Victor Langley

The rain hammered the venetian blinds, smearing the neon boulevard across the bloody carpet of the walk-up. Bending over the cold stiff, I spotted the tiny, dark lens drilled into the plaster wall above the radiator—a custom spy-hole wired straight into the building's guts. This wasn't a standard mob hit; it was the work of a ghost who liked to watch. Half a mile away in an east-side parlor, Victor Langley was pouring a glass of scotch, waiting to see if his favorite stray hound would sniff out his trail. I spat my dead match onto the floor and dialed a number I knew he'd let ring, ready for the game.