Forever with the Duo

PHIL

* * * *

"PHIL, I am scheduling a meeting between you and Mr Peter tomorrow," she said to me, busy over a glass of juice.

"Why?," I protested, surprised. She seemed to be forgetting something.

"He is due a delivery," she said, unmoved by my protest. She believes she is always entitled to have things done her way.

"But I told you about my meeting with the Mayor at Los Angeles," I argued further, clearly determined to not let her win.

"That's the reason I'm sending you there."

"How? We both know Mr Peter has no business in L.A.," I reminded her, just in case she had forgotten.

"Well, he used to have no business in L.A., but..."

"Can't you just send someone else?," I interrupted her. I just wasn't ready for a meeting with Peter. I guess I had no choice. "Why must it be me?," I went on.

"You already know Peter is a high risk client. I can't trust someone else with the package," she had said.

My mother always triumphs. She would never take no for an answer. Not that I didn't understand what she meant by 'high risk client,' but I had an important meeting with the Mayor...and he didn't like to be kept waiting.

"You f*cking owe me, Phil," he had angrily said to me when I told him I won't make it early for our meeting.

I knew what he meant by that, and I obliged...not that I had a choice. “I'll make it up to you, Mayor, I promise.”

Unable to convince my dear mother to send someone else, I packed whatever I needed for the trip, got a few of my men ready and headed off to the airport the following morning. It was going to be a long and hard day, I had presumed. I seldom traveled, except on business trips. But even this one didn't appeal to me.

Having successfully scaled the security checks without any hitch, I sat down, ready for the punishing six-hour flight to Los Angeles. I had barely had a break when I noticed the beautiful eyes that were fixed on me. I swear, those ladies were nothing but gorgeous. They could melt any heart, their eyes. Not that the stare was unusual… who wouldn't want a piece of me… but I just wasn't in the mood to have my eyes fixed on anyone. I had more important things to take care of.

The flight had not been up in the air for long when I dozed off. How I needed it. I had barely had enough sleep the previous night. My father's Ill health had really got me worried. He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and, according to the various medical experts we visited, his had gotten to a stage where it was incurable. We all knew he was going to die, but no one was ready for it yet. Even on his sick bed, where he had been confined to for the better of two years, he still controlled business.

How I admired him.

My family must surely be the most famous in New York City. Anyone in the city who claimed not to have heard of the Brandons must surely be a newbie. We practically controlled the City the way Adolf Hitler controlled Europe in his prime. To the outside world, we were a very successful furniture producing family, but we were much more than their eyes met. Only those special business partners knew what we were about. Even at that, they were all bound by the oath of secrecy. No one dared to go public about us. Anyone who did only got one response from us…

Death!

You would think we would go after such, but no, our bullets had far better targets. Their families would be at the mercy of the 'boom' sound of our gun. That alone was enough reason for them to remain our ardent business partners, our secrets forever buried with them.

Finally, we arrived in L.A by noon. Mr Peter's men were already waiting for us at the airport. Smartly suited in black, with sunshades that made it nearly impossible to know what they looked like, they appeared stone faced, as if they were ready for combat. Ushering us into the waiting black van, they sped off.

After about fifteen minutes of non-stop driving, we finally arrived at our destination. The security men at the entrance thoroughly searched us, to ensure that we had no weapon on us.

"You may go in," their leader, a broad shouldered man, said, satisfied.

"Hello, Phil," Mr Peter said, exchanging hands with me.

"Hello, Peter, it's been a while. You don't look bad," I remarked, giving him a smile.

"You can say that again, my friend. How's my old friend putting up? It must really be tough for him."

"He's in good spirits," I quickly said, in a hurry to move on from the topic. I didn't have the patience to discuss family matters with a man of Peter's standing. I just wanted to get done with business and get out of his sight.

"Here," he said, offering me a glass of whisky.

“Thank you, Peter.”

Continuing, he said, "Where's the package?"