Consequences and choices

We followed the big black car to a part of Houston I'd never been to before. I had vague thoughts that maybe I should be paying attention to where we were, just in case I had to find my way back on my own -- after all, who knew what was going to happen -- but I was only a little bit sure I'd be able to find my way back to I-610.

The car pulled up in front of a huge house, a mansion really; not exactly what I was expecting. I'd been picturing some kind of condemned building with druggies laying around on the sidewalk outside and hookers on the corner. This place looked straight out of Architectural Digest, or an episode of one of those reality shows about rich people. We followed the driveway past the circular area near the front door and the fountain in its center. We drove around the side of the house past a sunroom that even in the dark I could see was full of green plants and gorgeous flowers. We parked in front of a five car garage and got out of the car. One of the thugs motioned for us to follow and we did, through a back door, into a commercial-grade kitchen and through a back hallway to room that must have taken up a good third of the bottom floor of the house, if not half.

The room was dotted with poker tables. I counted five, but only two were being used at the moment; most of the people around the poker tables looked strung-out, worried, sweaty and like they hadn't slept in a really long time. A wet bar stood at one end of the room, a bored-looking bartender behind it. Good grief; these people had their own personal bartender! Some model-like women sat on bar stools watching the room and sipping cocktails, their dresses barely covering...well, anything. A small group of people sat just opposite the bar on some couches. They looked a little spaced out, and I realized that a few weeks ago, that's probably where I could have found Pete. Drugged out on one of those couches, or losing his shirt at one of the tables. My stomach gave a sickening lurch.

"Peter." a smooth, deep voice with a slight Russian accent came from one of the tables. I turned to see a man with iron gray hair and nearly black eyes stand and walk toward us. He looked to be in his 50s, and was dressed in black dress pants and a thin gray sweater. Even I could tell his clothes had cost more than my current car.

"You brought friends," he said. "They are perhaps not so good of friends since they want to watch you die."

My head spun and I clutched Paul's arm to steady myself.

"Actually," John said, stepping forward. "I've come to work out a deal."