Page 1 of Sip
Abead of black hot liquid drips from the rim and splashes against the scratched wood. The drop blends into the dark grain, barely visible in the ebony hues. Yet the bartender swiftly wipes up the splatter and apologizes for the mess. With a shaky hand, Hector tucks the white cloth back into his apron pocket. His gaze flicks to the corpses splayed across the floor behind me for the third time since I claimed this stool. No wonder he keeps spilling coffee every time he tops me off to keep my drink piping hot.
Although, since I would assume most people who come here order booze, him making a fresh pot for me is most appreciated. I tell him so before I bring the mug to my mouth and inhale another long drink.
“Sure thing, Mr. King.”
A squish of bloody flesh slapping against the tile squelches in the otherwise quiet bar. I glance in the mirror hanging above the rows of bottles in front of me. One of the idiots survived and attempts to roll over. Kind of difficult to maneuver with missing fingers and a slug to the gut. After struggling for a few seconds, he gives up and slumps against a toppled chair.
That’s why I like sawed off shot guns for up close and personal discussions like these. They’re messy and destructive. One pump into a guy’s palm and his entire hand virtually rips apart. Soon enough he’ll bleed out from the bullet in his belly, so we won’t have to listen to him moan much longer.
I don’t mind the gore but obviously Hector does with the frown lining his face. I understand. He’s not used to violence since this is supposed to be a neutral place— guns checked at the door.
However, Hector’s a good sport about me violating the rules. Never attempts to reprimand or dissuade me. He just keeps cleaning, wiping the already spotless counter over and over. Until footsteps pound outside on the old concrete steps, stopping in front of the heavy door. Voices mutter in Italian, bitching about the downpour and why doesn’t someone put up a damn overhang and don’t they know there’s fucking mud everywhere. Jesus Christ. If that’s how delicate they are, they’re really going to hate the mess in here.
Hector’s shoes scuff against the floor as he scrambles backward, bumping his hip hard against the metal sink although he doesn’t seem to notice. Huddled in the doorway to the kitchen, he glues his focus to the entrance. I guess that’s all the coffee I’m going to get today. Fuck it then. I’d better finish while my drink’s still warm.
More shouting and swearing echoes in the room as Gian Milano and his two men step inside and catch sight of the massacre. The bodyguards rush toward me, weapons drawn as if they intend to use them. One points his Glock to my temple, while the other aims at my lower back not quite touching my suit. I ignore them and their pussy antics. Neither of them will shoot me. Too fearful to start a war they nor their boss want, both guys look to Milano for orders.
He taps the tip of his umbrella between his drenched dress shoes and water droplets deluge the porcelain from the black fabric. Poor Hector. His cleaning never seems to end.
“What can I do for you Mr. King?”
Milano attempts to sound tough— pretends to be unbothered by the destruction surrounding us. The twitch in his cheek gives away his fear. I smile, gracious and cordial, and set my empty mug back on the bar. “You can tell your bitches to put their guns down unless you need me to take care of them for you.”
Rather than fear him, I leave the inference open as to whatI’lldo if they don’t comply.
Quick to nod, he acquiesces to my request in a heartbeat. Once they stand down, I slowly swivel my seat to face him. I keep my hands folded together with my forearms resting on my parted thighs. No need to imply any violence so we can talk like adults. “Your payment is late. I’m giving you a heads up to take care of the matter before my brother hikes the interest rate another ten percent.”
His mouth blows wide before he remembers himself, that he fancies himself a tough guy and smacks his lips shut. Shifting his weight to the other foot, he prepares his rebuttal. “I’ll have it by the end of the week.”
I shake my head from his lie. “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”
Nothing he says or does gives away the truth. But I know he doesn’t have the money. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He’s in way over his bald damp head. I enjoy watching him squirm under his coat. The hamsters in his brain run on overdrive to come up with an answer.
Finally, he nods furiously and leans close enough I can smell the garlic on his breath from his lunch.
“I…I have a daughter.”
Sick bastard. I grab his lapels and lift his flabby body off the ground. “The fuck? You’re whoring out your own child?”
He has the audacity to act offended and struggles against my grip while his goons stand helpless. They know better.
“No! Of course not! No! I meant a partnership. A joining of families.”
“You want your daughter on her back for me to save your sorry ass?”
Sweat drips down his cheeks, and he twists his head side to side. “I-I mean…meant for your brother. He’s put out feelers…for a wife…since his died…”
Not me. No man would want me to touch a woman he loves. I can’t blame him.
I’m not insulted but I am pissed. Shane hasn’t said a word to me about an arranged marriage. I school my expression. This fucker doesn’t need to know I’m surprised by my brother’s idea.
“She’s a good girl. A virgin. Shane would be lucky to have her.”
Doubtful. Tired of his praise for a person he’s willing to give away too easily, I drop him and grin when he yelps after hitting the floor. When his guards race to help him up, I flip up my palm. Instantly, they submit to my command and leave him where he lays. So damn obedient, I want to pet their greasy heads like the good dogs they are.
Milano deserves to be at my feet so I keep him there. “We’ll get back to you with arrangements for the girl. The offer doesn’t buy you any additional time. I advise you to get your cash or your affairs in order.”
Scarlet bursts on his face with veins popping out on his forehead and fat neck. “You can’t do that! You don’t get both.”
