Gierstrad ate the last portion of his biscotti and wondered why it tasted so stale. The staleness reminded him of the dull moments of his life, and it fueled his eagerness to pursue new things. He quickly pondered about the nature of his hustles and there's this growing 'itch' that he cannot scratch. Perhaps it's the lingering memory that keeps him up all night. Perhaps. The memory is sometimes so vivid, so wild, that he needs to snort few lines of coke to be at peace. Yet, he is still in control. Instead of ending up like a junkie, he delved in the world of hustles and prepared his mind for greater investments.

"Sir," A husky voice broke Gier's stream of thought. It came from his loyal minion, Rogelio. "Cook's still not talkin.' We roughed him up a little but there's no way that he'll give up the safe."

Gierstrad nodded and got up. He dusted the biscuit crumbs off his pants and went down the creaky stairs. Rogelio followed him, uncertain of his master's thoughts. Gierstrad and Rogelio reached a damp room, lit only by a single light bulb. In the middle of the room is a man tied to a chair - almost unconscious and bleeding in the face. Bad shape, Gierstard thought.

"Wake up, Cook." Gierstrad spoke. His voice sounded like a calm thunder in the room.

Cook, the beaten man, looked up and saw Gierstrad's stern eyes. He fought the urge to pee.

"Go...to...hell..." Cook replied, spitting blood on the floor.

"You fuckin' wop! Want me to take care of this scum?" Rogelio burst out. Gier shook his head gently.

"Cook, just get me the safe and we'll let you go. No bad blood. You won't hear from us again." Gierstrad said, as-a-matter-of-factly.

Cook breathed deeply; the taste of blood in his mouth almost made him puke. He regretted the day he stole the blasted safe from a downtrodden bookie. He's aware of the cash inside the safe, as well as some booties, but everything is just assumption. Now, Cook is returning to his senses. The safe is not worth his death. He could be in Puerto Rico, enjoying his ass off. Or he can gamble his savings away in Vegas. I don't deserve death! - he shouted inside his mind.

"The safe is in Rowdy Shack...had my boys transfer it there. Just go in the basement and you'll find it. Doesn't take a goomba to locate that good-for-nothin' metal box." Cook spoke defiantly.

Gierstrad smiled and lit a cigarette.

"Now, we have business." Gier said.

The next day, Cook was found in the street - sprawling in the puddle of his own blood, and with three bullet holes in his head. One in each temple and one in the forehead. The hustlers passing by just shrugged off the scene as part of a distant memory - another casualty meant to be forgotten. Yet, some are watching. A few concerned souls are indeed aware of 'little casualties.' The almost-unheard minorities. They all lurk in the shadows, just like the memories of the past.

~~