Two blocks north. I turn right, stepping into Via Martinase. The place is bustling even though it's three in the afternoon. The ringed Main Street of Faust consists of boutiques and three-story high stores with electronic screens covering the entire front. Expensive-looking leather shoes in shabby and confined stores, shabby clothes in luxurious, high-end stores.
To people on business trips and tourists, this is where they'll spend most of their time since it's one of the safest and 'cleanest' areas in town.
For lots of folks, Via Martinase represents Faust because they wouldn't dare wander off the ring too far. Some bold young couples might visit Nochnaya to experience a different kind of nightlife but most will stay within the state of law at the city center.
Naturally, congress threw increasing amount of funding to Main Street. They encourage all types of small business owners to set up their shop around the ring, basement pubs, bistros, foreign restaurants, suite hotels specifically build for business travelers, old fashion barbershops, and even some clubs at northwest close to lanes.
They intentionally make the area around vía Martinase as packed as possible, filled with authentic stores and international brands. Giving you all the reasons to stay in this place without venturing outside to see the real Faust…..
And it's hilarious how ordinary the place turned out to be compared to the rest of the city. But after constantly looking over your shoulder for too many years, some fellows in my line of work would still rant about moving here to experience a more peaceful life.
***
This part of the main road is too close to Saint Elisha therefore to my relived, there aren't many neon lights. Especially at this hour. All I got to worry about is the sun and any signs of boryokuda.
Despite what dojo told me, I still preferred not to be recognized by them. 40 thousand is a lot of money, someone could pull me in a ven, stab me and throw me at the doorstep of their establishments to make a quick score. Though it's unlikely to happen on Via Martinase, not just because of the police respond time but also because there are way too many eyewitnesses on the street.
Three blocks later I make a left and head north towards the address on the business card. A group of students walk out of a headphone shop forming a circle on the pavement while slowly moving forward. Blocking the whole path.
I take two steps closer walking right behind them but the kids don't seem to notice.
Judging from the same backpacks they carry I'd say they're in junior highs. But if I remember correctly, schools are not out yet. And the excitement underneath those vibrant eyes, the smiles that are barely held back by Zygomaticus Major, and the kid in the middle of the circle is hugging instead of carrying his backpack all confirm they had a great time today.
The human mind works in a mysterious and accursed way as I start wondering if I was given the chance will I be like them? Skipping classes and shoplifting with classmates, faking a doctor's prescription and teacher's sign, walking around the street without worrying about someone following you with their hands in hoodie pockets. Biggest problem in life is what the girl sitting behind you is whispering to her friends.
What a fucking fever dream that would be......
I take out my pack of cig, put one in my mouth, light it with Ivan's match, and take a deep fucking drag. And puff out all the smoke toward the kid in the middle. Half of them immediately cough, and the other half turn around and realize there's a not so friendly looking guy behind them.
As I put the filter back into my mouth they finally moved aside. I walk passed them knowing damn well they are staring at me.
***
About six blocks west of Little Italy, one of a small branches of Via martinase. I finally spot the tailor shop at the end of street by the corner.
Despite what Ivan told me I still take a right into an empty alley and put my shoulder holster, mags, colt, and Qin Yan's dagger in the violin case. Throwing the cig to gutters before moving towards store front.
Its exterior vaguely reminds me of Glasgow with the same structure. But instead of oak, the tailor uses deeper shades of wood and there are no pillars by the front.
The shop name, Emilio&Fulvio is engraved on top of the entrance with copper in hard font. There's another row of smaller words under it in Italian that roughly translates to 'Stitching with blood since 1899'.
Two bay windows display with a front door between them. Wooden mannequins dressed in Burgundy red tails suits and black double-breasted coats standing tall. The red curtains behind them and spotlights in the corner make the lifeless dummies look sophisticated and respectful.
I look at the card in my hand and the suits on those mannequins thinking what I would look like in those things. The reflection of myself appears on the window as I take a step closer, thank heavens I'm wearing shades so I don't have to see my own eyes but the idea of putting the man in front of me in those sumptuous clothes seem laughable.
As I mentioned, lots of folks in my line of work tend to dress the fuck up after they got some spare change. For me, it always seems like trying to quench the deep-rooted insecurities and a sick need to be seen and praised ....... and a really fast way to throw away your money.
I've seen guys show up at Stynx in thousand-dollar suits and a big smile after a score only to walk out of the place with it cover in dark beer, vomit, blood and palm-size holes.
I take another look at my reflection, baggy black bomber jacket with the sleeves faded grey caused by years of brawling and miscalculating laundry detergent, plain white v-neck with a side of sewing thread loosely tilt to the left, a normal-looking cargo pants, and a pair of sneakers...
Screw it! If that Slavic bastard could get a suit done here, why can't I?
I take off my sunglasses, put the card in my pocket, take a deep breath, and push the door open with my head slightly higher than usual.
***
The smell of deer musk, new print paper, and coffee immediately assaulted my nostrils as I open the door.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The place is huge and packed to the brim. Dark brown color carpet (some parts darker than others) covers the entire floor and red wall with carved wooden pillars at four corners. Two identical sets of chandeliers hang from the ceiling.
On the left, a giant square table covered by cloth, fabrics, tailor scissors with fading brass handles, and garments. Dozens of blazers hang on the cabinets by the east wall consisting mostly of black and grey ones. Some mannequins in seaweed pea coats, dark red wool coats, and navy blue striped blazers are standing around the table like loyal consultants of the tailor.
On the right, are two leather sofas by the fireplace on the east wall with a coffee table in front of them. By its side, a giant cabinet of ties in all kinds of colors and styles sits.
A wooden desk sits vertically by the sofas with stacks of unfinished letters, documents, and a cup of coffee on it. Behind the desk is a small corner occupied by two huge bookshelves and lamps.
Across the room, by the bookshelves. A hallway leads to what appears to be the fitting room with lots of full-body mirrors, a man saw my reflection in the them and hurried out the back room with an apologetic smile on his face.
The bad habit of sizing up everyone I met for the first time came again. The man is in his late 40s or early 50s, broad shoulder, lost half of his hair, the other half is grey but lucky for him the amount left is still enough for a Caesar cut.
Glasses hang on the pocket of his three-buttoned black vest, covering a white dress shirt. But the shirt sleeves seem to be too short as I can more than glimpses of tattoos on his wrist while his hands sway as he walks.
Despite his clothes covering 90 percent of his body, I can still tell this man is very lean and well built for his age judging by the fact that his shirt can't hide the plumps of his biceps.
His face is clean-shaven without a trace of scribble. Strong jawlines, sharp nose, slightly concave cheeks. Wrinkles gathered around his forehead and carve a trail down by his brown eyes.
He walks with his upper arms swaying, big steps with shining leather shoes on the carpet creates no sound at all, but you can feel the weight of each step. I don't even need to look at his eyes to know he's a very confident man, in his work, his skills, and himself.
The small traces of details on him also confirms what Ivan mentioned, this place definitely has some level of connection to the families in the East. The man standing in front of me is no stranger to violence and ugliness.
I suddenly don't feel out of place.
With both of his hands clenched in front of his abdomen. The man tilts his head very subtly to the side, thinking about what should he make of me with a smile that can give June a round for her money.
"Afternoon..... I believe this is your first time visiting?" I nod slowly. The 't' sounds a bit dragged like it's 'thh'.
"Indeed. A friend of mine recommended here." I say with a smile that implies nothing.
"May I ask who? We don't do much promotions. Usually, it's just the regulars." He asks with sincerity in his voice and eyebrows slightly tilted. I wait for a second before answering him.
"Ivan Vasiliev..... he said a lot of good things about you fellows." The tailor is now smiling with his teeth out, eyebrows raised, and knit together. Amusement in his eyes.
"Ah, a friend of Mr.Vasiliev then? Welcome, to me and my partner's establishment. My name is Maurizio, very nice to meet you... mister....?" He extended his right hand towards them. As I shake it with a firm grip I can feel the calluses located in his palm, before the first knuckles and close to the wrist.
These aren't from holding a scissor. I bet he's ambidextral.
"Lee." A flash of doubt rushes through his eyes as he matches my grip with ease. After we release each other's hand, he seems to get the slightest idea of who I am.
I'm not exactly as famous with the guys from the old country as with the Russikyes at noch. But they know me. As I said, I take jobs from all over the city and there's always something in Little Italy, maybe not as much as pre-war days though. It might be some micro-size favors or somebody needs a lesson, it doesn't really matter as long as they can afford my standard rate.
But a very interesting thing about works at Little Italy, it's that the hit jobs, the jobs in which you actually pull the trigger, were seldom done by outsiders. It still happens, these guys aren't like the Qins but they also tend to 'take care' of their own by their own.
They only get mercs involved in the really dirty ones, the ones that they don't even want to get their own guys to do it, the kind with targets who are the enemy of the fucking public. The kind that everyone oked.
Because of some..... friends I met out of coincidences. I sometimes take care of those guys for them, and act as the mediator in some scenarios where a third party with no ties and interests involved is needed.
But that's not how I get around. My name is known around these fellows for couple of crude jokes and a setup that happened years ago. What happened that night can only be seen as complete bad luck but after it, my reputation was acknowledged around this neighborhood. I was the guy you go to when you got a situation.
Judging from the constantly changing facial expression, Maurizio caught a notion of who I am now.
"Ah, I've heard good things about you as well... Signore. Lingua d'argento..sí?" With the smile unchanged, he gestured towards the sofas in front of the desk.
"Lee, would do just fine." I lounge on the sofa closer to the exit and placed the violin case by the fireplace while the tailor leans back on his desk, arms crossed.
"Very well, Mr.Lee. What can I do for you today?"
"I need a suit that will make me look unrecognizable." I shrug and put on a smile too. Maurizio lets out a laugh.
"Sir, no suit can hide who we are. But I'll do my best..... what kind of occasion?" I take a second before answering.
"Let's just say it's something big." Maurizio raises his left brow and grabs a pen and a small notebook on the table behind him.
"Wedding?" Ha!
"Not really."
"Funeral?"
"....Hopefully not. It's more of a social event."
"Ahh........ Respectful people, respectful places sí?" I smile without explaining. "Now, is it for day or for evening?"
"Evening."
"Indoors, correct?" I nod.
"Is the person you're meeting a lady or a man?"
"Lady."
"And the meeting is supposed to take place in a......?" The tailor asks without looking up at me as he scribbles on his notebook with his left hand.
"Club." The sound of graphite over papers stopped. Maurizio's eyes drift off for a moment before he shoots me a new set of questions.
"Any preferable style? American...... Italian?" I shrug. So he added. "Judging from your stature... I think the Italian style would suit you well. American might not be fitting for your shoulder, English doesn't seem to..... exaggerate your presence enough." Maurizio raises his eyebrows, asking if I'm fine with the decision.
"It's what you do, Maurizio. I trust your judgment." And I have no idea what you're saying.
"Great, now what about buttons? I suppose you would prefer maximum movements all the time?" Maurizio grins as he added.
"Certainly."
"Single-breasted, two buttons, the classic it is! One is always up while you're walking, and the other is never up no matter if you're sitting, standing, or gauging another man's eyes out." His tone sounds like a prep school teacher but never the less I made a mental note of that.
"Lastly before we move on to details. Is there any preferable color or patterns? I think you would look sharper than a bayonet in plaid or madras....but let's get back to it when we're picking the fabrics. For now, let's focus on the color?"
"Surely, what do you recommend?" Maurizio's eyes drift up and down on me, putting my image through a thousand different styles and colors before he lets out a chuckle and a bitter smile.
"My father always says, In caso di dubbio, vestiti di nero!” A smile creeps up my face as well.
"When in doubt, wear black."
"Precisely, now. Mr.Lee..." Maurizio claps his hands hard as the sound echoes in the empty guest room, he gets off the desk with the notebook in his left hand. Standing by the bookshelves, he raises his left hand towards the changing room inside with his right palm at his abdomen. The motion reminded me of the Korean at the entrance of little kubukicho, I thought to myself as my grab the violin case and stand up from the spacious seat.
"Let's get started with the....." His sentence was broke off by the sound of front door opening again. Tilting his head slightly to see who it is, the professional smile from earlier returns in a more toady style. "Mr. Massino, So glad to have you here again!"
Not this guy. Not this fucking guy....
"Anche tu amico mio!....." Heavy accent pair with raucousness, Enzo greets the tailor before he pause for a second. "And look who crawled out of his grave again."