that black fine-lining, too.”
    Cross said nothing.
    “There’s a girl works in your club. This Double-X. Just started. Name’s Taylor. Black hair, maybe twenty-five years old, built like you’d expect. That’s who he wanted us to take out.”
    “For how much?”
    “We never got there. Soon as he said ‘Double-X,’ we knew better. But he was … desperate, like. So we figure, sooner or later, he finds
somebody
to take the job. Just follow her to wherever she’s staying, drop her soon as she gets out of her car. No big job, but he sounded like he was willing to pay big money to get it done.”
    “Five grand.”
    “That’s what
I
said,” Harold replied. “Info like this is—”
    “Five grand would be what you’d charge to do the job,” Cross said, his voice a blend of mild and menace. “One grand, that’s how much what you just said is worth.”
    “Hey!” Howard protested. “You don’t know what we charge for—”
    “You’re Uptown guys, so you’ve got kind of a limited range. Twins, people tend to remember that. And your car, too. I can tell you half a dozen jobs you’ve done in the last couple of years. And your price for each one, you want me to.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Okay. But, like you said, info is worth money. So, for every job I name, two hundred comes off the grand. You want to play? Or you want your money?”
    The twins again exchanged looks, this time not attempting to hide their silent communication.
    “We’ll take the money,” Harold said.
    “It’s at the front desk,” Cross told him, lighting a cigarette in a clear gesture of dismissal.
    The twins rose from their chairs as one, and walked