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Joseph Arthur Zbirak did not consider himself a picky eater. He did, however, take his steak seriously. He needed it well-seasoned and medium rare. Warm and pink in the middle. Delectable and juicy. Anything less than a perfect cut would not enter his mouth under any circumstances.
With an apologetic smile and a soft voice, he sent his steak back to the kitchen. Medium rare, he had said, hoping the young waitress would relay the message to the cook. The bubbly girl wore her dark hair in a ponytail and a smattering of enamel pins on her waist apron. Zbirak would give her a hearty tip, regardless of the mistake. It wasn’t her fault, after all.
Around a mouthful of food, the man sitting across from Zbirak said, “Hope you don’t think I’m gonna wait for you.” He was rotund and ruddy-faced, topped off with a bad comb-over. His mustache was untrimmed, and years of sweat stained the armpits of his shirt. The man talked as he chewed, spraying as much as he swallowed. “I never knew you had such delicate sensibilities.”
Zbirak wanted to glower, but he refrained from taking the bait. Other than sharing the same first name, he and Pisano had nothing in common. Where the other man was fat, rude, and incapable of thinking for himself, Zbirak was lean, quiet, and clever. Genetics had blessed him with an average face and enough brains to know when to act and when to sit back and bide his time.
Pisano, on the other hand, was all bluff. It had carried him through forty-two years on the police force, not unscathed. In his youth, his fists sealed the deal when his words failed to do their job. Now it was merely arrogance. For someone who couldn’t throw or take a punch without wheezing, he sure was a cocky son of a bitch.
“I like what I like.” Zbirak shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wouldn’t let this man get under his skin. “And when I make a request, I expect it to be fulfilled.”
For the first time, Pisano revealed the disquiet Zbirak instilled in him. “Look, it wasn’t my fault.” Shoving the rest of his burger into his mouth, he licked a bit of mustard from his pinky finger. After draining his beer, he dove into his fries, shoving them into his mouth three at a time. He didn’t even make fleeting eye contact. “But I’m taking care of it.”
“Oh?” Zbirak raised an eyebrow. The return of the server held his inquiry at bay. She set his new plate in front of him. “Thank you.”
“Please let me know if that’s to your liking, sir.”
Zbirak took his fork in one hand and his knife in the other, cutting the steak against the grain to reveal a pink center. Juice poured from the opening and pooled beneath the meat, threatening to mix with the heap of mashed potatoes sitting to one side. Looking up at the server, he smiled with all his teeth. “It’s perfect. Please thank the chef for me.”
“Of course.” The woman flicked her ponytail over her shoulder to get it out of the way. “Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?”
“That’ll be all, for now.” Zbirak kept his smile steady and noticed the way it mesmerized her. “My friend and I have some business to attend to. Would it be all right if you gave us some privacy until we’re ready for the check?”
“Absolutely.” The woman backed away. “Flag me down if you need anything else.”
Zbirak watched as she retreated before returning to his steak and cutting a healthy portion from one end. It was what he had been craving all day. His mouth watered as he sunk his teeth into that glorious first bite. The restaurant was three stars at best—rustic in an upscale sort of way—but they had a solid menu. Most people would’ve been happy with the cut they’d received, but Zbirak was nothing if not a perfectionist.
“You got an unhealthy relationship with your meat, pal.” Pisano’s rough voice cut through Zbirak’s moment like a knife through flesh. “Let me know if you need a minute alone.”
Zbirak scoffed. Between the two of them, he wasn’t the unhealthy one. But Pisano’s barbs were blunt and not worth Zbirak’s time. “Tell me exactly how the problem is being taken care of.”
“All right, all right. Keep your pants on.” Pisano wiped his hands on a napkin and threw it back onto the table. He looked Zbirak in the eye for the first time in several minutes. Ah, there was some of his renowned bluster. The man who had failed one too many times took more offense to being called out for his shortcomings than one confident that he would not disappoint you again. “Would I lie to you?” He guffawed, and it turned several heads. “I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”
“Yes, you would.” Zbirak took another bite, but he found he couldn’t enjoy his meal under these conditions. Placing his knife and fork on the table, he said. “And yes, you are.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
This time, Zbirak laughed. A quiet chuckle that no one but Pisano heard. Often, he found humor in men who knew better than to test him, but did so anyway because their pride meant more to them than their life. Zbirak leaned forward, though he didn’t relish being any closer to Pisano than necessary. “I gave you a job. You failed.”
“A momentary setback is not a failure.” Even Pisano seemed surprised by his rather insightful retort. “She slipped away for now, but we’ll get her back. Just wait and see.”
“And how, exactly, did she slip away?”
Pisano must’ve gotten the sense that Zbirak already had the answer because he didn’t bother lying. “I sent my nephew to grab her, and she ran. Simple as that.”
“I was very specific in my instructions that you be the one to pick her up. Not your nephew.”
“I had a prior engagement. Look.” Pisano shifted in his seat. Placing a hand on his side, he wince
d. When he spoke again, there was a strain in his voice. “I didn’t think some random woman would be that hard to nab. No way she knew we were after her.”
“Gender has nothing to do with survival instincts.” Zbirak leaned back in his chair, no longer able to maintain his proximity to Pisano’s form. “Society has trained women to distrust everyone, especially a dim-witted thug such as your nephew. Your police uniform, however, would have lured her into a false sense of security.”
“I figured she’d get spooked if she saw an Atlanta cop knocking on her door in Savannah.”
“There you go, thinking for yourself again.” Zbirak kept himself from sneering, but only just. “She would’ve trusted you because she thinks all the Savannah cops are crooked.”
“She’s not wrong.” Pisano burped, but it didn’t appear to relieve any of the pain in his side. Sweat had accumulated along his brow. “I said I’ll take care of it.” He peered over his shoulder. “They got a bathroom in this place?”
