As the day comes to an end, Bob walks out of Frank's business, feeling full and slightly tipsy from the wine, he believes the experience overall was a enjoyable one. One thing stuck out to him though - a business card was given to him before he left the airport, it was one by a Russian name - they exchanged words as Bob was a known associate of the Chicago crew and Russian mafia were seemingly interested in taking one of the apartment buildings within the Loop, he was a middle man between a contractor company and, Ilya - the main investor. During the exchange, Ilya mentioned Franks involvment, Frank has been investing his own money into small realestate - buying tax free and then selling at an extortiate price.

Ilya told him to visit Frank, for no reason - Ilya didn't even know where Frank would be, it seemed to be more of a 'pass the message on', yet Bob took no notice, as his dealings was concrete, if he had known eating exquiste food and dinings on fine wine, he wouldn't of hesitated.

Few hours later

Inside of a hotel within Manhattan, Bob's luxiourious room is padded with leather and items of moderate value, throwing himself on the bed, he recieves a phone call on his nightstand. Sighing, thinking it's Linda making sure Bob is okay, he begrudgingly takes it upon himself, picking it up slowly - giving a low sigh, "Lin-(Linda)" Bob is stopped by the sound of a frantic Frank.

"Whoa, whoa, Frank - okay" Bob shoots with adrenaline, his body more stiff and his lumbering tone turning into a heavier more focused tone, "We can't tal-(talk)" Bob, half putting his trousers back on, while holding the phone next to his ear - the wire not stretching as far, all Frank could hear is heavy breathing and hopping in place as the bristles of hair drag friction to his waist, "We can't talk on the phone, i'll meet you on 87th street-" Bob hears frank agree and puts down the phone. Grabbing his gun and his wallet, he puts over a bathroom robe with pockets, shoving his wallet and gun in both pockets. Looking like a clean homeless man, he makes his way out of the lobby - towards the street as he whistles for a taxi, after five attempts (from his attire) he made his way down, shoving a few $20 bills towards the taxi drivers front seat. 

As the taxi is held up, the $20 bills could only take him so far - forcing the driver to take short cuts, Bob's bathrobe sinks into liquid as it passes from the bathrobe, finally reaching his sweat pants becomming a sludge cold wetness, with pale chunks of meat and a dark yellow and green slime emanating from under him. As the taxi driver speaks in a mix of slavic and english towards Bob, contextually gaining that the driver thinks he was sick in his car, "Buddy, I wouldn't sick on myself," The taxi driver getting angry as Bob sighs, having enough, "Okay, stop this is enough - THANK you SO much," Ruffling his bathrobe to not get caught in the taxi door, he jumps out the taxi, feeling the wind from the taxi as it speeds away with reminents of slavic curses going with it, wiping his head he puts his hand on inside of his bathrobe pockets. 

Looking over as the clouds consume the sky and the cold touch hits New York City, the sunset over the horizon causes the lamps of the street to flicker on - the orange tinge of the sky evaporates and businesses on the street light up with the arrival of the night. 

Hearing a faint voice, he sees Frank - the rush of the traffick seems intense yet recklessly Bob waddling over crossing the street,  - he approches Frank through the window, "Are you going to let me in?" Looking pale and cold, smelling of a vile odur and with greasy hair - Bob trys to put on a smile.

Sitting opposite Frank, Bob sits with his mouth open - the squelch from his seat mixing with the previous vomit incorperates with Frank's seats,

"Hey, Frank - I wouldn't take Isabella and then ask you to meet," Bob attempts to put his hand on Franks shoulder, "Those russians are planning something, did they not leave a note or call you?" Bob pauses, moving the string his bathrobe into a more accessible postion with his free arm, "We can do this together Frank, if it was my wife - i'd act the same way."

A few minutes pass as a knock on the window is heard - Bob reaches into his pocket for his gun as he winds the window down - two tall men, around 185cm bend down from the car window - wearing track suits with a farmers cap with stone cold faces stare directly towards Frank - they hand over a letter with a grin, "Chello yankees, Myi boss guives his demands, read carefully awnd you will see your bitch again," They pat Bob on the shoulders, giving him a wink - the two russians saunter off from the car, obviously following Frank as he left his place of buisness. Bob passes the letter to Frank, rolling up his window, 

"Hey err, Frank -" Bob stops as he see's frank open the letter.

Shocked and full of adrenaline - and other sordid entities under his undergarments. He passes the letter towards Frank as he begins to read over-head, Frank looking shocked, angry, tired, and full of adrenaline in all one paragraph. Bob wipes his head full of sweat and moves to adjust his seating arrangement - the squish and squibbles of his wet trousers fill the silence and the masked tears from Frank. 

As frank talks to him in broken English, bob takes out his gun - flicking the cylinder, all five bullets spin with it, "These have five bullets? In the movies it's always six - i usually count with every shot and-(They always go over six)" Bob cuts out as it's not the time for his anecdotes, but when really is it. Bob with a serious face looks at frank, "We can do this - I already know most of the ports they bribe to bring in more of their men, with more of their money - I can help you with making sure the son-of-a-bitch doesn't get away, with his life or his money," Bob looks with somewhat arched eyebrows, his mustache somewhat fades as he says this - almost like his alter-ego flairs, "We haven't got much time, you take another car - don't use this one," Bob pausing as he takes a whiff, "i'll grab the some low-level thugs that i know around this area," Bob takes himself outside the car, putting his hand on the car roof, "They owe me for putting all their food on tabs, if they don't want to pay - they'll work for the best burger in town." Bob pausing, closing his eyes before giving out a sigh, "I'm sorry frank"