[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qDnfp5z.png[/img][/center] [h3]Bushwick Brooklyn[/h3] [b]11:23 AM[/b] “That fucking meeting was a disaster, Matty. I think we got a fucking rat.” The disgusting sound of Joey eating pasta was enough to make me happy I was blind. I imagined the sight was just as horrible as the sound. The place was practically deserted even though it was approaching the lunchtime rush. Joey or one of the guys in his crew was probably a silent partner in the business and were able to clear it out with a snap of their finger. That explained why the only people in the restaurant with us were Joey’s two goons watching both me and the towering one-man wrecking crew that was my own personal bodyguard and driver, Melvin Potter. Once upon a time Melvin had been an up and coming boxer. He was just a teenager when he started to learn at the feet of a past his prime palooka named Jack Murdock. His boxing career got derailed when he accidentally crippled an opponent. He transitioned to mixed martial arts back in the days when the sport was little more than human cockfighting and just as corrupt as any boxing match. He was on the path to washing out of fighting and becoming a mob legbreaker when I stepped in and offered him a job. Now he doesn’t have to break legs for a living. These days it’s just for fun. “What do you mean?" I asked Joey. "Did the cops raid you?” “I mean that fucking [i]finocchio[/i] with the horns showed up. He tore through us like we were goddamn toilet paper. Cops came afterwards. Me and Paulie and our guys got away, but I heard Blackwood got two of his bikers nabbed on gun charges. This Devil motherfucker fucked up two of my guys, three of the bikers, and even me. You can’t see what my face looks like but it’s bad.” I knew firsthand how bad Joey’s fast was. Last night I drove my left elbow into his cheek with a force so hard it knocked him flat on his ass. I thought at the time I’d broken his orbital bone, but I guess not. I could tell from the way he moved he was wearing sunglasses, so everything north of the nose must have been one giant bruise he was hiding. I didn’t smile like I wanted to. “This is the third time he’s involved himself in the crime world,” I said. “Yeah word on the street is the cocksucker took over the drug trade in Washington Heights and Harlem.” That wasn’t exactly true. Over the previous six months I had managed to dismantle both Turk Barrett’s criminal empire north of 110th Street and the Puerto Rican Army, a street gang that ran the projects in Washington Heights. It wasn’t true that The Devil had taken over their operations, but there was a power in letting the lie play out on its own. It established my alter-ego as more than just some costumed crime fighter. He was a crook in his own right, something far more feared than a vigilante. Layers, inside of layers, inside of layers. “And you think someone tipped him off to the meeting?” I asked. “How else would he show up?” Joey Bags thrusted a fat fist forward and gestured with his fork. I felt small spatters of tomato sauce hit the lapels of my tailored designer suit. “The only people knew about the meet was me, Paulie, the Don himself, and Blackwood and his fucking rednecks.” “Well, if you think the leak didn’t come from you, it had to be Blackwood or one of his people.” I was quick to shift blame to the bikers. The fact I wasn’t on Joey’s list of people meant the old man hadn’t told Joey or Paulie about our little consultation the day before. The fork clattered on Joey’s empty plate and he stretched back in his chair. I could hear the pasta already churning in his stomach, a sound that made me rapidly lose desire for my own lunch. “Those fucking cranked up hillbillies,” he spat. “We ought march into Queens and wipe ‘em off the fucking map.” “A gang war over mere speculation isn’t very smart,” I said. “Especially since the Crusaders pack military surplus hardware. Just do the obvious thing, Joey, and tell Blackwood you’re putting your deal on ice for the time being. He'll probably be quick to agree and put distance between you and him. If you’re having these thoughts, can you imagine what he’s thinking about you?” Joey sucked his teeth and thought my idea over. Joey was the smartest guy inside the Campisi Crime Family. That wasn’t much of a complement in the grand scheme of things, but I knew Paulie didn’t wipe his ass without first consulting Joey Bags’ opinion on the matter. The quickest way to sideline this drug trafficking scheme was to spook Joey to the point of him telling Paulie to kill it. “That might be best,” he finally conceded. “I’ll talk to Paulie and firmly suggest that it’s the best move to make some distance from ourselves and Blackwood for the time being. He'll see the light.” “Speaking of,” I said as I stood and grabbed my walking stick. “If Blackwood had men arrested he'll probably want me to defend them.” “No rest for the wicked,” Joey said with a laugh. “Pass the news on to Blackwood for me, will you? Always a pleasure, Matty.” I nodded without saying another word and started to make my way towards the exit. Melvin came to my side and led the way. He’d been with me long enough to not take my arm and try to guide me like most would. He knew exactly what I was capable of. I thought about Joey's warm farewell. While Paulie was indifferent towards me at best, Joey Bags and I were always on good terms. That boded well for the future. With Angelo's advanced age it meant very soon there would be a day when Paulie was boss and my access would be far diminished. Guys like Joey would help me with that information pipeline to continue my real mission. Melvin opened the door to the restaurant for me and I stepped out onto the sidewalk and came to a stop. Even over the continuous cornucopia of noise that was New York City, I heard something familiar from down the block. It was a heartbeat I hadn’t heard in a long time. A very long time. Then came the screeching tires down the block. Melvin stepped in front of me as the car skidded to a stop in front of us. He began to go for the gun tucked into the small of his back but I put my hand against his arm. "It's the law," I whispered to him. "Keep your gun well hidden." “Mr. Murdock,” a calm voice said as a man stepped out of the car. “Special Agent Wambaugh, FBI.” I heard him pull his badge out to flash… right in the face of a blind man. Typical FBI. “Melvin?” I asked with the tilt of my head. “Yeah, it’s a legit badge. Heh, says his first name is Gayle. Isn't that a girls name?” “I need you to come with me,” Wambaugh said as he coughed. I could feel the air temperature change around Wambaugh's face as it flushed in embarrassment. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.” “But I already know your boss," I said before turning to Melvin. “Just wait in he car. I’ll be back in about a half hour.” I climbed into the back of the unmarked FBI car and sat right next to the man in the backseat. I knew him better than I knew anyone else in this world. He was my oldest friend. The man who I spent almost every waking moment of college and law school with. And these days he was the man who now spent his days actively seeking to bring down me and every client in my contacts. “Mr. Murdock,” said Foggy Nelson. “You got some sauce on your jacket. That's a nice suit. Looks like it’ll be an expensive stain.” “Thank you, Foggy,” I said. I placed a gentle hand on his arm. "And from the feel of things you're still buying off the rack. Jos A. Bank still doing the deal where if you buy one suit, you get sixteen for free?" “Let’s keep this formal please,” he said tightly. “Very well then," I said with a slight smirk and a bow of my head. "So, Assistant United States Attorney Franklin Nelson... how can I help you?” [hr] [h3]Williamsburg Brooklyn[/h3] [b]2:15 PM[/b] Yussel Goren had never seen so much blood in his life. It seemed to coat the floor and walls of the small Brooklyn apartment. It covered his hands and arms. The thighs of his navy blue pants were a deep crimson now due to the blood. Neta was face down in the carpet. Her blood pooled out from the spot where she had fallen and it was oozing out through the rest of the room. Yussel stumbled forward. He took his yarmulke off with his blood-stained hands and stuttered out some words in Yiddish. He fell to his knees and began to weep. His free hand found a bloody knife buried in the carpet. He held it up and looked at it just as the door to the apartment burst open. "NYPD," the heavyset uniformed officer said. He pulled his gun out and aimed it at the weeping Yussel. "Drop the weapon!"