Ladd Russo came to that same café every Friday afternoon. He'd sit down and swallow a whole cup of black coffee, with a little bit of sugar. He stood out like a bruise. Like that little blood red spot on a fancy white napkin. But he didn't really give a damn. He'd come all dressed up in his nice suits and black leather dress shoes like any proper mobster would, suck down liquid caffeine and move on like it was nothing. Leave a couple bucks for a tip and move along into a vibrant night life and plenty of trouble.
And usually, the stares he'd get didn't cause him to move his gaze up from the paper he was reading-or the napkin he was shredding into little bits-or distract from all the thoughts of blood and sex coursing through his head like a river. But then there was the dame that worked there, who would stop whenever she saw him coming-work her lips into bloody splotches and keep on moving. And this wasn't the typical curious glances Ladd collected by the bucketful. Her teeth were gritted like she had something to say-something to ask. Their eyes even met on a couple of occasions. The dark brown coffee stains slamming right into the mess of blue that made up the best part of his face.
She was so damn finicky too-pristine white cups quivering in her hands like leaves shivering in a cool breeze. Top teeth clamped onto bottom lip. Like claws. And usually-when this kind of thing happened, Ladd Russo still didn't give a damn. He might even harass the broad, raise up that obnoxious voice and give her hell for staring like that. But for some reason, he couldn't do it to that little thing, with her apron and her polka dotted dress and the coffee going in and out of her gloved hands. She looked like she knew something anyway.
And one day, when the spring had moved in and made the air a mess with pollen, that young lady brought Ladd Russo a cup of dark black coffee, served up on a pristine white plate. And those big strong fingers took the handle after a pile of pristine white sugar sank to the bottom of that little black lake. He drank, easing long legs forward with bones popping and muscles chilling. And before he set the cup back into place, he found a small piece of pristine white paper folded neatly down the center, tucked just under a ring of dark black.
Oh, those fingers were too curious to leave anything alone. That was like putting a match in front of a pyromaniac. Ladd Russo didn't even think twice before the crease was bent the other way, spine cracked and innards undressed, showing a small set of neat black letters on that pristine, white paper.
'Please kill me.'
Ladd took another sip of coffee. Then he took the note and jammed it into his pocket, rolling it all over in his head like a boulder tumbling down a mountain. Causing an avalanche.
Then Mr. Russo finished up and left.