Vixen

Chapter One
Location: Chicago Outfit; Export Warehouse #1

The smell of the musty green house was always a stomach turner. No matter how many times one walked through it, your head would swim, and your nose would sting, and maybe your lip would curl in disgust. I never liked going here, but jobs were jobs, and I intended on keeping mine.

The workers were beyond careful. Hand picked by the Boss himself to nurture and coddle his crops to life. His men and women were the organized lot; not the gunslingers people assumed ran this sort of business. Gloves prevented their hands from leaving any incriminating traces of evidence. Long clothing covered the skin, visors guarded the eyes, and from afar they all looked the same; heavily clothed workers in a sea of money.

Green plant stocks flourished and those ready to be exported were carefully packed by gentle hands. They would go to the processing branch, protected of course. Once there, the lucky few responsible for this month's batch, would process the marijuana into its final product. After that the dealers would set to work.

"Artemis Lacroix, it's been some time." The voice was deep and smooth, most likely from smoking an immeasurable amount of cigars.

"I'm not here for pleasantries Belcastro," I laughed, "you and I both know that."

"Ah, so it seems." Faint footsteps sounded from above. Of course, the scaffolding for the observation deck. Glancing upwards I spotted his form leaning on the railing. White undershirt rolled up to the elbows, dress pants freshly pressed, slippers adorning his feet.

"You try too hard to fit the stereotype Belcastro." Even from here I could see his dark brown eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement.

"Fashion is coming back piccola furbetta," He smiled, Italian accent thick, "but we're here for other reasons, yes?"

"Dwyer isn't happy about your stunt last week." The incident had caught the attention of the press. Reporters from all fifty states had a field day with the headlines.

"The little stronzo stole from me!" Belcastro's hand crashed down on steel railing. The sound of metal rings clinking together echoed around the warehouse. A silence settled over the room as the workers froze.

"Dwyer didn't steel from you Belcastro. The police discovered your route," I argued very aware that people were staring.

"How? He was the only one who knew! His crew was to meet my caravan at the check point. The police couldn't have found my message, it was coded so only Dwyer could decipher it." Belcastro's voice thundered angrily.

The folded piece of paper had been tucked carefully into the sleeve of my dress. Even now I could feel the corners brushing my skin, a reminder that I had evidence.

Moving carefully as not to alarm him I withdrew the slip of paper and unfolded it in plain view. He didn't need to suspect I had a weapon, even if a pistol was strapped to my thigh. "This is your original copy of the letter. No code. It was found as a draft in the glove box of your car. Do you not recall the police seizing your decoy vehicle?"

"Of course I recall!" He snapped.

"Then you can't blame Dwyer for the mistake you made."

"So I get a reprimanding from the Boss' puttana but Dwyer is free to do as he pleases?" Belcastro demanded.

"You know very well this isn't your first mistake. First you were put on trial for not covering your tracks, then your car is seized, and now you've lost an entire truck of merchandise. Your chance for redemption is over." His death note in hand, I tore it to pieces.