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he was right. I ignore him.
    “So what are you gonna do?” he asks.
    “I’m going to speak to Jimmy Manhattan again, try to find out what the hell’s going on. Either there’s more to this than he’s letting on, or he’s as oblivious as the rest of us about Jackson’s true motivations. Whatever the case, it’s still probably worth having another conversation.”
    “Adrian, make sure you don’t say or do anything you may regret later, okay? Just some friendly advice...”
    “If this is any kind of set up, Josh, the bigger concern is that I’ll do something they regret right now.”

5.
14:57
    JOSH TRACKED DOWN where in the city Jimmy Manhattan spends his time, so I grabbed a bite to eat before heading over there. I’ve changed into a black t-shirt and thrown on my trusty, brown leather jacket. Tucked in the waistband of my jeans at the back is one of my prized possessions—a custom Beretta 92A1 handgun. It holds fifteen, nine-by-nineteen millimeter Parabellum rounds in its magazine. The 92-series is the preferred firearm of the United States Armed Forces. I’ve always preferred this particular variation to the 96-series, which fires the ten-by-twenty-two millimeter, .40 caliber Smith and Wesson rounds. The reason being, the Parabellums have a higher rate of velocity than their Smith and Wesson counterparts, and as a result have a higher penetration depth, meaning they ultimately do more damage.
    It might sound terribly impressive that I’m an information junkie and know all the stats, but when it comes down to it, I just want to make the biggest bang.
    The barrel is metallic silver, as are the outer edges of the butt. On either side of the grip is an ebony plate with a downward-pointing pentagram engraved in silver. I’ve always liked the moniker of Adrian Hell that I inadvertently acquired several years ago, and I try to play on it as much as I can. Image and reputation is everything in this business and having an expensive, customized handgun with the Sigil of Baphomet on it really helps both. I actually have two and usually when I’m on a job, I wear them both in a custom-made holster at the small of my back. The barrels touch and the butts point out forming a T-shape which I can easily hide beneath whatever top I’m wearing. I’m only taking one with me to meet Manhattan as a precaution. I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it, as the saying goes.
    Manhattan works out of one of Pellaggio’s nightclubs, called The Pit. It’s on the fringe of the city center, surrounded by other popular nighttime destinations. From what Josh has told me, it’s your typical hotspot for neon lights, hot girls, and guys looking to either deal drugs or get laid.
    I’m not exactly worried about any security he might have there with him. A nightclub won't be open for business in the middle of the day, so any staff that’s there will be minimal and probably cleaners. Plus, I’ve already met two of his bodyguards and we all know they won’t be of any use to him.
    But I’m not going looking for a fight—I just want some answers. From what I’ve put together about this whole thing so far, there’s definitely more to it than what Manhattan told me. I intend to ask him, quite politely, if he’s trying to set me up in some way for some reason, or if he’s just plain stupid.
    There’s a polite way of asking that, right?
    I’m walking around the three square blocks of the city that make up the Neon district. The streets have a variety of bars and clubs running down each side, separated every now and then by a hotel or fast food restaurant. I can well imagine what this place looks like at night.
    The Pit is at the end of second block, with the main entrance diagonal on the street corner, facing north-west toward the crossroads. The building itself covers a quarter of the streets running both south and east of the block. Above the small alcove of the entrance is a neon sign that advertises the