I can feel the cigarette smoke move up my hand as I hold it low in the darkness. The rain pelts my fedora from above like a million tiny typewriters being randomly and frequently tapped. If you were across the street and just happened to look at the spot where I am, the only clue of me is a single burning ember, smoking as the drugs ignite. Far down this lonely lane a streetlight buzzes. Beyond it I can see every next one, their orange light like muffled candles in the distance.

I wait about ten before it pulls up. Two greasers get out and their heads swivel, looking for sneaks. They spot my burning pill and flag me over. A smell of cigars and garlic overpowers me as I draw nearer. Filthy Italians. I mean, Filthy Italian-Americans. But I know who these goons work for, and I know that he can help me. Although it may take more than just berries to gain his trust.

“So,” says one, a big guy in a gray flogger, “you’s Luger?”

“That’s right.” “I’m Giovanni. This here is Antone.” He jerks a fat finger at his crony, a tall guy with shifty eyes and a thin beaky face. His hands are in his coat. He’s packing heat. I take a drag to calm my nerves, blow out smooth. “The Boss tells me,” he continues, his strong accent overpowering me, “that yous could use some of our, uh, ‘help.’”

“Yeah that’s right. I hear a gentlemen’s club you guys work got racked. From the lay of things, it looks like we might be after the same guy. I was wondering if you gents could assist me in bringin’ down this hood.”

The two mobsters give each other glances. In turn, I give a kitten a few stories up the classic wink. It’s sure to melt any woman to the contour of your hand. She draws the curtains in disgust. Maybe not so fool proof after all. I won’t be pitching woo with that broad, I think. “Well.” Giovanni grabs my attention. “The trouble now is we don’t know how much wees can trust ya. Say this is some graft, and yous just wants to see the Boss ride the Chicago lightning?”

“Well,” I start, thinking of a way to soften the tide, “say there’s a little um, job, that needs doing?”

“Right” I think I catching yous grift. “Antone.” They step aside, go into a little huddle. I rock on my heels, patient. Never rush guys who are packed. That’s my motto. I mean look where it’s got me. Patience that is. I once waited twenty minutes for a burrito, and the man that made it knew, because that burrito-

“Luger!” Giovanni shouts in my face. No time to wonder how long I spaced off, he’s spilling fast now. “You knows that place, what is it, I forget but it’s that creep joint down in the red light. The guy who runs it also runs another, less, uh, accepted, ‘organization.’ Yous followin?” Good. Turns out he happens to be a snow-bird. He made us a promise, see, if wees ud get him some dust, now, our two families ud end all this fussin’ and a, feudin’. But he never makes good. Next thing our peterman takes a whack. Joey was his name. Never seen no one do a box job like he could. An they killed ‘im! An’ ya see, the Boss, he don’t appreciate his boys getting spiked like that. So all ya need to do, is go give the bastage what he deserves. You get down there, and yous give him some lead poisoning, an’ maybe we’ll take yous to see the Boss. Tuesday, Tony’s Pasta, 5 o’clock.” Giovanni gets back in his car, starts it. Antone looks at him, then me. He steps in real close, throws his arm around like I’m a chum. His voice is squeaky and thin, but what he says doesn’t make me feel like laughing. “You know, this could be your break, Joe. Just a little whack and your in the family.” I feel something round and metal poke my side. His loose hug tightens, I start to gag. “But if you so much as think of peaching, we’ll play you enough chin music to put you in a Chicago overcoat. Capiche?” He backs of, steps in the Ford and they disappear. I am alone, rubbing my neck.