beautiful.
I thought back on what they had told me, how this gig would play out, the aim of the operation. But when I saw the house, the cars, I had a fucking butler, goals went out the window. It didn’t matter to me then how long I lasted in the desert, all that mattered was that I was about to start living the high life and I would be damned if I wasn’t going to make the most of it.
His name was Nero. Homemade buttermilk was his speciality. I remember the first time he offered it to me, I was sat behind a huge oak desk, my fingertips brushing the fine finish, rocking back in a leather chair it must have taken a hundred cows to make. I had been there two days and he came into my office at 1am with a silver tray, buttermilk in the middle of it. He was wearing silk gloves. Gloves! So that he wouldn’t leave any prints on my silverware. I can remember the exact conversation like it was yesterday.
I hated buttermilk when I was a kid. Disgusting stuff, tasted like shit. But I was Armando Langoustini and my butler was bringing me buttermilk in the middle of the night and all I could think was that they had ratted me out already, that this was a trick, maybe even it was laced with arsenic. Langoustini, a tough guy, the eye and ears of Vegas…this guy drank buttermilk? I had to drink buttermilk?
Life's like buttermilk. Sweet and sour.
He nodded his head and put the tray on my desk. Would you like me to pour it, sir? I said no, my heart jack-hammering and asked him to take it away. His face told me something then that I had never known before, that I had never read in the feds files, that nobody could have predicted. I was supposed to be set, no surprises. But this, it terrified me, I’m not even ashamed to say, because what else would I have to figure out on my own? I'd done my homework, good and proper and now I find out Langoustini was
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