[h3][center]Part I [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hU9WYqw0gLI]"So You Win Again"[/url][/center][/h3] [hr] [b]Kansas City November, 1977[/b] “You’re dead.” Mick McKiernan squinted through his swollen eye at the man in the black turtleneck. His back was turned to Mick as he was busy tossing duffle bags out the window. Mick knew that each bag contained roughly fifty thousand dollars in cash broken down into small, untraceable bills. The three men had came through the door like a fucking whirlwind, the two smaller guys with shotguns while the big guy carried a nightstick like it was a goddamn club. Mick was sure he'd crack Manny's skull with that fucking thing. The blow to Mick's face had sent him to the floor, a shotgun butt into the back of the head keeping him down for a few minutes. “You and your friends are fucking dead,” he added, hoping to get a rise out the big guy. Mick saw the man bristle at the threat. He stopped tossing the bags out the second story window and instead turned to look at Mick. Mick flinched under the man’s gaze. He had a face that looked as if it had been sculpted out of clay, raw a sharp edges. Mick had been mobbed up for over forty years and had seen his share of tough faces and mean mugs. But this guy’s face? He’d never forget the sight for as long as he lived. The big man grabbed Mick by his lapels with two huge hands. The tiptoes of Mick’s shoes slid across the hardwood floor as the man held him up over his head. “Is that a threat,” he said coolly. The big hands began to find their way around Mick's neck. He gasped for air at the big man showed his teeth and throttled him. “Or a promise?” [hr] [b]Chicago Three Days Later [/b] Quarry slid into the booth just as Broker finished his soup. The fat, middle aged man with pea soup on his tie and a thick mustache looked more at home at a Rotary Club meeting than overseeing any sort of criminal enterprise. He always reminded Quarry of Captain Kangaroo, the children's TV host. Looks were always deceiving, thought Quarry. Broker was without a doubt the most dangerous man he knew. And considering his past and present associates, that was really saying something. “How was the drive down from Wisconsin?” Broker asked. Quarry shrugged. He didn’t want to show his annoyance. When he wasn’t working, Quarry had a little farmhouse on Lake Du Bay he called home. It was a solitary life and he loved the quiet and he worked hard to keep his home a secret. A small hint of a smile played on Broker’s lips as he lit up a cigar. Quarry remembered the same smile on Broker’s lips years ago, when Quarry had just gotten off for murdering his soon to be ex-wife’s boyfriend. It was a scandalous story that was in all the tabloids. A Marine returns home from ‘Nam, finds his missus in bed with another man, and just snaps. It attracted all kinds of attention. Death threats, love letters, and the occasional crackpot. Quarry originally thought Broker was one of the crazies when he pulled up to his house in that big Lincoln. [i]“You killed for country and honor, for revenge, and hell… even pussy,”[/i] Broker had said that day.[i] “How would you like to kill for money?”[/i] “I want to personally thank you for that mess you cleaned up in Miami,” Broker said, exhaling smoke above his head. “Those goddamn Cubans, they mix politics and drug running up and before you know it they’re getting high on coke and seeing communist around every corner.” “Buddy died over their bullshit,” said Quarry. “I wasn’t about to let them walk away from it alive.” Broker nodded and puffed on his cigar. Quarry was not sure just how deep the criminal iceberg was with Broker, but he knew at the very least he had a small squad of men at his disposal like Quarry. They were all professionals who were trained – most by the US Armed Forces – who eliminated problems the Broker and any of his cohorts may need dealt with. They operated all over North America, killing as needed and were paid handsomely for their services. Quarry's house and car were paid for and his nest egg a small fortune. Despite his wealth, he had no doubt the Broker got the lion’s share of his earnings as the go-between. “Buddy was a good one,” said Broker. “I’m working on getting you another partner. But this job I got line up should be easy enough that it can be done solo.” “Where am I headed?” “Kansas City,” said Broker. “At least at first. Two nights ago three guys went into an underground casino on the outskirts of the city. They were pros too. I don’t know the tally for sure, but they got away with at least six figures. No shots fired, no dead bodies, just a few casino employees beaten up.” Quarry let out a low whistle. To go into a place like that, a place no doubt on high alert for any kind of robberies, and to walk away unscathed meant a few things to Quarry: The guys who went in were damn good pros. And…. they had to have an inside man. “Where do I come in?” he asked Broker. “They don’t realize how bad they fucked up,” Broker said with a humorless smile. “The casino is known as an independent holding, but they have a silent partner. Mikey Talarico, capo in the Chicago Outfit.” Quarry frowned slightly at the news. The mob was involved? He knew Broker sometimes did contact work for the Italians, but it was rare. “What?” Broker asked. “They got their own guys,” said Quarry. “Their own trigger men, button men, whatever you wanna call it. Why pay us for it?” “To keep up the illusion of it being an independent joint,” said Broker. “Independent hitters take out independent thieves of an independent casino. Keeps things neat.” “I guess,” Quarry said with a shrug. It still seemed convoluted to him. But at the end of the day he was just a bullet, Broker and the people above him did the aiming and firing. “Do we know anything about the thieves?” he asked. “The guy running the show that night has a rep,” said Broker. “He got ID'd by a few casino employees. His looks are... one of a kind. He’s kind of a walking miracle in that he’s a lifelong independent thief who has yet to have spent major time in the joint or ended up in a shallow grave. Big mean guy. Maybe you heard of him? Parker.” “Parker what?” asked Quarry. “Just Parker. Like Quarry. Just Quarry.” “Never heard of him,” said Quarry. "But I'll help him with an easy transition into retirement." [center][h3]Quarry vs. Parker A Byrd Man Yarn[/h3][/center]