Lloyd's

    Since he was a kid Walter had heard rumors about a place in city that was available only to a select few, a place where you would be served the finest steaks and drink top shelf liquor, a place that might be called Lloyd’s. 

    They said access was only by invitation of a member. There was no listing in the phone book and no name at the entrance.

    Supposedly, the place was located in an industrial section of the city near the docks. It had an unmarked steel door in a construction-grade brick wall. Inside the place was all brass and dark oak with heavy leather furniture thick carpeting. A dozen copies of the Wall Street Journal were purportedly delivered daily for the convenience of the wealthy gentlemen who frequented the establishment.

    Walter had never been invited and didn’t know where it was, or if it even existed for that matter. Not a high-roller he never expected to experience the place, not even as a fly on the wall.

    Then, out of the blue, a surprise invitation from the police chief himself. It couldn’t have come at a better time.  Walter had recently been hassled by some goons who could guarantee his store would be safe if he paid a guy named Vinny $300 every Friday. Walter called the police who were quite interested and Walter figured the chief wanted to discuss a plan to trap the extortionists.

    The ribeye was an inch and half thick, charred on the outside with a juicy pink middle. The martini was very dry the service outstanding.
When they finished eating Chief Caccitore said, “Walt, old buddy, there’s a special room in the basement. Come down with me. Someone you need to meet.”

    “Hello, Walter,” Vinny said, just before he pulled the trigger.