Page 2 of Masked
It isn’t. It’s stale and boring.
So, from time to time, I roll the dice. Level the playing field a little. Test the limits of the man sitting opposite me. See if they have what it takes to do anything for survival.
“They’re not usually so loud,” he’s quivering. It rings out on his voice. I’m sure I’d see him shaking like a leaf if I turned around. “Margaret’s in a bit of a panic over your visit, is all.”
“You told her you’d take care of it?” Spinning on my heels, I face him squarely. He hasn’t moved from his chair. Didn’t loosen his wrists and reach for the revolver. How disappointing. “That we were having a pleasant conversation downstairs. That you’d square me off with promises of payment and I’d be satisfied?”
“Yes.” Shame floods his face. Turns him redder than a cherry tomato.
“Then why the panic?” I walk over, set his drink on the table, and collect my gun.
“Yo—” He clears his throat. Takes a moment to consider his words. “It was noisy when the restaurant cleared out. She probably heard it and?—”
“Thinks I’m going to kill you.” I cut in before he can dress it up in nicer words. No more lies and sugarcoating. We don’t have all night to play this game.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s her lucky day.” I lift the glass up to his mouth and let him drink to half. What he doesn’t want after the first sip, spills off his face and onto his shirt. “You’re not going to die.”
“I’m not?” Relief replaces his red-faced regret.
“I’ll never understand that reaction. The implication of death drives men like you to pay me, sure. But what kind of business would I be running if I killed all my clientele before they could pay me?”
He gulps, noticing the shift in my tone. Momentary playfulness, replaced by the severity that brought me here.
“Give a dead-beat, down on his luck dock worker four grand? I won’t be crying if I lose it.” I tuck the pistol into my pocket and crack my knuckles. “Do it for ten, twenty, a hundred of ‘em? That’s a lot more than a drop in the bucket. If I iced every one of you who couldn’t pay me back on time, before long, I’d be where you are now. Asking handouts from men I shouldn’t be fucking with.”
I take a few steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. Each one making him shrink further in fear.
“So, no, you’re not going to die tonight.” I grab his shirt and tie in a fist. “But there are a lot worse things in life than death. Hurting being rather high on that list.”
“Wha—”
I cut him off with a blow to the temple. His eyes gloss over, stunned by the impact. Second strike connects with the bridge of his nose. Something cracks against my knuckle. Third and fourth open the flood gates, and a stream of red gushes from his nostrils and a cut on his lip.
Letting the pain and reality of his situation set in, I grab him by the scruff of the neck. His whimpering’s back, though this time it isn’t out of fear of dying. It’s because my message is starting to set in.
By the end of tonight, he’ll be begging for death instead of another round with me.
“I’ve been patient, Johnny boy. Mighty patient,” I squeeze his neck, feeling the fat contort and twist between my fingers. My free hand waggles a finger in front of his nose. His eyes barely keep up with its movement.
His head lazily shifts away from my finger, his dullard stare meeting mine. “I understand, Rickon.” Defeated, distraught, on the verge of collapse.
“Do you?” I hit him again. This time a slap, hard enough to make his jowls jiggle. If this weren’t the serious bit, I would’ve chuckled. “’cause soon enough, your luck’s gonna run out. And your wife’s screeching won’t come from whatmighthappen. It’ll be at the coroner’s side while he hauls your fat ass out of here in a body bag.”
The slap woke him up just in time to hear my threat and take it in. No minced words. Sometimes, that’s the way it has to go.
“Next week. I won’t let you down,” he says.
“Next week it is.” I release him.
But before I get my chance to leave, a bell above the restaurant’s door notifies me that someone has entered. No look needed, I draw the .38 Special, and train it on whoever entered. Sure, I can’t shoot it, lest I want my hand blown off in the process, but I find the threat is often enough to deter even the goodest of Samaritans.
A yelp of fear from a female voice makes me regret my decision to draw. Johnny, for all his crimes against common sense, deserves this. His wife, does not.
Shit.
I lower the gun and face the woman.
