Chapter 27 – William Claims to Be an Honest Businessman
On the banks of the Chicago River, William dug with a shovel, one scoop after another. He'd hollowed out seven or eight graves by now — each just big enough for a person. He guessed Terry wouldn't bring a huge crew; this would do.
When he finished preparing, he dialed Terry's number.
Half an hour later, a black van rolled up to the road by the river. The winter wind cut through them; standing that close to the water felt like standing inside a freezer. Terry and his men swore and stamped their feet as they approached the meeting spot.
"What the hell kind of place is this?" one of them grumbled. "We gonna freeze to death."
"Once we get the goods, we're gonna beat the shit out of that punk," Terry snarled, leading the group toward William's marker.
But when they arrived, there was no crate of product — only William, sitting on a stone, shovel in hand, and the eight freshly dug pits gaping in the pale ground. The sight put every veteran thug on alert. Guns were drawn in an instant; Terry and two of his men leveled their muzzles at William while the others scanned their surroundings. Nobody liked walking into an ambush.
"What's this mean? Where are my goods?" Terry barked, voice ugly with suspicion.
"The goods are in the holes," William said, calmly pointing to the pits.
One of Terry's lackeys leaned over and peered inside. Sure enough, each pit held a pile of marijuana plants — the haul was real. Relief flashed across Terry's face, but it was quickly replaced by anger.
"You gotta be kidding me," he growled, stepping toward William. "What the hell are you playing at?"
William shrugged. "If you want to do straight business, then nothing's wrong. But if you think you can double-cross me—"
Terry raised his pistol, sneering. "If what?"
William didn't flinch. "If you plan to rob me, I won't hesitate to bury you in one of these holes."
Silence fell like a hand over the clearing. Then Terry's crew erupted in contemptuous laughter. "You? Kid, thousands of folks want to pack me six feet under — you ain't one of them."
Terry reached out as if to slap William. William caught his wrist with one hand and executed a quick takedown. In a heartbeat Terry was on the ground, wind punched out of him.
"Aaah!" Terry howled. His men pointed rifles and shouted, "Let him go!"
William didn't care about the barrels trained on him. "You really want to play black-on-black?" he asked softly.
Terry looked up, squinting into William's face and saw something that made his grin falter — an odd, electric look in William's eyes. Whether from excitement or nerves, William's body trembled slightly. That hint of danger made the guns feel heavier in his men's hands.
"Go fuck yourself!" Terry snarled, trying to keep his bravado.
William shook his head and, without ceremony, pulled out the pistol Peggy Gallagher had hidden at 2119. He pressed the muzzle against Terry's left hand and said, "Answer me again."
For the first time, the men nearest William noticed he wasn't bluffing. Up close, Terry could see the slight tremor in William's hands — not from fear, William's expression seemed almost wired with a dangerous calm. One of Terry's men cursed under his breath.
William squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked through the cold air. Terry's left hand erupted in a ruin of bone and blood.
"Holy— motherfucker! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Terry screamed, cursing between roars of pain.
"Do something!" he bellowed to his men. "Kill him!"
Before anyone could move, William had another pistol pressed against Terry's temple. The sudden pressure, the cold steel at his head, drove a hot, immediate silence into the group.
The muzzle of the gun burned against Terry's temple, searing his skin.
His crew froze. One looked to another, but not a single man dared pull the trigger.
William's eyes swept over them — cold, calm, and deadly steady. There was no fear in them, no hesitation.
It was clear to every man standing there: if they fired even one shot, William would blow Terry's brains out before he hit the ground — and he wouldn't care if he died doing it.
That kind of certainty was terrifying.
"Boss… maybe just let it go," one of the men whispered.
The trembling in his voice spread through the group.
Terry felt it too — the raw truth that this wasn't a bluff. William wasn't playing "chicken."
He was the kind of man who'd take you with him just to make a point.
Finally, the old gangster cracked.
"Fine! Fine!" Terry snarled through clenched teeth. "Give him the damn money!"
William relaxed his stance and lowered the gun. The tension broke like a snapped wire.
A black duffel bag thudded onto the frozen ground at his feet.
William opened it — neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, crisp and green. Franklin after Franklin staring up at him.
"Smart," William said mildly. "You boys came prepared."
They had clearly planned for both outcomes: if they'd had the upper hand, they'd have robbed him; if not, they'd buy their way out. Pragmatic — if cowardly.
William smiled faintly. He couldn't even bring himself to be surprised.
"Good," he said, zipping the bag closed. "Then our business is concluded.
These marijuana plants are yours now. Congratulations — and remember, I'm a fair trader."
He holstered his weapon and stepped back, still smiling.
Terry lay there panting, his left hand a mangled ruin, while his men scrambled to help him up.
"Boss! You alright?"
William stood a few paces away, the river wind tugging at his coat, watching the scene unfold like a detached spectator.
Then he grinned — a clean, perfect grin full of gleaming white teeth.
It wasn't the grin of a hero.
Nor of a villain.
It was the smile of a man who, in his own mind, had just done honest business.