Tabula Rasa

The first, a stout, sour man named Giovanni, had a penchant for expensive red wine that tastes like vinegar and barely legal teens who most likely weren’t all that legal. He was filthy rich, and every day he grew filthier and richer, though official currency wasn’t his strong suit. He collected enemy debts in broken kneecaps and paid his own in death. Stubby fingers and a spotty facade gave Giovanni the air of an awkward adolescent, an adolescent who only seems able to find joy in between the begrudging legs of underage hookers. To his right sat a spindly, sad sap of a man who went by the alias ‘Naples’. Everybody assumed that’s where he washed up from, but nobody cared to ask. His greasy curtains hung in front of his eyes, and sharp bones carved out his gaunt, ghostly white face. What he lacked in body mass he more than made up for in sadistic violence, the only place where he succumbed to gluttony. The third man was the tallest and broadest of the three. To an outsider, Vincenzo looked like the ringleader. The assumed ‘Alpha’. A half-smoked cigar in a permanent vice-like grip between his lips. A sneer that coaxed all hairs on the back of your neck to eerie attention. The money clip that stuck out obnoxiously from this breast pocket. Everything about him demanded your gaze, and yet repulsed it all at once. As a wicked threesome, they seemed magnificently intimidating, yet she knew otherwise. She circled the table once more, ensuring the three men on no occasion saw an empty glass in front of them. Her pour was precise, perfect. She could hold the bottle one-handed and ensure a gentle stream eased its way into the crystal gauntlet from two feet above the table, not a splash escaping onto the walnut surface below. There’s usually a little more action in the groups she works with, a little more energy and enthusiasm, especially when the good red comes out. For the heads of organised crime in one of the biggest cities in the world, these guys seemed a little fusty. Time to cut to the chase, she supposed. “Does everyone know why I’m here?” It was mostly rhetorical, but she thought it compassionate to pose the question. As expected, grunts and glares were all that came her way. “Does anyone have any questions?” Again, rhetoric. History tells us that all mobsters know of the Mexican standoff, although they resent the racial reference. Shooting before you’re shot really is the fairest way to prove your leadership capabilities. “Draw your weapons, boys.” All three men whipped pistols from their holsters at the exact same moment. They pointed one weapon thirty degrees to the left, the other, thirty degrees to the right. As if part of some twisted choreographed number, six fingers pulled backwards in flawless unison and a stream of lead formed a perfect triangle between them. She was out the door before the dance reached its finale.