3 Days Earlier
The air smelled of wet concrete. Not a bad smell, but nothing that anyone would associate with good memories either. Just the smell of things that make up a city: rain, concrete buildings, sidewalks, and broken dreams.
He walked in through the marble lobby of the somewhat seedy office building. The Metropolitan had seen better days, Mike thought, pushing the round button for the elevator. The one with the "up" arrow.
The door to his office lobby was already hanging open and he pushed inside, half expecting to see his secretary, Velda, at her desk. No one, however, sat beautiful in the black leather swivel chair. Likewise there was none of the usual sounds of Velda at work, file doors being opened and papers shuffled. Not in Mike's office or the spare office further down the corridor, the one used for filing mostly... The one with the espresso machine that had followed Mike home a while back, a repossession from a small time mobster who couldn't pay his bill, being in jail at the time.
Reaching in his jacket with his right hand, Mike found the comforting checkered grip of the 45. No reason to be overly alarmed, he thought. But something felt wrong here. Why was the door open? Who had opened it when only Velda and himself had keys? Were they still here?
Maybe he was getting jumpy, Mike briefly considered that possibility before throwing the idea out. You don't stay alive this long without listening to that little voice in your head.
He moved through the rooms quietly, already knowing their emptiness. He could feel when he was the only one here, a familiarity bought by long nights spent on the old leather couch in his office. Too many nights and to much alone with only his 45 for company. You could spend to much time alone with your gun. It wasn't healthy.
Giving up his search of the office, Mike sat down in Velda's chair, facing the open door. No one came in to tell him why the door was already open when he arrived. In fact no one seemed to be on this floor of the building at all.
The city seemed far away but if he listened hard Mike could still hear the horns and whistles of the street outside, and the far off siren of a ambulance racing somewhere. A never ending symphony of the city.
The office door had opened on chaos: papers strewn everywhere, furniture upended, Velda sitting face-down at her desk, hair outspread in a pool of blood. The police had been called and the ambulance attendants had come, and she would be okay, but things were different now. This wasn't work. This was personal. Somebody had made it personal.
The sudden ringing of the phone beside him pulled him from his reverie. It seemed natural when it came, almost like he had been waiting for it... predestined. His hand was lifting the Bakelite receiver before he considered picking it up, and he was holding it to his ear. A stranger standing in the office, or perhaps in the hallway outside, would have heard only one side of the terse conversation.
"Hello Pat."
"What is it Pat?" Mike said.
"Where?"
"Lin Fat's Casino? Okay, I'll check it out."
Dropping the receiver back in the cradle as he rose, Mike headed for the door, the door that stood open, as if waiting for him to re-enter the outside world, the door that had opened to let in the violence that nearly killed his secretary. He slammed the door shut behind.
Down the hallway, at the corner where the stairs were, a figure leaned languidly back against the walls, hidden in shadows. The unknown individual made no attempt to follow Mike, only waited until his departure before quietly turning and taking the stairs.
