Page 98 of The Butterfly Killer

He turned to walk toward the table.

Sanchez sputtered. “W-Wait! My chair? But I put a hundred-fifty grand deposit for it months ago!”

Cortez waved Sanchez away like he was nothing more than a buzzing fly. “Leo, escort Sanchez out.”

A burly man who towered over most of the men of the group, came out from the shadows like ink. He grabbed Sanchez by the arm and began to drag him away.

Sanchez understood quickly there would be no negotiating. He’d been kicked out. It was better for him and what was left of his dignity to leave quietly.

Burns didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction on his face. He leaned into it and gave a long sigh.

“Thank you, Mr. Cortez.”

He didn’t know where Sanchez’s seat was or if there was a seating chart in the first place. He didn’t bother asking either. He pulled out the chair next to Cortez.

“Do you mind if I sit?” He asked but didn’t wait for an answer. He plopped down and immediately waved for the girl serving drinks.

She brought him over a glass of something he didn’t ask about. He coyly sipped it as the other men started to sit down, including Mercer who took the seat on his right.

“Should I call you Mr. Mercer?” Cortez picked up his own drink that had appeared beside him without him saying or lifting a finger.

Burns put on a sweet smile and leaned his elbow on the table. “Mrs. Mercer will suffice.”

That actually got a twitch out Cortez. It was just a slight movement from the corner of his mouth, but it was enough. Burns was slowly breaking into the man’s walls and he might not even know it.

The young girl serving the drinks hovered by Cortez’s shoulder. Burns tried to make it less obvious he was looking at her. Cortez finally acknowledged her. She bent down and whispered something in his ear. He nodded.

Again, Burns saw something in his expression. It was gone in a fleeting second but he knew he’d seen it there.

The girl went back to her table where she continued to mix drinks. Burns watched her, interest piqued, but he didn’t know if what he was feeling amounted to anything at all.

The rest of the men had taken their seats around the table. The man acting as the broker dealt out the cards and then the starting bets. The chips had already been bought before they arrived. Burns had wanted to ask how much Mercer had put into the starting pot, but he decided it didn’t matter. It was Mercer’s money and if he wanted to spend it on this case, Burns wasn’t going to stop him. And if Burns had that kind of money to be flaunting during a case like this? Yeah, he would probably being doing the same thing.

The dealer dealt Burns his cards. He gave the man a sweet smile, putting on that boy next door character. He played quizzical as he looked at the cards. His face said they were foreign intestines and that he didn’t understand what he was holding.

This could work out for him in two ways. Either the men would think he had nothing or they would think he had something but wouldn’t know what to do with it. He might even lose his edge in the game if he got too bet or hand happy.

Burns took his time analyzing the cards though he only needed a second. After a long period, he slowly sat them down. He lazily took his drink, sipping as if he had no real motivation in this game. This gave him the opportunity to look around the table and gage the mens’ faces.

They were good. Better than the small fries Burns used to play against in college.

“Mr. Mercer, your father is on the city council?” A man smoking a cigar sitting across from Mercer asked. He puffed smoke from his mouth as he slid a couple chips into the pile in the center of the table.

Norman Brightman. He owned three bank franchises which monopolized the four state area. He hadn’t built the business himself of course. His great-grandfather had done all the work and he was reaping all the benefits.

“He is,” Mercer replied without divulging anymore information. He gave crumbs when these vultures were craving entire slices.

“Would I be wrong in assuming you don’t share your father’s views?” Brightman eyed Burns.

Mercer turned his cards over, setting them face-down on the table. His fingers tapped over them. “You would be right. I think having a husband would be evidence enough of that.”

That garnered snickers from the rest of the room. Brightman joined in. Smoke came out of his nose.

“What about the otherpassionshe has? He’s been very frank about dealing with the corruption within the city and the state.”

Mercer’s father was anti-abortion, anti-trans, anti-gay, and anti everything including the corruption tearing through the city. Before the cartel, it was the KKK, and before the KKK it was highway robbers. In all of the city’s history, there hadn’t been a time when it wasn’t plagued with someone power-hungry.

Mercer let his silence linger. The table went around, folding or raising.

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