Michael Farretti sat in the cell of the police office in Berlin, Vermont. Dried blood stained his lower lip. The area around his left eye was swollen and a mixture of black, blue, and purple. His knuckles were slightly cut and bruised. "Well, now that you've had a little time to sulk," the officer on duty stepped into the holding area, "do you feel like telling me why you started that fight?"
"I didn't start it," Michael answered.
"That's not what everyone else told me."
"Of course a buncha country bumpkins aren't gonna tell you they started it when they get away scott free pinning it on a city boy like me."
"With an attitude like that, I don't have that much trouble believing them."
The door opened again. A man in his late thirties burst through. He was wearing a dark suit and glasses and carrying an attache case. "Just what the hell is going on here?"
"I might just ask you that question, sir. Who the hell are you?"
The man fished a black billfold out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Carl Landsford. Justice Department." With a flick of the wrist, the billfold closed back on itself; and he placed it back in his pocket. "I need you to release this man into my custody. Now."
"Pardon me if I act too much like a small town cop, but I don't see how a simple bar fight falls under the jurisdiction of the federal government."
"It's not. But the protection of a witness in the federal relocation program is."
"You mean that this guy..."
"Is not Michael Farretti? No, not really. Though he is supposed to be. But I guess we'll now have to give him yet another name. Now, if you will open this cell."
"I don't understand how you knew he was here. He hasn't been given his phone call."
Landsford pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and waved it. "He called me before you picked him up. And what is this about you neglecting to give him his legally mandated phone call?" The cop stuttered a bit without actually producing enough sound for anyone to hear. A loud beeping noise came in from the office up front. "And that would be a court order from a federal judge in New York City demanding that you release all the files you have of this incident to me. You can leave the keys to the cell with me while you get those." He smiled a bit as the cop bit his lower lip.
Several minutes later, Landsford was leading Farretti out to a black Crown Victoria parked in front of the station. They both climbed into the back seat, and the car took off. The man in the passenger seat before them turned around. He was an older man in his fifties. His face was covered with rage. "I send you up here to keep out of trouble." He reached into the back seat and slapped Michael across the face.
"Ow, Pop!"
"Don't you fuckin' 'Ow, Pop!' me, you little bastard!" the man yelled. "You've got cops all over New York state lookin' for you, and what do you do? You start a goddamn bar fight in fuckin' Vermont. Are you trying to get yourself picked up? Let me see that." 'Agent Landsford' handed over the file. "Fuckin' ignorant twat," the man mumbled to himself as he took and reviewed the file.
"It's got everything, including finger prints!" the man's voice kept getting louder. "Do you realize that if those mother fuckin' hick cops had run these, you'd be waiting for real feds to come up here and drag your sorry ass back to New York!" He then turned from his son and handed an envelope to the back seat. His voice was much calmer now. "Thank you, Mr. Mann. This could never truly compensate you for what you have done for me tonight. I am in your debt. The plane will fly you back to New York while I take my son here even further north. To fuckin' Maine."
"Aww, Pop. Not Maine."
"You shut the fuck up!" The man reached across the back seat again and began slapping and punching his son.
A little over two hours later, Aaron Mann was stepping out of the elevator with a grocery sack in his right arm. The glasses he'd worn before were now missing. A Bluetooth headset was clipped to his left ear. "Yeah, I left it in the usual place. And thanks for the rush job. I put a bit extra in there for you. Remember that next time I call, alright?" He clicked the button on the headset with his hand and reached into his pocket for his keys. As he searched for the right key, he came to a stop in front of his apartment door. He put the key into the lock but stopped before turning it. "You know that you're shit at hiding. Might as well come out."
Seth stepped out from around the corner. "Still can't sneak up on you."
"Not with those fuckin' elephant feet of yours you can't." He unlocked the door and stepped in. Seth followed, but had to put his hand out to stop the door from slamming in his face.
"Hey, that's not a way to treat a guest."
"I don't remember inviting you in," Aaron said as he placed the grocery bag on the kitchen counter.
"How'd you know I wasn't someone trying to mug you in the hallway?" Seth asked as Aaron walked off down the hallway, not even looking in Seth's direction. Seth examined some of the photos hanging on the walls before sitting down in the largest chair in the living room.
Aaron walked into a room filled with filling cabinets. On one wall was a large mirror with a table in front of it. He opened up a closet full of shirts, jackets, hats, and shoes of all kinds. He pulled off his jacket and hung it up. "The security in this building is too good for an average street thug to come in. It takes an experienced thug."
"You got any beer?"
Aaron reentered the living room, changed into more comfortable and informal attire. "No. Now will you leave?"
"We need a face man, Aaron."
"I don't care."
"We need a good one."
"You and Vivian have made plenty of other friends since me. Get one of them."
"Can't. The mark knows most of our crew. We need a face he can't make. We need the best. Vivian seems to think that's you."
"I'm not interested in what she thinks. And get your feet off of my coffee table. It's an antique." With a bit of a sneer Seth lifted his feet off the table and stomped them onto the floor. "Besides, I don't run with crews anymore. Can't trust them. The two of you taught me that. Hell, you turned on each other. I heard about you abandoning her."
"I DIDN'T ABANDON HER!" Seth tried to regain his composure. "She got greedy. Didn't stick to the plan. Just listen to me. We need you on our crew."
"Seth," Aaron began to pour himself a glass of wine, "I'm a thief and a con. I refuse to get involved with the drug trade."
"That was bullshit," Seth began to get angry. "You should know her better than that."
"I thought I did. Look what happened to me. I teach her the trade, and she leaves me high and dry when she thinks she's learned it all. When she was done using me, she went right to you. Right to the muscle man."
"It wasn't what you think."
"I heard you two got married."
"Ok, maybe it was a little bit like you think. But it never crossed over professionally. You have to admit that."
Aaron took a sip. "I've been conning and stealing since I was nine. The closest I have ever gotten to going to prison was with you two. You tripped the alarm and bolted. Leaving me for the cops."
"It was a mistake, Aaron."
"No, taking you two in was the mistake. And I don't want anything to do with either of you any more."
"The guy set her up, sent her to prison. She got lucky that she didn't get twenty years for it."
"Yeah, it really hurts when someone screws you over like that, doesn't it?" He set the glass of wine down on an end table and sat down across from Seth. "Trying the sentimental route won't work on me, Seth. As far as I'm concerned, she deserves what she got. And you still have yours coming to you."
"There's nothing I can do to convince you?"
"No, nothing."
"Sure?"
"Positive."
"There's a lot of money in it."
The wine glass stopped right in front of his face. Aaron stared into the glass for a short moment. "How much?"
