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“Good afternoon,” he says, walking up to me, his posture and tone pleasant. “I presume you are Miss Field?” the gentleman asks with his hands cupped together at his waist.
“Um...yes, I am. Are you Roscoe Martin?” I ask nervously.
“No, ma’am, but I will be taking you to him.”
“He's not here?” I look around.
“He is close, I am afraid I am going to have to search you for weapons or any listening devices you may have before I can take you to him. So, if you could please turn around and place your hands against your vehicle?” He is asking a question but the way he squares his shoulders and his jaw hardens, I can tell it’s not optional. My heart begins to beat faster, and I regret not calling Linc. Looking straight ahead, his voice void of emotion. I sigh and turn around, placing my hands on the hood of my truck. He takes my phone from my hand.
“I will have to take this, but I will give it back when you are done with Mr. Martin,” he says, slipping my phone in the pocket of his suit jacket. He frisks me from top to bottom and then says, “If you will follow me.” I turn and follow him to the side of the building to a concrete pad that has a picnic table. It looks like it used to be an area where the employees would take their breaks or eat lunch when the factory was here. Another gentleman dressed in all black is leaning up against the table. He stands up straight and tugs at the hem of his jacket with his hands when he sees us coming. He is a very tall Latino man, probably in his late forties, with black short hair and dark beady eyes. He is even more stocky than the man who just frisked me. Getting closer to him, I can see there are several other men walking around in suits as well, but my attention is diverted from them when I see someone else sitting on the bench of the picnic table, it's Dingo.
“Miss Field, I presume?” he asks, holding out his hand to me.
“Yes,” I reply, extending mine to him. “Are you Roscoe Martin?”
“That I am.” He takes my hand to his lips, kissing it gently. Damn, this guy is smooth, like scary smooth.
“I am sorry about the meeting conditions, but this was short notice. I do have a place for us to sit while we talk though,” he informs, motioning for me to take a seat on the bench of the picnic table opposite Dingo.
I slide onto the concrete bench and my eyes go wide, I gasp and cover my mouth. Dingo’s face is beaten black and blue, his eyes are almost completely swollen shut, and he has blood coming from his nose and mouth. This must have just happened because I can't imagine he would have been able to talk to me on the phone earlier this messed up. Roscoe sits down next to Dingo.
“What happened to your hand?” he asks, reaching inside his suit jacket and bringing out a handkerchief.
“Um...nothing, I just fell in some glass,” I answer, still looking at Dingo. Roscoe takes my hand, startling me away from Dingo. I look down to where he is removing the napkins.
“This is a pretty nasty cut, you will need to get this looked at by a doctor,” he says, looking at the cut on my hand. Then wrapping it in his handkerchief, he lets my hand go. He looks me in the eye. “Wow, you are very pretty. It's a shame some men cannot respect such beauty,” he sneers, looking over to Dingo. “I would like to apologize for this animal's behavior, Miss Field,” he nearly growls, looking back to me. Dingo does not move, and I don't know what to say so I just nod. “I have been planning on meeting with you for a while now but this issue with you, Dingo, and Lincoln Thor, has made me have to expedite my plans.” My heart jumps when I hear him say his name.
“Lincoln Thor?” I question.
“Yes, it seems he did not like Dingo here putting his hands on you.”
“Lincoln did that to him?” Shocked, I look over to Dingo.
“Not all of it, he did the arm, my guys did the rest,” he answers proudly. I look at Dingo’s arm and notice a blood-soaked bandage on his right bicep where the new tattoo was.Fuck!The guy just slapped me, there's no way he deserved all this.
“Anyway, down to business.” His voice cuts through the air like a machete, his fist slapping the table. “You have been stealing my customers, Miss Field. My marijuana sales have plummeted over the last nine months, and it seems you are the reason,” he accuses me with his eyebrows quirked up.
“I did not know that. I am really sorry, if you tell me who your customers were, I promise not to sell to them anymore,” I answer nervously.
He raises his hand for me to be quiet and goes to speak but then looks around and says, “What the hell is that goddamn vibrating?
“Sorry, sir,” the man who took my phone says from behind me. “I believe it is the lady’s phone. I have it in my pocket.”
“If you hand it to me, I can turn it off,” I offer eagerly, turning to face the man behind me.
“Hand it to me,” Roscoe orders. The man gives Roscoe my phone, and he looks at it and grins, then turning it so I can see the screen he says, “Lincoln Thor. He must really need to talk to you.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“Would you like me to turn it off?” I practically plead.
“No, answer it…on speaker,” he orders.
“I don't want to,” I nervously say, looking at my phone that he has now placed in front of me on the table.
“It wasn't a request, Miss Field,” he replies sternly. I sigh and answer the phone, putting it on speaker.
“Hey.”
