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Faro’s Ring
Part One
By: Samuel Hayne
The two men
stopped a few feet from the bus stop, facing Nick and the Vietnamese
prostitute. Neither of them spoke, but both stared in Nick’s direction. Nick
Black stared back into the men’s faces, determined to learn something about
who they were and he slowly came to see that there was something inhuman,
almost crocodilian about their appearance. Their skin had a greenish
pallor, drawn tight across the bones of the jaws and cheeks. Equally strange,
their noses and mouths protruded outward from their faces like the vicious maw
of a crocodile. Nick feared that if it were possible to look into their mouths
he would find sharp, jagged and uneven teeth hidden behind the thin, stretched
lips. He wanted to get away from there.
He grabbed the
package, stuffed it back inside his jacket and passed, like the shadow of a
shadow, unseen into the darkness of the street. Wrapping his icy hand around
the warm grip of the pistol he had taken from Oded after 'The Egyptian' shot
the man, reassured Nick that he wasn’t without options. There was something
magical about caressing the weapon that brought down Robert Faro, and touching
it brought him an almost supernatural peace of
mind.
Hurrying down
Polk away from Geary, Nick kept stealing glances behind for any hint of his
hunters. The two men were not following.
At a fast-paced walk, he made his way down nine blocks to McAllister Street.
With the lights of City Hall on his right, Nick opted to cross Polk into the
dark grove of trees in Civic Center Plaza, hiding in the shroud of their
shadows. Out of breath and badly needing a smoke, he scanned the street for
those who might have followed unseen behind him. There was no indication of
anyone following. He found it was as good a time as any to examine his
treasure; the package he had stolen from Faro.
He ripped the
packaging paper off to reveal a sealed cardboard box underneath. Nick
took out his keys and with the impatience of an addict opening a baggy to get
a fix, he recklessly sliced through the packing tape. In a thousand years,
Nick would never have guessed what was inside the box. In fact, when he saw
the contents he was profoundly confused. His mouth actually dropped open.
“Oded was shot dead over this damned
thing?” Nick whispered, removing it from the box. “They wanted us dead over
this goddamned piece of shit?” What Nick held was neither heroin nor cocaine.
The gold colored, round edged wooden box with faded hieroglyphics carved into
its face was a mockery to the years he had spent working for Faro. Of all the
bullshit replica’s Faro owned, the one Nick held seemed most authentic. The
box was old; almost ancient in appearance, with chips and nicks in the wood.
Nick closed his eyes briefly and reflected on the irony of the package being a
small coffin.
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