Bridget 'Stoneface' Stevens

So there I am, back booth, Sal's, bowler hat tipped just low enough to keep the overheads from catching my baby blues while I take a long drag from my stogie. Sal's joint is ugly as sin and smells the part twice as foul, but I like it here. Nobody looks too close, and the mud is hot enough to burn the roof off a person's mouth and bitter enough to leave 'em gagging. That's the kind of swill that means no small talk and no questions. Sal has a respect for privacy that buys loyalty of all kinds, including mine and my family's.

Outside, the rain’s been coming down since noon, thick and steady like it’s trying to wash the blood from these streets. I watch it branch down the windows in little streams, blurring shady dealings that I got no business sticking my nose in. There’s a certain comfort in being on the outside of things: watching, waiting, letting the rest of the world spin itself stupid while sitting tight with a warm cup and nothing to do. Still, my restless fingers play xylophone at the gun on my hip. It doesn't hurt to be prepared. It never stays this quiet for long.

I don't jump when my work phone buzzes as I ain’t the jumping type. I fish it outta my inside pocket slowly, thumbing it on with a little click. It’s a burner phone: no branding, no contacts saved, no apps, no nonsense. There's only messages on it, always from a different number, but always from the same sender. They aren't saved in my contacts, but I know who’s on the other end. There's only one person who knows this number.

314-159-2653: Got some coordinates for you. Apartment building. Man in 204 knows too much. Take him out.

I stare at the message blankly, stoic, trying to decode what it means. Damn! Why's the boss always have to text in riddles? Let me see... Knows too much... Knows... too much? Now how does that settle, knowing too much? Ah, I see. Poor sap's probably just a pencil-pusher, just some shut-in academic with too much reading and not enough connections. Real nice of the boss to care. Old boy must be a friend of the family.

Next boss says “take him out,”. Easy enough. He wants me to show the guy a good time. Wine him, dine him, maybe take him somewhere with soft lighting and nice calzones, play the charming broad, laugh at the right moments, get him relaxed. Show him a good night and make sure he doesn’t forget who his friends are. That's fine. I can work with that.

Stoneface: You got it.

I don’t waste time with frills. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. Only tell the boss what he needs to hear. That's the way the boss likes it. That's the way I like it too. I'm about to slip the burner back into my suit jacket when the screen lights up again. More instructions.

314-159-2653: Let me know when and where you whack him off and I'll send a clean up crew.

Whack him off? Clean up crew? I'm beginning to see what the boss is laying down here... “Whack him off”, huh? Now, that’s a turn of phrase. I ain’t a prude, but even I raise an eyebrow at that one. I didn't realize the boss meant that kind of 'special treatment'. This guy must be in real high standing if the boss is sending a crew just to clean up... excesses. Still, I don’t get the name Stoneface by letting my jaw fall off every time a text takes a weird turn. I read it, reread it again, making the words settle in my head and that I'm getting their meaning correctly. It's not enough to make me blush, but I do take another long drag off my cigar, exhaling slowly through my nose. Only after I'm done puffing do I punch in my same quick response, no complaints.

Stoneface: You got it.

I briefly consider the implications. First date and already boss wants me to give him a happy ending? That’s... intimate. I mean, I get it. Sometimes these things move fast. Could be this guy’s not just a liability. Could be he’s a personal friend of the family, someone who’s earned more than just a nice dinner and a wink across the table. Even so, I can’t help but feel a bit out of my depth. The boss has never given me a mission of this... caliber before. I'm the type of dame who'd rather be fondling a cigar in one hand and a gun in the other than I would be some chap's nuts. If this is so important, why not send a harlot for it?

Still, loyalty to the family is everything. If the boss wants this done then it needs to be done, and if the boss wants me to do it then it's not my place to ask questions. That said, I'm not a street whore either. If I'm gonna do it then it should be my way, slow, steady, and with the degree of class the family is known for. This isn't a house call, it's a date - that means suit, tie, reservations, and me bringing flowers. I suppose I can try to be the romantic. It sounds a heck of a lot easier than hitting crumbs like I usually do.

---

Hours later, the rain’s called it quits and left its ghost behind. A fog's rolled in, thick as Mom's pea soup and just as gray and tasteless. I keep my headlights on the low down as I roll down the streets in a butchered car from the boys back at the shop. Forged VIN, GPS ripped out, reeks of blood and cigarette smoke, a total throwaway. Seems like they'd've given me a nicer piece knowing I was headed out on a date, but I'm sure the boss has reasons. Right now the only nice thing here is the bouquet of white lilies riding passenger. I knew flowers was the right call.

The address the boss sent is a good twenty blocks into the seedy part of town, dilapidated buildings, graffiti, needles in the lawns and extra locks on all the doors and windows. The place is a real rat's nest, the kind snitches typically hide out in. Funny how a man who 'knows too much' always seems to end up in a place like this. You’d think they’d have enough sense pick a better neighborhood what with their smarts and all. Whatever. Just means the fella will better appreciate the nice Italian restaurant I've got reservation for us at across the way. I pull the car up to the curb, killing the engine, and checking my cufflinks, my bowler, and finally my roscoe, before leaning across to grab the lilies and stepping out.

I maneuver across the road, shambling up the stairs to approach the target dorm. 201... 202... 203... 204. Here I am. I deftly slip the flowers behind my back, holding them there while I raise my other hand to knock. Alright Stoneface, time to think romance. Treat this gentleman with the same respect you would the boss and make it a night to remember, yeah? Manners, compliments, a little show of mob hospitality. Alright? Alright. Good. I take a deep breath and give the door a quick rap with my knuckles.

"Hey pal. Cm'outta there." I address, knocking hand coming up to tip my hat at the peephole. "Got somethin' for ya. Plus you and me need to go on a little ride."