Chapter 9
“Did I get the part?” the girl asked flirtatiously.
Carroll pulled his belt snug and buckled it. “You got the part,” he said, the ghost of a smile crossing his face for just a moment. His voice was low and smooth. “That was really nice,” he said, putting a cigarette in his mouth.
“Thanks,” the girl said with a small smile.
Carroll reached down and picked up his gold Dunhill lighter from the bedside table. “Come back same time tomorrow evening,” he said. “Bring a friend.”
The girl pulled the thin, tight, bubblegum-pink tube top over her head and settled it over her modest bust. “I got a lot of friends,” she said. “You got any special type you like?”
Carroll lit up. “Yeah,” he said, dragging on the cigarette. “Skinny little blonde girls.”
The girl grinned. “Like me, huh?”
Carroll made eye contact with her and nodded at the envelope on the dresser. “Just like you.” He walked into the living room of the penthouse loft and began to fix himself a martini at the wet bar.
The girl picked up the envelope and followed him, peeking inside as she did. He’d left a generous tip. “Thank you, Mr. Carver,” she said coquettishly, batting her eyes at him. Carroll was very, very big, she knew. He’d walked into Rochester last year out of nowhere and the mob had given him a place at the table. No one knew where he’d come from or exactly how he’d done it, but he was a major player now.
It wasn’t just the amount of juice he had, either; his sheer size was almost more impressive than his power in the demi-monde. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of six foot nine, with a shaved head and intricate monochromatic tattoos covering his chest and arms.
You treated Carroll Carver with respect if you knew what was good for you. Everyone had heard the stories about what happened to people who didn’t, and while they were contradictory on the specifics, the consensus of those in the know was that Carroll was not to be fucked with. He had powers.
She took the slim wad of bills from inside the envelope, rolled it up, and tucked it into the waistband of her tiny white pleather shorts.
“Do I remind you of somebody?” she asked, sitting down and pulling on one platform sneaker.
Carroll raised his eyebrows. “Hmm?”
The girl pulled on the other sneaker and glanced up at Carroll. “Sometimes guys like to call me somebody else’s name.” she said carefully, conscious that the past could be a minefield. “If you want me to be somebody, I can. You just gotta tell me what her name was.”
Carroll smiled and dragged on his cigarette. “Nah,” he said. “I try to let the past stay in the past. Everyone’s got their own magic. When I’m done with someone, it’s because all the magic got used up. No point calling on dead names.”
The girl shrugged. “Oky-dokey,” she said, standing up and putting on her tiny pink vinyl backpack. She was afraid of Carroll. A lot of people were, but most people had never seen him up close. In particular, she was afraid of his eyes; their irises were so dark they were almost black. Carroll’s eyes reminded her of the eyes of a Great White Shark.
She walked to the private elevator in the corner of the room with as carefree an air as she could manage, glancing out the floor-to-ceiling window behind Carroll as she passed. She pressed the call button and followed the little green light that indicated the elevator’s position with her eyes. When the elevator arrived, she smiled with relief and wiggled her fingers at him in a little-girl wave. “See you tomorrow night,” she said, doing her best to put a mischievous lilt in her voice.
Carroll lifted his martini glass in her direction without looking at her. “Make sure you bring your friend,” he said.
Back with Carroll again! Glad to still be here, reading along. I look forward to each of these updates as they get posted.