Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Julian fails at so many things, including life
Julian Eskridge exhaled heavily through his nose. The old man always told him that keeping your cool was a matter of controlling your breath. He’d like to squeeze the breath out of the two idiots in front of him right now. “You left the car? For fuck’s sake, why did you leave the car?”
Shorty answered, his snake tattoo rippling on his neck. “Sorry, Boss, but the cops were on us right away. I thought it would be better not to get mixed up in an accident report so near the hotel.”
Julian didn’t remember the guy’s actual name. Ramon had always called him Shorty. God only knew why—as he was at least Julian’s height of six one.
“So you ran and left the car.” Julian pinched the bridge of his nose.
The two, both experienced bag men, their black suits straining across broad shoulders, nodded like errant children.
“Sorry,” Shorty answered. Behind him, his partner winced as he rubbed his bandaged wrist under a sleeve.
“The car is licensed to the casino. If the cops trace it back—which they will—they’ll look into the casino and its backers.
” Julian sighed. “That’s us in case you two didn’t get it.
” He waved his hand as though brushing them out of his office.
Or rather Ramon’s office. It’s not like Ramon would care if he used it.
“I’ll take care of it.” He picked up the desk phone and pressed one of the speed dial numbers.
“What will the boss say, do ya think?” Jake blinked his good eye, looking a little concerned.
They were tough guys, Julian knew this for a fact, but nobody crossed Ramon Castenada or his father, Cesar, the head of the cartel.
The old man was up in Jersey and rarely came to Philly, but nobody wanted his particular kind of wrath or attention.
“Ramon wouldn’t say anything. No, he’d cut your balls off. Now get out of my sight.”
The two made themselves scarce as Julian spoke into his phone, instructing the man on the other end to report the vehicle as stolen.
The manager of the River Lights Casino received regular kickbacks from the Castenada family.
It was an excellent setup for laundering cartel funds, and he would do “favors” now and then.
Julian read him the car’s plate number and hung up, pacing in front of the large windows.
He left the office, careful to lock the door behind him. As Ramon’s lieutenant, Julian was assigned a small alcove outside the fancy corner office, but Ramon hated being in the office alone.
The crime boss craved an audience, and Julian filled that role, usually working on a laptop as he sat in a corner club chair. For the past few days, he’d pretended that everything was fine. Normal. That Ramon was out of town and had left Julian in charge. So far, he’d gotten away with it.
Julian stepped from the building onto State Street and got into the dark sedan. “Just my apartment, Frank. Thanks.”
Frank nodded and eased the big car into traffic. Ramon’s driver never said much, even with Ramon’s constant jibes about his quietness. Today Julian was grateful for his silence. The quiet gave him time to think.
With Ramon gone, most of the day-to-day tasks fell to Julian. Keeping the guys in line, the collections coming in, the drops made to the casino, and payments sent back to Jersey. The old man kept a sharp eye on everything.
At thirty-four, Julian was only two years older than the heir to the Castenada family cartel, but he’d worked hard to earn the trust of old Cesar Castenada for almost fifteen years.
Fifteen years of brutal, bloody work while Cesar’s son, Ramon, indulged.
Traveling through Europe, snorting coke, and collecting supermodels.
Papa Castenada had tapped him to make sure his son didn’t fuck up. For three years, Julian had done that. Relocating to Philly, he looked after Ramon, stroking his ego while keeping him in check. Until ten months ago when Ramon had gotten laid at the Hotel Fulbright. Then everything went to hell.
The car slid smoothly to the curb in front of his building, and he got out, telling Frank he wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the night.
He rode the elevator up to his place, his mind whirring. How hard was it to steal an old man from an abandoned hotel? The man had been at death’s door. Surely two guys would have been enough. Now everyone was on alert. And there’d been witnesses.
If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. It was a cliché, but it was true, Cesar Castenada had told him time and time again.
Looking in his freezer, he picked through his array of frozen meals. He’d love to get a cheesesteak from Romano’s deli, but he’d changed his diet. Overweight as a kid, he eventually grew into his chubbiness, trading it for muscle, but he’d always been self-conscious.
He sat at his dining table, eating the microwaved blandness, thinking about the next move.
Ramon had always said they were a team. Julian knew better.
Fifteen years and he was still an outsider.
A protector, a confidant, sure, but team?
No. If things went to hell, Ramon wouldn’t have hesitated to throw him under the cartel limo.
No, Ramon was the boss, and Julian was an overweight, muscle head.
He thought back to the night when his plans fell apart.
“Chunk, let’s take a ride, check out our territory.” Ramon made a half-hearted smirk to soften the nickname.
“Don’t call me Chunk. It’s the pizza you insist on eating.” They were wasting gas and Frank’s time driving around town. Ramon had been restless again.
“Pizza is food of the gods, brother, and I don’t insist that you eat it.”
He’d wanted to snarl that they weren’t brothers, but he kept silent. Julian now realized that the reason they got along so well was because he worked at it. Ramon was an asshole. Not that Julian wasn’t, but he was a different kind of asshole. A working-class one, he supposed, who earned his way.
Julian had been the one to discover the Hotel Fulbright.
A throwback to art deco architecture, good size and run-down enough to buy at a steal.
He’d come across it as he researched other investment properties for the family.
A little nest egg that would give him a way out.
Which was crazy because once in the organization, always in the organization.
His research and groundwork done for financing, Julian was about to make an offer. Then Ramon got restless, and they’d stumbled across the hotel.
“Frank, I still have my overnight bag in the trunk, right?” Ramon had asked.
“Why do we have to stay in a broken-down hotel?” Julian avoided looking at the building. His potential nest egg.
“Don’t worry, princess, we’ll get you a toothbrush.”
Ramon had bravado and charm and, of course, money and connections. But wisdom and common sense were only vague ideas. With a hopeless look at Frank, Julian followed Ramon out of the car and into the lobby. His nose wrinkled as he picked up a kind of mausoleum stink.
He’d been inside before, months ago, checking out the place, but it looked different at night.
The dingy lobby was a throwback to the era of exceptionally bad taste.
Threadbare couches gathered around a curvy legged table, wall sconces throwing enough light for horror movie ambience. They stood at the scarred front desk.
Tall, gaunt, and the color of wood ash, the clerk was pleasant enough. He handed over the keys, his bow tie slightly askew. Julian noticed a chill in the air as the keys jangled over the desk.
“He was a creeper,” Ramon said as they entered the tiny elevator.
“Takes all kinds,” Julian replied.
“Do you think he’s a vampire?” Ramon was a lover of all things arcane and an adamant believer in the supernatural. If Julian had to describe Ramon with a single word, adamant would be it. If he could use two, it is adamant asshole.
“No, Ramon. He is not a vampire. He’s a guy.” The elevator doors opened onto a carpeted hallway. The red-and-gold fleur-di-lis pattern faded under a southern exposed window.
Ramon stepped out. “It is cool if he was though, right? I’d buy this dump just for that.”
Julian’s chuckle hid his worry as they made their way to their rooms. “I’m sure Cesar will go for that.” With a nod to Ramon, he entered his room. It wasn’t much.
A bed and single end table were surrounded by god-awful striped wallpaper. On the opposite wall, a cheap sideboard held up a flat-screen from the last decade. The single upholstered chair was covered in dog hair.
He’d barely settled before Ramon was at his door.
“There’s not a mini fridge. Or room service,” he complained.
“You really expected room service?” Julian stepped back to let him in.
Ramon peered around him to see the room but stayed in the hallway. “No. Yes. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go down to the bar. They have to have a bar, right?”
The bar’s low-ceilinged room was dark enough to hide a lot of worn carpet and split leather seats.
He and Ramon took two stools facing a smoky mirror and waited as the bartender finished mixing a drink for the only other customer.
The dim lighting worked well for a pretty woman sitting at the far end.
“Welcome to the Fulbright,” the bartender said, his voice deep and pleasantly graveled. “What can I get you?”
Ramon ordered two whiskeys with ice and then told the bartender to put the woman’s drink on his tab.
“You sure about that? She orders top shelf. Forty bucks a pop.”
Ramon rolled his eyes and smirked at the bartender. “I do like a woman with good taste.”
The man’s dark skin crinkled around his eyes. “It’s your money.” He fetched their drinks, setting them up on cocktail napkins. “Name’s Lenny, if you need anything else.” He shuffled down the bar.
“See, Juli. He’s cool. The bar is good. Makes up for the rest of the place.”
“Yes,” Julian grumbled. He hated being called Juli, but it was better than Chunk. “At least the bartender isn’t a vampire.”