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“Go get your drink, Batista,” I declare before we walk closer to the two Cajuns.
Stopping in front of them, I say, “I’m not going to drag this out asking why you are here because we all know the answer to that. Nor will I ask, are there more of you coming because we already know the answer to that once we kill you, but I do have to ask how you knew to come here, asking questions?”
The mouthy one laughs as the younger one lowers his head. By their actions, I already know which one to press for the answers I want.
Kissing Sydney’s cheek, I release her hand.
“That’s your fucking problem. You’ve been poisoned by this colored gal so much so that you were willing to kill one of your own,” the outspoken one yells as he somehow jumps to his feet, then tries to run towards me, but my men knock him back to the floor.
Ignoring him, I say to Sydney, “Sydney, let me see your purse.”
“Why?” she asks, removing the strap from her shoulder.
Taking it from her, I respond, “Because other than your gun, I want to see what other toys you have hidden in here.”
She grins, unzipping it, then hands it to me. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a few in there that will take care of his ass.”
I reached inside of her purse and felt the pistol. Using that would be too easy in killing off these motherfuckers, plus I have my own to do the job. So, I continued to dig around until my fingers made contact with something I knew would make their asses talk. Clutching onto the item, I pull my hand out, then give Sydney back her purse.
She looks at my balled up fist, trying to hide what is in my hand, then smiles wider.
“I don’t give a fuck what you took out of her purse. You’ll have to kill us before we tell you anything and it won’t stop there. More of us will come,” Mr. Big Balls barks.
Opening my hand, I brandish the switchblade. Pressing the release button, the blade flicks open.
“Be careful with that, I sharpened it three days ago,” Sydney warns.
“Oh, trust me darling, it will not be my skin that comes in contact with the blade,” I promise before going over to the silent one.
Sweat runs down his face as his eyes plead for me to have pity on him.
“Why the hell are you fucking with him? He has nothing to say to you,” the other one boasts.
Tired of his mouth, I flip the knife in my hand to grip the handle. “Grab his throat,” I ordered. My guard on the right wraps his beefy hand around the man’s throat, causing him to gag with his tongue out. I take hold of the muscular organ and slice it off. The man lets out a guttural cry as I drop it before repeatedly stabbing him in the side. He moans in pain before it fades and the light in his eyes grows dim. Withdrawing the blade, I turn to the younger one and hold the blood drenched blade in front of him.
“This could be your blood on here next, but if you tell me what I want to know, I might consider letting you see another day,” I state, examining the blade.
He starts to sob. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
“And you may not, but first you have to start with giving us your name, then tell us why you and the dead man are here tonight,” Sydney says in a calm voice, sitting in one of the chairs, then crossing her legs. This must be a ploy to get him to trust her because he starts to tell her everything.
“My name is Reiner Maldau, the man he just killed was my cousin Gregor,” he says.
Not wanting to hear about their family tree, I urge, “Yeah, yeah now that we know that, tell us why you’re here.”
He inhales deeply, then says, “My daddy, Gregor’s daddy, John Paul, are brothers to my Uncle Smitty. When Uncle Smitty didn’t return from his business trip here, Uncle John Paul made some calls to find out what happened to him, but no one was saying anything until he spoke to someone who said he was last seen here, playing Poker in the High Roller room. We were to get a seat at the next game, then press you about him.”
“And your Uncle John Paul, is he the head of your family or was it Smitty or your daddy,” I question.
“My daddy died six years ago when I was fourteen. I don’t know the specifics, but from what I heard it was over a woman who wasn’t my momma.”
“And where is your momma?” Sydney asks before the question leaves my lips.
Reiner looks at her, answering, “If I knew, I would tell you. She left me with my daddy when I was six months old. She was passing through town, working at the fair. They met, had a one night stand that produced me. He didn’t have any pictures of her, so if she were to pass me on the street, I wouldn’t even know who she was.”
I honestly have sympathy for the boy. No child should have to go through life without knowing anything about his mother. I lost my momma when I was sixteen due to a brain aneurysm, but I’m thankful for every year we had before the Lord called her home. I can’t even imagine how Reiner is feeling because he has no recognition of his mother, but that doesn’t give him a pass for why he’s at the Blue Bayou. Furthermore, how the hell did he get in if he’s underage?
Curious, I ask, “So, if you’re twenty, how did you get inside of my casino because we check IDs?"
