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“Some folks don’ appreciate things like dat. I wou’n’t show nobody else.”
“Again, it’s just curiosity.”
“I’m gon’ go now. If Mr. Bergeron asks why I din’ finish, just … please tell him I got da mal au coeur.” She shuffles out of the house quicker than a cockroach.
“Wait!” The door slams in my face as I lurch after her. “What the hell does that even mean?”
23
Thierry
Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I stare down at the numbers handwritten by Miranda from the night before, then up to the screen where they’ve been plugged into a spreadsheet. Two thousand short. Again. Happened last week, and the week before.
The thing about numbers when it comes to the cartel is, so long as they’re in the plus, everything is good. When they dip into the red, mistakes are paid. In red.
For two weeks, I’ve had to hustle up two grand to make up the difference, and this routine is getting fucking old, particularly when my ass is on the line.
The door clicks open, and Brie peeks into my office. “You called for me, Mr. Bergeron?”
Gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of me, I wait for her to settle into her seat. I find the extra time often puts them on edge, makes them confess without much prodding. Brie’s been my drop person for about a year now. With most things, she’s pretty trustworthy, but money makes people do crazy shit. Like stealing from the cartel.
“When do you plan to inform me that you’re stealing?”
“Excuse me?”
“For three weeks, the count’s been short by two grand. Of course, I’ve made up for this, because it’s my ass on the line, too. But maybe I’ll take my chances and let my business associates know you’ve been skimming off them. I mean, why should I take on the extra fucking work?”
“Mr. Bergeron … please. You know I’m not like that. I would never steal from you. Ever.”
“Let’s review the chain of command for a drop, shall we? My employer sends one of his men to deliver the cash. You meet with said man and pick up the cash. The cash is then stored in a steel safe, down in the basement, untouched, until I distribute it. Now … the men working directly for my employer know that touching so much as a cent of that cash means their dicks get chopped off with a dull blade. So, you tell me. Where is the disconnect?”
“I did not touch that money. I swear to you. Ask Aric, he can confirm.”
“Aric. What does he have to do with this?”
“I thought … he said you sent him to monitor the drops.”
Motherfucker. The fact that I’ve been working to make up two grand on behalf of the shady fed is enough to boil my blood. “I never sent Aric. And from this point on, I want you to make me aware if he shows up at a drop. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Bergeron.”
“Good. Please send in your sister.”
“Is she in trouble again?”
“No. I just have some questions for her.”
“I’ll send her in.”
“Thank you. And, Brie … my apologies.”
With a nod, she backs out of the office. Five minutes later, her flighty sister comes plowing through the door without pomp, or circumstance, and plops down in one of the chairs. The way she fidgets and shifts tells me she’s high again, and even though she’s trying to hide the massive bruise on her cheek, I’m not stupid.
“Last night …”
“Is my business.”
“Of course. You were off the clock. I’m just curious, did Aric happen to speak with any of the hotel staff about the room? Did you see him acting strangely?”
