#peter kellsey

Dropping the limp body like a bag of trash, Peter straightened his coat and turned on his heel; making his way slowly back up the dock to his waiting car.

Seattle in the cold light of the moon was a beautiful sight; the buildings of the growing city rising higher the further downtown Peter drove. Pulling up to the curb, the tall man in the sharp suit tossed the valet his keys; barely sparing the kid a glance let alone a friendly nod.

‘Martina’s’ was what most would consider a hole in the wall, but anybody who knew anything about organized crime on the West Coast knew that the restaurants’ unassuming façade hid a veritable hive of illegal and illicit activity.

Some people liked to say if you couldn’t make it in New York or LA, Seattle was the poor-man’s stomping ground.

Peter’s boss disagreed and had managed to carve out an extremely lucrative niche for himself in the state’s natural resources and businesses.

Shipping from the port, copper and other precious metals from the mines, and timber from the vast North Western forests.

Quaint industries, but no one complained about the number of zeroes on their paychecks.

Peter walked down the flight of stairs that led to the main dining room. It was dimly lit and despite the boss’s break from the families in New York, it still maintained that Old World feel - which just ended up looking and feeling dusty, in Peter’s opinion.

The dark-haired man nodded to one of his fellows, a man named Bernie, who casually made his way over to Peter as he took a seat at the bar - ordering a glass of red wine and some pasta.

“How’s the pier tonight, Pete?” Bernie asked, joining him at the bar and motioning to the waitress that she should bring two glasses for the wine.

“Don’t call me that - and the pier was fine. Job’s done.” Peter said nonchalantly as he pulled apart his utensils and napkin; sticking the cloth into his collar to protect his suit.

“Good, good, Peter. Boss has some more work for ya, if you’re interested.”

Peter looked at the other man incredulously.

“Can’t I even get a fuckin’ meal before we talk more business?”

Bernie looked non-plussed at Peter’s complaint, shaking his head in refusal.

“This one’s time-sensitive. You remember that logging camp we lost about seven years ago upstate?”

Peter shrugged, nodding to the waitress as she deposited a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses in front of him.

“You know, the one where all those sons of bitches got killed like someone forgot they was supposed to be cuttin’ trees instead a’ people?”

The wine was decent; but Peter could tell they’d changed house labels.

“Ah, yeah, yeah, I recall. Big to-do. No one could figure out what the fuck happened.”

Bernie leaned in close, like he was about to impart some vital information to the taller man.

“Well, turns out, some little bum-fuck town up there is havin’ a problem with some psycho choppin’ loggers up with an axe.”

Peter turned in his seat to face Bernie, a glint of interest in his eye.

“You don’t say.”

The man nodded, grinning.

“I do say - and now the law up there is asking for help from the governor.”

“I’m guessin’ the boss would rather we got there first?”

Chuckling, Bernie nodded once more.

“Help ‘em out. Solve their little chop-chop issue; and if it happens to be the same guy? Well, the boss would like a word.”

A steaming plate was set in front of Peter, and the man leaned in to smell it appreciatively before sighing.

“Fine, when do I leave?”

Bernie leaned back against his chair.