Ten years in prison had taught him the most important skill of all—patience. Michael started gathering information quietly and methodically. Every day he walked the neighborhood, talked to people at the market and in the stores, and listened more than he spoke.
Little by little, people got used to him and started opening up. After a week he knew a lot. Gus, Tank, and Lenny weren’t acting on their own. They worked for a man named Arthur—a local mid-level operator.
Arthur stayed at a roadside place called The Wave, just outside town. Every Friday night the three of them brought him the money they collected. Arthur was the real target.
The three punks were just muscle. Errand boys working for a cut. Michael understood the key point.
Beating up the three of them would solve nothing. Others would replace them. If he wanted this to stop, he had to go after Arthur.
The market brought in the most money. After that came the kiosks, two grocery stores, and an auto shop on the edge of town. If somebody didn’t pay, first came a warning, then a beating.
A year earlier they had burned down a shawarma stand. The owner was beaten so badly he spent a month in the hospital. After that, everybody got the message.
Resistance felt pointless. On the fifth day a white sedan pulled up beside Michael. A man about thirty-five got out in a gray suit, gold chain around his neck, two bodyguards behind him.
Arthur sat down beside him on a bench. “You’re Carter. Heard about the misunderstanding at the prison gate. My boys made a mistake. Thought you were somebody else.”
“You accepting the apology?” Michael said nothing. “I know George Gray is behind you,” Arthur went on.
“I know you two did time together. But this is my territory. Paul Rostov knows me. We have an understanding. Stay out of my business, Carter.”
“Live your life and there won’t be problems.” “What if I want this neighborhood cleaned up?” Arthur smirked.
“Then you’ll have problems. I’ve got people, protection in the police department, protection in the underworld. I’m untouchable. Don’t play hero.”
He got up and left. Michael understood something then: Arthur wasn’t afraid of him or George. Two days later Michael ran into Mr. Grayson outside the store.
The old man’s face was bruised. Black eye. Split lip. “Who did that?”
“Gus and Tank. Beat me up yesterday for talking to you.” “Did you file a report?”
“What report, Mike? The local cop told me not to get involved.”
Michael walked him back to his apartment. At the door he said quietly, “They’ll answer for this.”
“Things are going to change soon.” Now it was personal. That evening Michael called George from a pay phone.
“Need to meet.” “Got questions.” An hour later they were driving down an empty road by the woods.
“So?” George asked. “You decided?” “We may have to go hard. Tell me about Paul Rostov.”
“Is he really backing Arthur?” George took a drag on his cigarette. “Rostov’s in Montenegro. Been there two years.”
“He doesn’t come back here and he doesn’t pay attention to local business. Arthur just sends him a percentage and uses his name. Rostov probably has no idea what’s going on.”
“And if he finds out?” “Arthur means nothing to him. If this gets noisy, Rostov will cut him loose.”
“Old-school guys don’t like thugs using their name for this kind of mess.” “Then we make sure Rostov finds out.” George shook his head.
“Rostov doesn’t take random calls. He’d need proof. Real proof.” “Then I’ll get proof.”
George looked at him with interest. “I’ve got a contact. Tony Baton in the capital. Sometimes he can get word to Rostov”…
