Koontz was a useless decadent fat fuck, Bachman decided as he slipped out of his room in the dark hours of the morning. How the greasy slab of lard had ever gained control over the west side was a mystery to him.
Well it wouldn't be a mystery for long, Bachman thought as he checked the corridor outside.
It was empty. Bachman wasn't surprised. Security was a joke. He hadn't seen a guard since he'd left his car and been shown into the building. At the door he'd been greeted by Koontz personally. It had taken nearly all of Bachman's composure not to laugh out loud. Koontz was short, pudgy and had the pasty complexion of someone who hadn't been on speaking terms with the sun for years. Even though it was evening he was wearing shades with glittery gold frames and nothing else other than red silk pajamas. He looked like the bastard offspring of Hugh Heffner and Ozzy Osbourne. The image was completed by the two Penthouse Pet wannabes dangling off either arm.
This was the man that supposedly controlled the whole of the west side?
For a man in his position Koontz was either supremely confidant or insanely blasé. Every person Bachman had encountered in the business had no illusions about what needed to be done to stay in the business. When you met them on their turf you could guarantee there'd be a guy round every corner with a gun tucked in their jacket. These were dangerous times with a lot of desperate punks willing to go to extreme measures to make a name for themselves.
While other bosses had turned their homes into fortresses Koontz had turned his into the Playboy mansion. Instead of guards the place was full of 'ho's. Sure they looked hot, Bachman thought as they'd brought him drinks during the lavish dinner, just like they'd stepped off a Vegas stage, but he doubted they'd be much use should any of Koontz's guests suddenly break out an uzi and start spraying.
Not that Bachman was complaining too much. It made his job a lot easier.
Carlito Estevez had hired Bachman because the boss was in a slight bit of trouble. One of his underlings had fucked up and allowed sensitive information to fall into the wrong hands. Things were about to get very hot for Estevez and the boss had decided he needed some leverage.
It was common knowledge that Koontz had dirt on just about everyone. Estevez needed that dirt so he could persuade some of the corrupt bastards in city hall to call off the attack dogs. Koontz claimed he didn't have it. Estevez didn't believe him and had called in Bachman to take it.
Loud grunts and sighs came from behind the last door on the corridor. One of Koontz's guests was taking advantage of the hospitality.
The same hospitality had been offered Bachman, but he'd turned it down. The girl was hot but he was here on business.
Koontz threw regular events like these for well-connected guys in the organisations. A gesture to keep everything smooth as he described it. It had been easy enough for Carlito to slip Bachman on the guest list as the new guy in town.
Bachman had been incredulous that it had been that simple, but now, walking around a pleasure palace with what appeared to be zero security, the surprise had worn off. Koontz must have rotted his brain with too much coke. Maybe he really believed that everybody get along peace crap. The hippy godfather.
The private chambers were even more sumptuous than the rest of the mansion. Koontz was a man who'd indulged expensive tastes in fine arts. Well he probably called it fine arts. The sculptures and paintings of naked chicks Bachman had seen only provided further proof to him that pornography was the second oldest profession.
The stuff Koontz kept to himself was way more of the mondo bizarro type. In one of the rooms a wall was taken up with a painting showing three freaky demon chicks laying into some Jesus clone with whips. The artist had some serious repression issues as far as Bachman could tell. A damn fine idea of the female body though, even if he'd kind of spoiled it with the horns and bat wings.
Freaky.
Ozzy Osbourne meets Hugh Hefner as Bachman had originally thought. Maybe Koontz got his jollies dressing up in robes and playing at being cult leader with his harem of 'ho's.
Apparently Koontz kept most of his files scattered around the house for convenient access. The information Bachman was after was supposedly in a small safe hidden in one of the private bedrooms.
Unfortunately the room was occupied.
The description Bachman had been given seemed accurate enough. The room looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. Silks were suspended from the ceiling and walls to make the room look like a tent and soft cushions were scattered everywhere. A soft orange light bathed everything in a warm glow. The safe was supposedly disguised as a gold chest and bolted to the floor.
Bachman saw it in the far corner and was advancing into the room when a bubbling noise suddenly made him freeze. It was the kind of sound you might hear from a water cooler after getting a drink.
Just around the door was a giant, highly ornate hookah. It sat on a low table on three golden legs. Lounging on cushions on either side of it and holding a pipe each were two naked girls.
Sloppy, Bachman cursed. The lack of security had made him too casual.
There was no response though. The girls didn't cry out or even acknowledge he was in the room.
Was this his lucky night?
Cautiously Bachman walked towards them. Still no response.
They were asleep. No, more than asleep, stoned. Completely and utterly stoned out of their minds. Whatever was in their giant bong, it was some pretty potent stuff.
