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Fine. If she didn’t want to talk before we had to face our fathers, that was her choice. We could’ve made good allies. Right then, I had more important things to worry about.
More important people.
Dusty Smith.
Kieran had already done most of the work; he had brought Dusty here, tied him to a chair, and left me to do the dirty work. He’d always been like that, my brother, efficient and cold, but always maintaining a perfect distance from the bloody reality of our father’s business.
Lucky number two.
The stale air was thick with the stench of spilled beer as Kieran watched from the shadows, his arms folded, waiting for me to finish what he had started.
I noted the blood splattered on Dusty’s shirt, the bruises blossoming on his face. He was trembling, lips quivering as he muttered futile pleas. Kieran had never been one for patience, but he did have a knack for eliciting fear. I clasped my hands together, studying him coldly.
“I don’t have it,” Dusty’s voice quivered when he looked at me.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I replied smoothly. My tone was icy calm, contrasting sharply with his panicked one. “You do have it. Just not here. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Dusty swallowed hard, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. The single bulb overhead flickered, casting his head in a mask of light and shadow. “You’re wrong,” he managed to spit out.
“You owe my father sixty large,” I leaned over him when I spoke. “That doesn’t include vig and management fees.”
“I know, I know...” Dusty stammered, tears welling in his eyes. “I just...I just need a bit more time. I swear, Tristan.”
Time, it seemed, was always the plea of those who found themselves tied up in these situations. As if a few more days or weeks would somehow miraculously solve their financial woes. But my job wasn’t to grant extensions on debt. My job was to collect. Plus, Dusty had already had extensions. Several of them.
“It’ll be seventy next week, eighty the week after,” I said. “You know the rules, Dusty. You can’t afford more time. My father has been patient with you because you’re a family friend…but Dusty, I’m not as patient as my dad. We can’t have you going around, making people think they can just not pay the Callahans, can we?”
“Tristan, please,” he begged, his eyes darting around the room as if hoping for salvation. I could hear the desperation in his voice. “I have kids. Just...just a little more time.”
The mention of his kids was low. He was hoping to appeal to my sense of humanity, assuming I had one left. I merely shook my head.
“And what about our family? What about the families who rely on us?” I asked, my voice steady despite the tension in the room. “You’re not the only one with responsibilities, Dusty.”
“I will pay you,” Dusty was trying hard to keep his voice from wavering. Good idea, bad execution. It was almost sad. “Give me a week.”
I looked down at him, my eyes getting used to the darkness. “You’ll pay us now or you’ll die.”
“You would kill me even if I paid you, right?” he shook his head. “Because that’s what Malachy wants.”
I held back the urge to look into Kieran’s eyes, who I was sure was shrugging. Dusty was right. Of course he was. He didn’t need to know that.
“Fuck you, Tristan.”
“Big words for a man tied to a chair.”
Dusty scoffed. For a moment, his eyes lost focus, his body sagging in the bonds as he weighed his dwindling options. Then, slowly, he began to lift his head. A transformation came over him—fear mingling with resignation, resignation forging into something bolder.
A smirk twisted Dusty’s face, his bloodied lips curving upwards in a grotesque, bloody smile. His fear seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a strange kind of defiance.
“You and me, we’re not so different,” he rasped out. “And you and your father...you’re nothing but a curse.”
“Say that again, Smith,” I replied, crossing the little space that was still between us.
“You and your bloody father...nothing but a curse,” Dusty spat out, blood dribbling down his chin. The defiance in his eyes sparked a chilling thrill in me. Was he challenging me, or were his words a cry for an end?
For a moment, I froze in my tracks as the weight of his words hung in the air. I stared at him, shocked by this sudden shift in his demeanor. How he dared to look me in the eye, without a shred of fear. He should’ve been pleading for his life, bargaining with me..but he wasn’t.
And he’d given voice to something that had always scared the hell out of me.
