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And something tells me if I let the shit live, he’ll have problems replacing his security shortage tomorrow.
“Think fucking hard.” I look down at him. “Were you trying to cut me out of a million or were you borrowing illegally and now owe me triple and a finger?”
“Please…I just…I needed it…I…”
Needing money by stealing from Quinate is beyond bad.
He might have a nice office, but he clearly leads the life of excess without the capital to back that up. So I’m fifty-fifty on this.
Of course, his outfit greases the wheels for me. Then again… “Carlos? Who on his team’s worthy of taking over?”
Carlos looks about and brings a shaking woman over with a nod of his head. “This is the one I usually work with. She let me know the money would be late or maybe not coming, and Trevor has big debts.”
“Name?” I ask her. I don’t give a fuck. But asking names is the done thing.
Money is money and loyalty is loyalty. Debt changes shit. Even if Trevor wasn’t trying to swindle me, he’ll do it again to get out of trouble with other mafia. Whoever it is he owes to might be one of ours, but I doubt it. I’m thinking small but nasty. Maybe Russian or Albanian.
Actually, I don’t give a fuck about that, either.
He’ll do it again if he lives.
Debts make morons untrustworthy.
“Nancy Carruthers,” she says.
Nancy? Who the actual fuck names someone under the age of eightyNancy? She’s what? Forty?
“Want to take over? Pay rise, more responsibilities. You don’t owe money, do you, Nancy?”
“No, sir. Mr. Miller.”
The little breathy note of interest in riding the Jac joystick slides into her voice, and I smile to myself.
I’m hot. I’m aware of that. But I’m not so hot that I make women lose their minds no matter what. Case and point, one fucking cat burglar who won’t call me back or pick up her phone.
But I appreciate the fact this Nancy has her head on straight enough that she’s more interested in being pounded by me than reenacting a similar scene as Trevor.
She’s a good choice.
I pull out my gun, lift my foot, and shoot Trevor in the head. I look at her. “You’re hired.”
* * *
A few hours later and I’m finishing the drinks meeting I put off yesterday. I think about calling the fuckwit Hendrick to talk about this meetup. He’s smart, I know his views on such things are insightful.
But I don’t. Because fuck him. The man’s a walking, talking dark cloud of fun-killer and long looks that, beyond the ice of hate he has for me, are all anI told you so.
He’s totally going to go there if I make the call. He’ll talk to me because it’s fucking Quinate business, and he’ll probably be right, probably bring up an angle I’m not seeing. He’ll definitely gloat. I’ll want to fucking kill him more than I usually do, and the asshole will take the discussion to the other Quinate. Who’ll listen.
I know they will. The others respect him.
Fuck, I hate him.
I take a breath and toy with my bourbon and listen to Kincaid.
I’m not paying attention to his words. They don’t change much, he’s always selling something, always slimy and always looking for a way in, searching for cracks he can crowbar open.
No, I’m listening to his cadence and tone, to what he’s not saying.
