‘I’ll do you one better,’ Gates said. ‘I’ve got Hennessy Paradis Cognac. Want some?’
Over a thousand a bottle, Slater noted.
King nodded. Gates’ taste was impeccable. King had a bottle at home.
‘On the house,’ Gates said.
King waved a hand dismissively. ‘No way.’
Gates leered. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just spend generously elsewhere.’
King cast a long forced gaze around the room. ‘That won’t be hard.’
Slater silently gave his approval.
Thought, Thanks for not beating his brains in yet.
He could see King thinking, No problem. You’re the one I’m concerned about.
Gates turned back and said, ‘And for you?’
Slater said, ‘Water.’
King eyed him.
Gates said, ‘You’re a joker.’
Slater said, ‘I don’t drink. You got a problem?’
A morsel of a spark flared behind Gates’ eyes.
Slater bristled. He didn’t let anything show, maintaining the unthreatening demeanour, but the animalistic part of him flared to life. He sized up every fibre of Gates’ physicality. Figured if it came to it, he’d simply headbutt the guy square in the face, shattering his nose, then drop low and smash an elbow into his gut, crushing the wind out of him, and as he folded over smack an open palm down on the back of his skull hard enough to put him out so he crumpled face-first into the floor, doing more damage to the compromised nose.
He only needed the tiniest excuse to do it.
But Gates recalculated and his aggression disappeared. He was more intelligent than Slater thought. This had to be new territory — a customer who didn’t take shit, wasn’t ashamed of himself, didn’t roll over and beg for Gates’ services. Gates soaked it all in, but probably remembered the eight-figure net worth King had hinted at, and instead opted for calm. He could massage his ego by kicking them out, but if there was enough money in it...
Gates said, ‘No problem here.’
He flashed a sinister smile.
Slater said, ‘That’s good.’
‘Find a seat,’ Gates said. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’
They stood in a tight makeshift triangle for a moment too long. Gates couldn’t fully quash his ego. It was still there, screaming for an outlet, but he kept it at bay.
King was the first to move. He turned and headed for the nearest empty booth. Slater followed. Neither of them looked back, but Slater felt Gates’ wide eyes boring into him.
They sat down, dragging their suit pants across the cheap vinyl.
King muttered, ‘Risky.’
Slater said, ‘We need him to know we’re not pushovers. We’re going to make demands later.’
‘Are we?’
A girl dropped into the booth alongside Slater. They couldn’t have been sitting down for more than fifteen seconds. She’d made a beeline for them. She was maybe sixteen, but looked younger. Curly brown hair framed a face with full lips and green eyes. Her outfit — schoolgirl, just like the rest of them — was beyond revealing. Breasts pushed up, skirt practically ending at her hips, faux school shirt torn to expose her midriff.
She eyed them one by one and said, ‘What are your names?’
Slater smiled at her. ‘You first.’
‘I’m Melanie.’
14
King didn’t react, but he eyed Slater.
Making sure the recognition was there.
It was.
King leant forward. ‘How’s your night been, Melanie?’
‘Better now,’ she said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You want us to compliment ourselves?’
She laughed. It was hilariously forced. ‘I could do that, if you’d like. But I’d say the two of you get it enough.’
A Hispanic bartender — same nationality as Gates if King had to guess — came over and put a tumbler down in front of Slater with two fingers of neat brown liquid within. Mistaking Slater for the one who’d ordered a drink. The guy said, ‘Enjoy.’
Slater didn’t touch it.
King was impressed.
He knew Slater hadn’t sipped alcohol since that eventful night all those months ago in New York City. Manhattan went dark, and so did Slater’s desire to suppress his pain. He’d been a happier man ever since. King had wondered whether he’d forfeit the streak of sobriety for the sake of appearances.
King figured he’d take that particular temptation away.
He reached out, picked up the tumbler, and said, ‘Damn, that looks good.’
He sipped.
It was.
Melanie said, ‘So what brings the two of you here?’
‘You,’ Slater said, openly ogling.
She didn’t seem to mind. She batted her eyelashes. ‘Oh?’
‘You seemed interested when you came over here,’ Slater said. ‘I thought I’d return the favour.’
‘A smooth talker,’ she said. ‘I like that. Want me to dance for you? I don’t usually start so fast, but … I don’t know … there’s something about you.’
She eyed the closest stripper pole.
Slater said, ‘How about you stay right here?’
She said, ‘I’d like that,’ then added, ‘but…’
She stuck her rear in the air as she levered out of the booth. ‘First I need a drink. You sure you don’t want anything?’
‘I already asked for water.’
She pouted. ‘You’re no fun.’
Slater hunched forward. ‘I’m a lot of fun. Trust me.’
‘I do.’
She put a hand on his shoulder, kept it there for far longer than necessary, then breezed away.
When she was gone, King scanned the room for Gates, but he’d disappeared into a back room.
King said, ‘You’re a natural at this, huh?’
Through gritted teeth, Slater muttered, ‘I’m going to smash Gates’ fucking skull in as soon as I get the chance.’
‘I didn’t need to warn you before this, did I? You’re nailing it.’
‘If you think I can’t control myself, then you don’t know me.’
‘Maybe I know the old you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘How are we playing this?’
But Melanie was back in moments, tersely ending their conversation. The bartender must have had her drink ready. It was a Long Island Iced Tea, loaded with a variety of spirits, and maybe sprinkled with something extra to make her … open to new experiences.
She sucked down a third of it through a curly straw and said, ‘So let’s cut the shit, huh?’
King raised an eyebrow.
She said, ‘The two of you don’t mess around. How’d you like to skip the hour of small-talk?’
King could feel Armando Gates speaking through her. Gates must have whispered in her ear on the way out, conveying everything he
