Loose Ends by D. D. Vandyke

He’s a businessman, not a thug.”
    In my experience the two weren’t mutually exclusive, but I held my tongue. Red gestured up the main stairs and we climbed to the third and highest floor. He led me to a door at one end of the hall, nicely painted but obviously heavy steel.
    Before he could knock, a grilled look-through snapped open. “Who’s your friend?” the voice from the other side said.
    “A player I know from Sergei’s. She’s cool.”
    I felt myself being examined for a long moment, and then the tiny opening slammed shut. Locks clattered and soon the door opened to show two tough-looking skinheads, the bigger one with a baseball bat and the shorter guy with a .45 in his hand. “C’mon in,” the first one said and Red stepped confidently between them.
    “I’m clean,” Red said as the first guard put aside his bat and frisked him.
    “I’m not,” I offered as I opened my blazer by the lapels, showing the Glock. Bat guy tugged at the grip for a moment before I reached down with one finger to push the holster release, allowing him to take it from me and put it on a shelf behind him. When he started frisking me I said, “Right ankle,” and he took my holdout too.
    “Any more?” he said with the lift of an eyebrow.
    “Nope,” I lied straightfaced. I still had a tiny derringer and two blades. No reason to make his job easy.
    “She looks like a cop,” the guy with the .45 said.
    “I used to be one, but I got thrown off the force for using.” I showed my teeth. “Now I’m a bodyguard.”
    “Chink chick bodyguard, right,” sneered the big guy with the bat. “I’d go through you in nothing flat.”
    “I’m a quarter Japanese, not Chinese,” I deadpanned but let the rest go. No percentage in challenging the flunkies. I needed to get to the boss.
    My answer seemed to confuse him enough that he had no obvious retort except to mutter, “Japs.”
    “C’mon, Weiser. We need to see Luger,” Red said.
    “What about?”
    “None of your business.”
    “You tapping that?” Weiser flicked his eyes at me as if I wouldn’t notice.
    “None of your business either.”
    “Whatever.” Weiser picked up his bat and led us into a nicely appointed living room with tasteful modern furniture, clean and well lit. “I’ll get him.”
    The other guy holstered his .45 and stood in the doorway, watching us. Red threw himself onto a sofa and put his feet up on one arm as if he owned the place. I hoped he wasn’t overplaying it.
    A moment later a slim man of about forty with a light brown crew cut and a goatee stepped into the room, dressed in tactical pants and shirt, the kind you see all those Blackwater mercenaries wearing in Iraq and Afghanistan. His Doc Martens were spit shined and his eyes held mine after glancing at Red with a brief curl of his lip.
    “Good morning,” he said.
    I raised my eyebrows. “Morning?” I echoed.
    “I like to be precise,” he said in an even voice, his eyes turning to the clock on the mantel. “It’s after midnight.”
    I refrained from mocking excessive precision and shrugged, putting on my best charming smile. “Can we speak privately?”
    “Of course,” Luger said immediately, surprising all present including me. He reached out to take my hand and turned, placing it on his arm as if to stroll with me to a ball. Although I could have pulled away, I let him lead me into the next room, a study appointed with leather chairs and dark wood paneling. I glanced over my shoulder and winked at an openmouthed Red as I walked. I guess the immediate invitation surprised him.
    Luger brought me to an armchair and placed me there like a well-bred gentleman of the old school. I couldn’t help but smile. This man might be a criminal, but he had style and confidence.
    After closing the door, he walked over to a small side table and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “Would you like something?”
    “Whatever you’re having.”
    Luger nodded, pouring a second