Unless it had been some kind of unseasonal publicity stunt from the winter frolics marketing association, that snowball in the kisser had probably been some kind of warning. And not the kind that was easily ignored, like “eat within three days of purchasing” or “now pay attention to your flight attendant, who will now run through the safety procedure in case of emergency”.
Seems the blonde’s bitter half must have got wind that she was onto him and his philandering ways – after all, it was OK to work up an appetite walking around the block, as long as you didn’t habitually fuck random women in cheap motel rooms on the way.
Anyway, I decided I needed some muscle looking out for me, the kind of people who would present an argument in a calm, logical manner, if by calm you meant with a heavy leitmotif of bloody senseless violence, and by logical you understood being disposed of in a pet food factory and your remains ending up in 37 separate tins. I wasn’t about to start anything physical myself – it’s been said of me that I float like a butterfly and sting like one.
To my mind, there were only two people I could turn to – a couple of psychotic Italians that owed me a few favours from the time I saved their wives and children from a burning building. After all, I wasn’t to know they’d started it, and the entire embarrassing incident was forgotten over a bottle of Chianti.At least, when they’d finished using it on me, I’d forgotten.
But they’d felt bad and I knew they’d be sympathetic to my cause, or at least, desperate to get into any kind of fight. They lived in the penthouse suite of the Hotel Caliph Orneeya, which was, like a marijuana cigarette rolled by the Queen of Sheba, a classy joint.
As I entered the building, two men were loudly showing off to each other about their achievements at a tactical board game. There was nothing worse than chess nuts boasting in an open foyer.
The attendant asked me which floor. I told him to mind his own business. I wasn’t in the mood to trust anyone, and you know what they say, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not waiting around the corner with huge metal spikes ready rip you apart limb from limb until you’re begging for sweet, sweet death.
And with those reassuring thoughts, I got out of the lift and knocked on the door of Al Dente and Vinny Vidivici.