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Fuck.
I get on my bike, ride to town, and hit the florist. The lady’s helpful as I look around. I don’t spend time in places like this, so I don’t know how they work, but the back door is shut, and there are basic-looking bunches on display.
“Do you need one of our specials?” the middle-aged woman asks.
It’s an odd turn of phrase, but maybe that’s just florist speak. “Ah, looking for something for my . . .” Shit. Woman isn’t right. “Girlfriend.”
Joan, according to her tag smiles and picks a bunch of generic flowers. I shake my head, hand resting on a book. It’s big and fat, and I start to flip through it at all the bouquets and wreaths.
The photos are uninspiring, and the prices are all crazy high, so I close it again.
Joan starts to look slightly strained beneath her friendly smile, which I put down to it’s closing time and I’m wasting hers.
“Gary, huh?” I inspect a bunch of roses that look a little mundane, like the ones at bodegas in cities. “Same one who owns the furniture store and dealership?”
“Sure is,” she chirps. “Those are lovely. Shall I wrap them?
I put them back. I’m about to pick up each bouquet to annoy her when I spot some flowers that are all poofy, pale pink, and girly. The kind Nadie should have.
“The peonies. Just in.”
I pick them up and let her wrap them, but in brown paper and string, much to her annoyance. She wanted to wrap them in green glitter paper.
After paying, I leave and stand on the pavement. Italian? Chinese? Probably Italian, as I don’t see anything else close, and—
“Fernandez.”
The voice stops me, mainly because I can’t quite fucking place it. I turn and come face to face with douche dough boy himself. His gaze drops to the flowers.
“See you got her favorites. I have them in stock when I can get them for Nadia.” He smirks. “One of my places.”
“You’re Gary?”
“Part owner. And you’re what? In a biker gang?”
Now, I look him up and down. “No, I break better heads than yours for a very powerful family in Dallas.”
He starts laughing, then double-takes and stops. “You’re a thug.”
“Enforcer. Brains, skill, cool under pressure, and I can mop the floor with guys like you and not break a sweat.”
He narrows his eyes. “I used to be a star football player.”
I nod. He can try and belittle me, but I’m not having it. “College, right? And used to be are real fuckin’ important words here, aren’t they?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You asked, I explain, no threat.”
“Do us all a favor,” he says, “and get out of town.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” Then I slap him hard enough on the back to make him stumble. “So, Riff—stupid name, by the way—this Italian place . . . any good?”
* * *
My phone rings while I’m waiting for my order.
“Got your fucking text, man.” Nicolo clicks on a keyboard. “Remember the photography studio Avah worked for and how shit didn’t add up? That’s your florist. The other two seem legit, but Ralph and a buddy own them. Ralph’s the money, or represents the fucking money, and dude . . .”
