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Chapter 6
Castor
My black-on-black Range Rover revs as I swerve between traffic, heading south on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Marco sits with an assault rifle in the back seat, ducking even though my windows are tinted almost black.
One look in the rearview mirror shows a man with bloodshot eyes, red nostrils, and an evil smile.
My boy is a sick puppy, which is exactly what I need watching my back.
We get off our exit and make a hard right near an underpass construction zone. The car bounces as I swerve it off the street and onto a dirt-road where a tuned-up Honda Accord idles. There’re two ‘men’ with funky off-colored hair trying to look tough leaning on their car. Young idiots. Twenty-two, tops. A part of me wants to teach them a lesson about the underworld, but the inner businessman says to ignore their attitude and focus on the prize.
I pull up with the window rolled down and tap my five rings on the panel. “Heads up, dipshits.”
They both lazily kick off their cars and strut up toward the window.
“Right there is fine.” I hold my hand out, and they obey. “You know why I’m here, personally?”
“Yeah, son. To pay up,” the dumber of the two snaps.
Marco snickers behind me. “Oh, just give me the word, Castor.”
“You delivered ten Teslas and two Hondas to the lot. Something not clicking in that thick head? Hair-dye seep into your fucking brain?”
The dumb one puckers his lips.
“Our agreement was eleven and five. You don’t say boo, you don’t give a heads up that you’ll be short. You just show up here with your hands out, waiting for cash.” I stare at them, warning them to be careful before they open their mouths again.
They take a beat, side-eyeing one another.
The one with a green mohawk decides to speak. Fang, they call him. The smarter of the two, for sure.
“We had a mishap with one of the deliveries—”
“Sounds like you had two mishaps. They came from different manufacturers,” my tone darkens. “Careful with the details. I’m keen to them.”
Fang’s temple starts to shine. He’s perspiring. “I didn’t want to bog you down with the particulars.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t ask. But this is our first job together. My instincts told me not to trust two overconfident programming cucks who could barely hold a conversation. Sad to think I was right. And to think you were recommended in high esteem.”
“Hey, Bullion. Sir.” The man with orange hair down to his shoulders steps up. “It wasn’t our fault. We got screwed—”
“Listen to me carefully. I’m going to give you a quick lesson in business, and I’m only going to say this once. When you promise something, and we shake on it, it’s your responsibility to deliver. The internal qualms, employees who fuck you over, whatever… None of that is my concern. Only the end result. Understand?”
Fang holds up his arm for his friend to shut up. “We understand, Bull.”
“That’s not enough, unfortunately. This is going to be a hard lesson, but you’re only getting half-payment today.”
“What?” Orange takes another step, and I open the car door threateningly, causing them both to back up and put their hands to their hidden weapons.
The back window slowly rolls down, and Marco leans a semi-automatic M4A1 out the back window.
“One more move and I’ll make you both a Van Gogh painting,” I say. “We’ll have green, orange, and red.” I step out, fixing my blazer.
Now they’re quivering, foreheads shining with beads of nervous sweat.
“I know your boy has a gun trained on me in the back seat,” I say. “And you should know I have the addresses of your parents, your brothers, and all your little hideouts. So tell him to stand down, now,” I grumble.
Fang motions for the hidden man in the car to lower the gun.
