Part 2

I started counting how many times my foot was beating per minute. I was well around 600 beats per minute. You’d think me being able to count those beats would be enough to stop my leg from twitching. But I was anxious as all h*ll. I was going to meet the Boss at one of his favorite spots in downtown Orlando. I didn’t think I was in the doghouse with him or anything. But talking with him is like heading into a cage with a starved lion. Except instead of a lion, it’s a 100-year old Mouse-man that smells of cigar smoke and sherry. Ron Modesto was at the wheel. We were taking his car, which he considered to be his most valued asset. He outlined the rules of being a passenger to me every 2 minutes for the last 3 hours, even before we got in the car. No eating, no drinking, no talking, no playing with the seatbelt, no obnoxious breathing (apparently I’m on ‘strike two’ for that), and no looking in the glove compartment, among other annoying rules. I could tell he was getting a bit fed up with my leg twitching, but it was a legitimate medical condition that I had papers for. Criticizing an associate for their disability is grounds for a lawsuit and he knew it. He knew the Boss was already up to his eyeballs with the Mulan controversy. So he kept his mouth shut.

I was riding shotgun with one of Ron’s friends sitting right behind me. It was an old mob tactic that’s been used for years. Have the unsuspecting one sit in the passenger seat and if he starts asking too many questions, the guy behind him can easily garrote him. Not like I was supposed to know that, though. Or know much, for that matter. I knew my job. I was a pretty face that could be plastered on walls all over Anaheim. I played the game and I kept my mouth shut. There’s nothing that the Boss hates more than ‘player empowerment.’ Or empowerment of anyone or anything that he either can’t control or can’t profit off of. And they’ve made sure to keep me pure of mind. I’ve been whisked away from plenty of events or mixers with some of the corporations finest when business picks up. They don’t want their beautiful face to grow a mind of their own. So I kept my mouth shut. The money was too good to spill some beans over.

We pulled up to the joint where the Boss was waiting. It was a Saturday night, but there were no other cars in sight. The place had been cleared out with only certain personnel being allowed in. Some tall, burly character was standing point at the door. He let Ron and his buddy right past but held me up for a bit. Asked me if I’ve been in contact with anyone off the books, if I’ve seen any suspicious people around me, if I’ve ever been followed in the last 48 hours. The answer to all of those questions were yes, as the Boss has his boys watching me like a hawk 24/7, but I gave a firm “no, sir” to every question bounced at me.

“Have you gotten any strange calls or messages recently?”

That one was I had to respond with an actual lie. I’ve gotten a few messages here and there from different blocked numbers: all of which were critical of the actions of my Boss. I’ve deleted all of them. I love the Boss and I’d never have a cross thought against him. Even after all of the times he’s intentionally forgotten my name. Or given me meeting times that were intentionally later than he started so he could scold me; I knew he just did it because he loved me. Also, there’s no way to explain around messages like those when they check my phone at the end of every day. That’d be lights out for me, regardless of whether or not I responded. It was also, almost, lights out when they caught me watching Zack Snyder’s Justice League. But I was able to get off on that one by asserting I was just “scouting the enemy.” The bouncer then began to pat me down in a very drawn-out fashion. Ron started to get pretty annoyed.

“Give the kid a fuckin break, Marty, he’s clean.”

I was somewhat amused by Ron calling me a kid. I’m about 10 years older than him. Well...they bill me as a 22-year old Norwegian who is fluent in English with no accent. The bouncer took his hands off of me and motioned towards the door. The immediate whaft of cigar smoke when Ron opened the door was enough to make a regular mouth-breather pass right out. Every table was empty with chairs stacked on top of them. Only one table was populated. It was near the back of the joint, illuminated by a single chandelier above it. I saw some shifty characters sitting around: some I knew, others were unfamiliar. But at the head of the table was the head honcho himself. When he spotted me walking in, I saw his eyes light up for the first time in my life.

“Bobby, come here young man ohoho. Pop a squat next to Iger over here. I’ll deal you in.”

It was the first time I had ever heard the Boss get my name right. It might’ve been a lucky guess considering his two highest employees are also both named Bob, but I was still honored. He sandwiched me right between the two Bobs, Iger and Chapek, and gave me a hand of limited-edition Han Solo playing cards. Ron sat across from me and grabbed a hand himself. We then enjoyed a few games of hold-em which were all, miraculously, won by the Boss. There was one point when I had a royal flush with only me and the Boss still holding cards. I was about to go all-in until I looked up and saw Ron give me a slight shake of his head. I opted to fold instead and gave the Boss yet another win.

“Sohoho Bobby, I heard you’ve been playing pretty well,” the Boss asked me, “leading the team in points, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, “I’m out-scoring a number of veterans on the team: much better scorers than me, all things considered.”

“Ohoho, that’s good to hear” he replied, with a little nod to Ron. “You know, it feels like it’s 200 degrees in here and I still don’t have my damn drink. Hey, Ryder ohoho!”

Some teenager wearing hip clothing with curly, modern hair came out of the bar holding what looked like liquified mist. I recognized him almost immediately. He has a show on the same channel as me. The Boss likes hiring these young, influencer-type kids to make it look like they understand youth culture. The Boss continued to hurl insults at the kid as he left.

“Sohoho,” the Boss said, “I heard you have a reputation for hitting people?”

“Yes sir,” I proudly replied, “102 on the season.”

While 102 was nowhere near the highest mark in the league, it was still quite a bit for a center; and a bit more than the Boss would want from his golden boy. The Boss told me last season to make a living off of laying folks out as I wasn’t that great of an offensive player yet. But now that I’m the leading scorer on the Outlaws, I could tell his reaction towards the hits was changing.

“You think that might be a little too many?” the Boss asked, “Ronny, you think that might be a bit overkill?”

“Uh...a little bit,” Ron replied while barely looking up from his cards, “a little bit.”

“You understand that we need to keep a family-friendly image, ohoho?” the Boss relayed.

“Yes sir,” I replied, “it’s just...you told me to hit people. So I’ve been doing it.”

The Boss looked perplexed. “Did I tell you to hit people? Ronny, you hearing this? Did I tell him to hit people?”

“I heard things,” Ron replied, “I heard some things and...they weren’t good.”

“Oho maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” the Boss replied, somewhat taken aback, “but don’t you make me look like a fool in front of my Bobs. You got it, Billy?”

“Uh…” I replied through stifled breath, “yes sir.”

I didn’t realize how mad the Boss was at me. I thought it was just water under the bridge after we talked. I told him it was an honest mistake. But he thought I was using his words as justification to keep getting hits. This would be a lot easier if I were a baseball player. Or a meth dealer, like my old friend Hal. The playoffs came around and while we were the odd-on favorite with the better record and home ice advantage, we got unceremoniously swept 4-0 by the Maine Timber in the first round. It was almost a literal gutpunch. Even with one of the worst records in the league last season, we were able to get a few games over on our first round opponent. I was hanging up my skates for the last time in the season when I received another text from a blocked number.

“You crossed the Boss,
He made sure you lost.
You want to know how?
Then answer this now.”

At that point, I was too downtrodden to delete this message, let alone ignore it altogether. Who is this person and what do they know? It was then that I finally responded.

“Hi, this is Bob Duncan! Thank you for texting me! I would love to hear more from you about my Boss! Would you like to meet over coffee?”

I admit to not being very good at texting cryptically.

“Tomorrow at 10pm
Universal Studios”