He’d been asked to wait outside the front of the theatre, and the moment he stepped from the stage door area, a familiar looking limousine parked at the curb, almost as if it had been lurking. Welly’s driver, a man dressed in black named Markson, was waiting beside the door. That’s when the back tinted window powered down to show a disembodied version of Wellington Calloway’s head. He waved Jimmy over.
“Where are we going?”
“I have a late appointment. Thought you wouldn’t mind tagging along for a bit. Unless you have plans.”
“I’m standing in front of a darkened theatre at midnight. Think I’m free.”
Jimmy got in, where he sat opposite Welly in the spacious back of the limo.
“Drink?”
“Am I on duty?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes. Which means you do as I say, and I say you join me.”
Welly served
