One-Way Glass

Glenn stared through the one-way glass into the dull gray room lit only by a single bulb suspended over the steel table. He paced back and forth, never dropping his gaze from the man. His brow furrowed as he wrung his hands, his elbows tucked tight against his sides.

            Gordon reclined in the folding chair.  His tailored suit could not keep his sides from spilling around the chair that creaked under his weight. On his chest rested a crucifix on a golden chain. He drummed his fingers on the table. His eyes tracked back and forth with the muffled sound of footsteps on the other side of the mirror that concealed the agent. A ghost of a smile rested on his lips.

            Glenn straightened his clip-on tie and let out a deep sigh as he opened the door.  He walked to the seat across the table from Gordon and sat down. “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Malley,” he said with the faintest tremble in his voice. “I know your time is valuable, so I won’t waste it. Where is the painting?”

            “Art is all around us, agent. You have but to look,” Gordon said, gesturing broadly around the room.

            “The Van Gogh, The Church at Auvers. We’ve got a dozen people pointing their fingers at your organization. We know you’ve got something to do with this.”

            “Oh, you know I heard about that. Cryin’ shame that. But my boys got nothin’ to do with it.”

            “If your boys have nothing to do with it then you’ve got more problems than the feds breathing down your neck. Another crew running something like this on your turf?  Sounds like you got a problem of respect,” Glenn said. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

            Gordon’s sausage-like fingers stopped drumming on the worn tabletop. The smile disappeared from his mouth. “Aint no dope in New York dumb enough to forget why my boys take care of the quarter.”

            Glenn’s feet shifted on the floor as he leaned toward Gordon, resting his elbows on the table. “Which one is it, O’Malley? No one dumb enough to cross you? Or your boys keeping their hands clean?” Glenn asked. The corner of his mouth twitched with a smile.

            Gordon’s nostrils flared and he squinted at the agent. His fingers curled into a doughy fist on the table. He breathed deeply. His feet shifted on the floor, scraping across the grit of the concrete floor.

            “Or have some of your boys taken it upon themselves without your say?” Glenn said. “Maybe even trying to keep you from getting your due?”

            “My boys know the consequences for going against me. Any problem in my organization got nothin’ to do with you,” Gordon said, his jaw tightening beneath his jowls.

            “So, your boys are involved,” Glenn said, leaning back in his seat.

            “I think we’re done here,” Gordon said as he stood up. He patted the wrinkles out of his jacket before walking to the door.

            “You’ll hear from us soon,” Glenn said, looking over his shoulder, just before the door thudded shut.

            As Gordon walked out of the interrogation booth’s antechamber his eyes locked on Glenn. Glenn’s fingers drummed the table, and a smile danced on his eyes, betraying his stoic visage. Gordon’s brow furrowed as he looked away from the one-way glass.