“Neutral ground.”
Micah Severinov was hesitant to talk to me, to say the least, and with good reason. He knew exactly who I was though we had only been in the same room at the same time on one occasion.
“You can choose the place,” I told him. “Well, within reason. Anywhere public is fine. I told you, I’m not looking for a confrontation—I just want to talk a bit.”
He chose a place called Quay, right off East Illinois near the heart of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile with a decent view of Navy Pier and the lake. The front part of the place looked like a regular restaurant, but in the back was a posh lounge area. The front part of it was definitely the kind of place that attracted tourists, but the back was nearly empty, quiet, and suited our purposes perfectly.
I decided to dress the gangster role and decked myself out in a dark pinstriped suit, red shirt, and black tie. There was little more intimidating than a buffed-up guy in an expensive suit. As long as the place he chose wasn’t a gay bar, no one would fuck with me if I was dressed like I owned the neighborhood. If it was a gay bar, I’d get mauled within a minute.
It wasn’t.
There was a collection of cushy couches and chairs arranged in the corner by the windows looking toward the lake, which is where I saw Micah sipping dark liquor from a glass. He was sitting at the table farthest away from any other patrons. As I walked in, I observed the significant exchange of looks between Micah and the bartender but saw only caution and ass-covering in it, nothing malicious. Nervousness, yes,
but I didn’t get the impression I was going to end up with a bullet in my back.
Not yet, anyway.
I moved over to Micah without hesitation and took the seat with my back to the windows and at a slight angle next to him. It was a vulnerable spot, and I chose it on purpose to show him I didn’t give a fuck. If he had someone positioned outside to kill me, it could have happened from any angle. It would have been noisy though. The tourists out front would notice.
Micah tossed dark blond hair off his forehead with a flick of his fingers as he leaned back in the seat and placed his hands out of sight in his jacket pockets. I knew he had a gun in there just as I presumed he knew I would have one on me.
Perfectly predictable.
“You gonna play nice?” I asked pointedly. I let my eyes drop to his right jacket pocket where I knew the gun would be. He’d been drinking with his right hand, so his gun would be in his right pocket.
“Precautions only,” he replied.
I leaned back casually in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, lit up a smoke, and kept my hands in plain view as I puffed on it.
“There’s no smoking in here,” the bartender called over.
“Really?” I looked over at him. “Looks like there is.”
I turned back to Micah, who had the hint of a smile on his face.
“You’re kind of a dick, aren’t you?” he remarked.
“Sometimes.” I inhaled again and blew smoke off to the side. “You ready to hear me out?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to us any longer and then lowered my voice as I leaned into the table.
“I just got out of MCC,” I said. I looked down at the cigarette between my fingers and carefully tucked the lit end against my palm. I could feel the warmth, but it wasn’t close enough to burn. I took another hit off of it.
“Yeah, I heard. You blew up a park.”
I waved the hand holding the cigarette around dismissively.
“All a misunderstanding. Parking garage doors shouldn’t be noise violations. I just showed them the error or their ways.”
“Heh! Yeah, right. You made a fucking public spectacle.”
I tried to appear somewhat contrite.
“Well, and that’s the problem now,” I said. “That’s how Moretti sees it too. He’s ticked off, frankly, and wouldn’t even fucking do anything to get me out—just let me rot in there for days. I’m sick of his shit, and I’m on the hunt for new employment.”
Micah laughed.