“So, he failed again.” Bates hung up the telephone and turned to face the two men waiting for orders on the other side of his mahogany desk. He smoothed back dark hair which reflected what the cut had cost. His Italian silk suit was custom tailored for a body just starting to thicken at the waist, his silk shirt underneath a discreet pinstripe, the tie an original. His face was narrow and neat, his eyes so dark they absorbed the light without reflecting it back.
He was a wise guy who started out on the streets, stealing stereos and tires, moved into dealing drugs, then clawed his way up the ranks on the heels of fellow punk, Paul Orsini, who had put him in charge of all their Midwest operations. Denver was out of the criminal mainstream of either coast, but Bates didn’t mind. His wife lik
