Carl had taken a cab to his apartment, not his real apartment but his undercover place. It was under the name Fred Benedetti, and he had been living in it for the past few months. Appropriately, it was a hole, but he had spent most of that time making it look like a lived in hole, so if anyone came in it wouldn't be an obvious facade. 

As he entered, Carl shut the door behind him and leaned against it, taking a deep controlled breath. This was it, he was in now and there was no going back. The feeling was terrifying...and exhilarating. A false life enveloped around his own now. Carl didn't exist anymore, it was Freddy now. Freddy, the thug, the dumb muscle that would work his way up to the top because he wasn't quite so dumb. 

He straightened against the door and shook his head, talking to himself, “Piss your pants, dive in and swim.”

Not long after he started lounging around on the couch, the sharp trill of the phone pierced through the confines of the apartment. Carl's head spun with apprehension. [i]What, already? ...Can't be right...[/i]

He squirmed his way off the couch and picked up the phone, steeling his voice. “Fred here.”

“Benedetti?” 

“Yeah.” [i]Listen, don't talk. Do as your told.[/i] His mind ordered him.

“Work comes sooner than we thought, kid. I'll fill you in tomorrow; 4pm at Marco's Bistro on Grand Street, you know the place?” 

“I'll find it.”

“Good. If you got a piece, bring it. If you don't, then find one. You're gonna need it. Don't be late.”

Before he could respond, the call was over. Carl hung up the receiver slowly, thinking of his revolver. Whatever this was, it was either big, dangerous, or both. Skip the frying pan, head straight into the fire. He would make sure he was ready for it.