"So which Bond girl would you most like to fuck?" Aaron Dwyer asked.
"Now that, my friend, is one of the great imponderables," Brian Wolfe replied.
Dwyer was the taller of the two men, but he still possessed some of the puppy fat of youth. In contrast Wolfe looked like he had been hewn from teak and draped in toughened leather.
"I can't really say that I'd turn any of them down given the choice," Wolfe said. "Okay, maybe not the midget with the knives in her shoes."
"That was Austin Powers not James Bond," Dwyer laughed.
"No no no," Wolfe said. "Rosa Klebb in 'From Russia with Love'. One of the really old ones."
The two men dragged an unconscious man along a plain corridor and into a small room, empty apart from a single wooden chair bolted to the dusty concrete floor. They propped the man up in the chair.
"The crazy one in Goldeneye," Dwyer said. "The one that crushed people to death with her thighs."
"Ah, Famke Janssen. Yeah, she was hot. A bit flighty for me though."
"I like a woman that can take care of herself if you know what I mean," Dwyer said.
Using rope they bound the man's hands together behind the chair. Above them a naked light bulb, flecked with dirt and the crisp remains of incinerated flies, illuminated their work. They tied the man's ankles to the chair legs and then stepped back.
"So who is this joker?" Dwyer asked.
Approximately fifteen minutes ago, over on Burlingame and Rochester Avenue, they'd coshed him on the back of his head and then bundled his unconscious form into the back of their Chrysler.
"Best not to ask," Wolfe said.
"Yeah of course," Dwyer said. "That's Mr Koontz's business."
The two men waited in the small room. The unconscious man remained unconscious, his head slumped forward as he sat bound to the chair.
"What do you think of Mr Koontz?" Wolfe asked.
Dwyer thought carefully about how he should reply.
"On the level?" he asked.
"On the level," Wolfe replied.
"I know he controls all of the west side..."
"But he ain't what you expected," Wolfe finished for him. "You see a fat guy in silk pj's that looks like the bastard offspring of Hugh Hefner and Ozzy Osbourne and you wonder, how the fuck did he get where he is? We've all been there."
"You hear some of the talk," Dwyer said. "They say he's soft, or mad. They say he lives in a mansion surrounded by his 'ho's and doesn't give a shit anymore. It's hard to know what to think sometimes. I mean take this. I'm the new guy and you got me in on the wetwork already. Either I should be honoured at Mr Koontz's trust in me or freaking scared shitless at the lack of professionalism."
Wolfe laughed. It was a mirthless sound.
"Mr Koontz gives all the new guys an assignment like this. You'll understand."
*****
Ow, what the fuck, James Jackson thought. His head felt like it had been used as the ball in a volleyball match. He opened his eyes and stared blurrily at a plain concrete floor.
Someone needs the services of an interior decorator, he thought. Urgently.
He was sitting in a chair. He tried to stand up and then realised he couldn't. His hands were bound behind the chair and his feet were bound to the legs. He supposed he shouldn't be too surprised.
At least it saved him the embarrassment of vomiting the very expensive Sushi he'd had for lunch over his very expensive Hamilton shirt. His stomach churned like a washing machine full of crack whore's panties. Any sudden movement and he'd be adding his own bit of colour to the dusty grey floor.
He raised his head.
Slowly.
Uh. His skull felt like it had been blown up to beach ball size and pumped full of raw sewage. It hurt like a bastard.
There were two men standing on either side of the door. Jackson recognized Ben Grimm's younger brother, but the younger man he hadn't seen before.
"Hey Wolfe, wassup?" Jackson said.
Wolfe stared into empty air with stony silence.
The door opened and a fat man walked in wearing a red silk dressing gown.
"Hey Mr Koontz, how's it hanging?" Jackson asked.
"Like a long, fat pendulum," Koontz answered.
Same old Koontz, Jackson thought, a fat greasy shit with absolutely no idea of how ridiculous he looked. This was the same guy that ran the whole of the west side. A guy that crazy mad dog killers like Estevez and Winter spoke of in hushed tones.
He was wearing white bunny rabbit slippers, Jackson noted.
Jackson was less interested in Koontz than the tall, strikingly beautiful girl that followed him into the room. She was dressed from head to foot in tight black latex.
Fuck, now that was a seriously royal piece of ass, Jackson thought.
The girl was very tall, six-two or maybe six-three, even after taking into account the thigh length boots with high stiletto heels. Her long long legs were covered in rubber leggings so tight they might have been sprayed on. A tight bodice pushed up her full breasts and gave her a haughty posture.
