Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
If Christopher notices how off my father’s acting, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he digs into his expensive steak and regales us with another story while I flag down the waiter and order my second glass of whiskey.
The meat tastes like cardboard and the company is dull, but this is part of the job. We take important people like Christopher out for expensive meals at high-end restaurants and we pretend to enjoy their stories about catching fish with their grandkids. Normally, Dad’s great at this; he’s charming, outgoing, the sort of man who can make anyone feel at home. That’s been his superpower and part of his rapid rise to dominance over the city. He builds alliances like normal people gather flowers.
But today, it’s almost painful to watch. Dad’s crotchety and barely paying attention, and by the time Christopher’s through with his second dull-as-fuck story, I’m thinking about putting a bullet in my head. But the old cop’s starting to notice something’s up.
Which means I have to step in and take over since Dad’s clearly not going to. “You mentioned your granddaughter likes to swim. Did you teach her yourself?”
“I wish. Her overprotective parents wouldn’t let the girl anywhere near a pool without at least ten hours of professional training. It was crazy! At her age, I was thrown into the damn lake and told to either figure it out or sink to the bottom.” He laughs loudly, and I make myself join in, while Dad continues to glare at his food like it’s about to reanimate and gore him with horns.
Lunch is horrendous. Dad’s been off lately, but this is by far his worst performance. Unfortunately for everyone, there’s business to handle.
“The streets have been quiet lately,” Christopher says, swirling his glass of wine. “Gotta say, people in the department are happy about that. But I’ve heard some very unfortunate rumors.”
“I’m sure the rumors aren’t true,” I say, handing him a clipped cigar and lighting it for him. The cop puffs away and scowls.
“You know how much shit I’m getting from both ends right now. The politicians are livid about the murder rate, no thanks to your little skirmishes, and they want a thousand more officers on the street. Meanwhile the street-level activist folks are livid that we’re not abolishing our own damn department and replacing it with a bunch of hippies with flowers and hugs.” He blows a big stream of smoke and points the cigar at me. “I need you to play your role in all this, Bianco.”
Dad opens his mouth to say something, but I speak over him. I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t like the way Christopher’s talking to us—it’s not his place to tell us how to manage our business—and I don’t want my old man to say something stupid right now.
“We can’t control what certain factions do on the streets,” I say as politely as I can. “But we value our relationship, Chief Morgan. I’ll see what we can do.”
Christopher grunts his thanks and we discuss other, less pressing issues, and I let Dad take over from there.
Once lunch is over, the chief leaves through the back, apologizing for the secrecy, and I stand out front with Dad while we wait for our driver to pull around.
“I don’t like how that went in there.” Dad gives me a hard stare. He’s leaning on his crutches and looks sunken to the point of exhaustion, all from having to sit at a table for an hour and listen to a blowhard tell boring stories.
“Chief Morgan will get over it. He’s just doing his job.” I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to argue with him.
Unfortunately, my father is a stubborn bastard. “You talked over me. You took over, but I never gave you permission to negotiate on my behalf.”
I turn on him, fighting back my anger. “That’s because you were so clearly uninterested in what the chief was saying.”
“Like you enjoyed that story about his shitty little granddaughter catching some fucking fish?”
I grind my teeth to keep my frustration from boiling over. “Obviously, I didn’t care about that, but I’m supposed to make him feel like I do. That’s what you taught me, remember?”
He glares at me for a full five seconds before looking away. “My fucking legs hurt.” His voice is small and tired, and his admission is like a kick to my chest. All the anger leaves like a deep exhaled breath.
“How bad?” I ask.
“Bad enough that all I could think about was getting home.” His face is white, and I’m guessing being on his feet right now isn’t helping. But there’s no way he’d let me help. “You were right to step in. But you still should have waited for me to give you the sign.”