Page 10 of Hearts Held
For example, having a nice luncheon, then taking the London Order to a meeting within the massage parlor, then offering “free” massages to the gentlemen who came to discuss business. The business of trading off liquor and firearms.
Once we have finished business, I stick a couple of them in some rooms together and they share a massage. Sometimes it escalates, but every time, they relay business details. Without them realizing it, I either have doubled pictures, small decorative doubled mirrors, or the high rafters which I utilize to gather intel. These cocky bastards always talk after the meetings, thinking no one is listening and that my massage girls only speak Mandarin or Russian. Luckily the meeting went well, and no one needed to get their ass beat today.
The London Order will take our trade and we will proceed meeting on a monthly basis.
I also use similar tactics within my townhomes, apartment complexes and the Morris Horn Hotel, when affiliated individuals of interest stay in them and I needto know what we are working with. The small, doubled pictures and mirrors strongly benefit my need of control.
I take in a deep breath, smelling the welding factory off in the distance, and slowly exhale. Then, realizing my craving for a cigarette is making my irritations rise, I reach for the lighter and cigarette within my coat pocket. I think of my next chore on the never-ending list of shit-to-do, the Den.
I need to make sure everything is in order.
Unfortunately, someone has been stealing from the pub, and tomorrow I need to look over the books with my brother Kenneth. Though tonight I will pay a visit, observe the surroundings and see if I can spot anything.
Kenneth handles the books for the family and is the smartest of us all. He doesn’t get his hands dirty unless he absolutely has too. He was also a captain in the war, worked in battlefield logistics, while my dumb ass was on the battlefield. He is the only one who truly has any inclination of what my head may be going through after the war, but he was also safe behind a bunker while I was wrapped in barbed wire.
As I arrive to the back street of our family pub, the Den, I nod to the guards, Carl and Gerhardt, at the side door. They are dressed in all black, with tactical clothing and a small arsenal underneath their wool coats.
The Den is more than just a pub. It also has an underground tunnel, interconnected with our other establishments for easy monitoring and access. The back of the building has a spiral staircase that heads up to the third floor, all back behind a brick wall that the public knows nothing about. Small offices lie behind this portion of the building, as well as storage for anything we may need. My favorite features are the doubled mirrors that allow me to watch the barkeeps and patrons on each floor. The first two floors are for patrons and the third is for special events or meetings.
The town knows not to go up there.
I take note of the stock we have in the back and carefully count what’s in the safe. Afterward, I walk through the corridor and shut the door behind me to gaze out the double-sided mirrors overlooking the bar.
It appears to be a normal night. Patrons are laughing, smiling and singing along with the piano player. My pub keeps, the twins, Lyle and Lloyd, are putting onan act. Entertaining customers left and right, serving drinks while moving faster than some of the racehorses we keep.
It’s a pity that someone feels the need to steal from us. To be honest, if they asked for money we would probably donate it to them—we look out for our community, we take care of our people, our tribe. I’ll address the issue and who it is with Kenneth tomorrow.
I monitor the bar and notice Lloyd leaving his post to come toward the back.
As he walks through the back door to grab clean glasses from the kitchen, he eyes me standing by the mirror. He flashes that crooked old smile as his glinting silver hair shines in the low-lit kitchen.
“Eh, boss! ’Ow ya doing? Am I livin’ up to ya standards?” He puffs out his chest as he grasps two glasses in either hand.
I start walking in his direction. “Oi, of course you are.” I pat him on the shoulder and look toward Lyle. “How’s your brother doing? I know he was getting over some stress and being sick, eh?”
Lloyd shrugs. “Ah, thanks, boss. He is doing real well actually. The doctor you sent over ’elpedhim much! I won’t tell no one yer actually a big softy.” He winks at me and starts to head back toward the pub, then stops before entering. “You catch the bastard who’s stealing from us?” His facial expression changes from playful to serious.
That’s one thing I love about the twins: they are loyal to the core for us Aftons. They were my father’s best mates and luckily I inherited their loyalty.
“I think I have. I’ll be dealing with them tomorrow. You enjoy your night and don’t worry about the bastard.” I nod toward him, crossing my arms. “You need any help with more glasses?”
He chuffs at me, “Boss, I’m glad you humble yourself, but I’m not gonna ask you ta do grunt work by bringing out clean glasses.”
I wave him away as I turn to gather more clean glasses from the end of the counter. Clint, the young kitchen hand, is scrubbing away in the sink, focused on the task at hand. He is still so young and innocent at fifteen years of age. Mother begged us to give him a job before he could turn to stealing and doing small crimes, after his father passed away in the war. I couldn’t say no to her.Figured small jobs in the kitchen wouldn’t be difficult and not as dangerous as others.
“Keep up the good work, Clint,” I murmur as he startles and apologizes for not noticing I had arrived.
Lloyd laughs abruptly. “Oh, Clint, you’re gonna make me drop these glasses, mate. God love ya, boy!”
Before I grab more glasses, I shove ten pounds into the side pocket of Clint’s shirt pocket and whisper, “Don’t tell Lloyd you’re the hardest-workin’ man here,” then take several glasses toward the bar.
“Th-thank ya, sir!” Clint spurts out, then continues his work with an ear-to-ear smile.
The twins, Lloyd and Lyle, have become father figures to Clint, and luckily they have taken to him. As I walk into the bar, the noise of talking and laughter assaults my ears.
Though I could see the commotion from the double mirrors, they dull the noise of the environment.
I still hate large gatherings; they make my skin crawl and I find myself to be on edge. As I set the glasses near Lyle and Lloyd, a loud crash erupts from one side of the counter. A patron has drunkenly lost their glass to the floor and shoutserupt.
