Invisible, Harry followed the gangsters into the warehouse, slipping through the door between two of them. He was so close between Tony Two-Toes and Stanley the Gooch he could feel their body heat. He held his breath until he could move away from them inside.
They were dangerous men, each with flash clothes, scars, grim looks, ill-concealed pistols, and hot tempers. Harry followed them past the legal goods cling-wrapped on the steel shelves and into the back office. Where the warehouse was concrete and steel and cold, dry air, the office was warm and natural, wood paneling and plush carpet, and a pleasant aroma of long-past cigar smoke. In the middle of it all, behind a desk polished a rich mahogany, sat Cutthroat Dan.
Dan cleared his throat—scarred ear to ear by an attempt on his life—and everyone quieted. “Listen. I know you’re all getting antsy. That’s good. It’s because you’re my best guys, and my best guys don’t take shit lying down.” The assembled gangsters murmured assent. “Well, you’re here ’cause it’s time—” A sound like a waterlogged outboard motor starting ripped through the plush office. The associated smell hit everyone’s nostrils a moment later.
Dan gritted his teeth. “It’s time for us to get—” Another long fart tore through his speech. “Okay, what wiseguy can’t keep his ass puckered long enough to listen to what I gotta say? Well?”
Confusion, blame, recriminations, and soon violence reigned. Harry, the invisible avenger, had already slipped away, his work there done.