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Sleeping with the Devil
Dante I slide into the booth in the tiny, barely-Brooklyn diner across from Henry Alcott and a man I don’t know, and I think about killing them here and now. We agreed to be subtle about this. I picked a place outside of any territory worth talking about. I changed in the car, into one of the patterned button-downs I only keep for the barbecue and a pair of shorts. And here these two assholes sit with their high-and-tights, cop shoes squeaking on the stained linoleum, badges and guns bulging their crap impersonation of what normal people wear to lunch. They need to know who the f**k they’re dealing with, and that I’m not f*****g around anymore. “Who the f**k are you?” I ask the stranger with no preamble. He prickles. “All right, dickhead, you—” Henry holds his hand out between us. “T
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