Page 94 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

“Hey, hon. How’s your job going?”

“Good. But I’ve got another day, at least. Then I think I’ll finally be off it.”

“That’s great. Well, I have some exciting news of my own.”

“Yeah, what’s that, babe?”

“I have an interview on Monday for an internship at the Opera House.”

“No, shit? That’s great, babe, and I should be back in time to celebrate with you after they offer it to you.”

“God, I hope so.”

“I know so.”

***

It's noon on Monday when I roll the truck to a stop and park on the road outside Roscoe’s restaurant. I’ve got a clear view of the table where Mickey Patterson always sits. I shift into park and leave the engine idling.

Cole lifts a chin at me. “You’re coming with us.”

I don’t say a word, but inside I’m screaming, what? I nod obediently and turn the truck off.

“I may need you for the details,” Cole explains.

I’m not sure what the hell he means, but I know better than to question it. I climb from the truck. My hands go to the edges of my cut, wondering if we want to make it known to everyone who we are or keep it on the down low. “Should I…?”

Cole’s gaze slides over the leather as if he’s contemplating, then his eyes harden. “Cuts on.”

Crash and I both nod.

Through the window, Patterson is visible, being seated in his usual spot.

“He’s here.” I tilt my head toward the table.

Cole and Crash peer through the glass. “Let’s join our new friend, then.”

I hold open the door, and Cole and Crash both lead the way, their heavy boots scuffing across the polished floor. They look intimidating and definitely out of place. The maître d’ glances up to greet us, but his eyes widen as they take in the broad-shouldered men in leather cuts, club patches visible to all.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. We have a dress code here. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to seat you.”

Cole smirks. “We’re here for a meeting with Assemblyman Patterson. We’re going to join him at his table. You won’t be stopping us, but I’d love to see you try.”

Cole pushes past the man, whose mouth drops open.

Crash leans over as he moves past, his eyes dropping to the maître d’s hand where it rests on top of the phone. “I wouldn’t call the police. A shootout wouldn’t do well for business, and we’ll only be a few minutes.”

The man seems unsure of what to do but holds off on picking up the phone. Instead, he decides to run behind us.

“Mr. Patterson, I am so sorry. These”—he looks over at us as if trying to come up with a word to describe the crew—“men say they have a meeting with you.”

Patterson’s eyes run over the leather cuts on our backs, and his spoon clatters in his soup bowl. “Um, yes. Thank you, Thomas.”

Cole grins. “Yeah, thanks, Thomas. That will be all.”

Thomas’s jaw tightens, but he spins and stalks away.

Cole sits across from Patterson, taking his focus, while Crash and I sit on either side.

---