Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“Likewise.” Roman walked a few feet away, then paused. “Mr. Lee, I’m not a snitch, but I’m going to throw you a bone. I am offering you this not just as restitution but as an extra incentive to donate to the cause, if you will.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“At table eighteen, there’s a guy in a brown shirt, one in a black jacket, and another in a white shirt, who are colluding at the Poker table. They’re cleanin’ you the fuck out. At table thirty-two, a blackjack table, one guy changed his bet, and your dealer didn’t verbally check him. Out of sight, out of mind. You know the rest of that story. A dark-haired bartender with a small scar on his forehead is stealing cash from the register. He rings up the drinks a dollar higher each and every time, and then places that extra dollar in his back pocket. Look at the cameras when I leave. You’ll see I’m correct. One more for the road…” He held up his finger.
“Three of your waitresses are stealin’ liquor and sellin’ it. I have no proof on that one, just a hunch, but when you see three ladies in their little frilly uniforms whispering and carrying on, and then one disappears with an unopened bottle of Hennessy, the other two with tequila, and they walk past real stiff like—evidence that it’s jammed in their clothes—you can figure it out fairly quickly. Two of the three look like they’ve never had a drink in their lives. That shit is for someone else, and they grabbed the pricey stuff.”
“And you saw all of this in ten minutes?”
“…In eight. I was out there waiting for ten minutes, but not focused the entire time on your operation.” He pointed towards the closed door. “This is why I can come into a room and be spotted immediately if I wish, or blend in like ebony against black, ivory against white. I see what others don’t. It’s how I was able to get over in this casino as a young and desperate punk. I can make myself appear however I wish. Like a sheep. Sheep can bunch up together, obscuring their actual numbers, or step out from the crowd, to be truly seen. Trustworthy vs. sneaky. Calm vs. temperamental. Here’s the thing, though. I’m done gettin’ over. I’m done wearing a wool coat to hide the truth. I am done pretending to be great, when I in fact am. I could go on and on, but that’s enough for now. You have a good evening, and as Wilson Mizner said, ‘The only sure thing about luck is that it will change.’ I second that notion…”
And then, he walked out the door…
Grandpa made his way into the kitchen after being summoned by one of his assistants. She alerted him that a package had arrived for him, and she’d set it in the kitchen. A few of his men sat nearby, downing beer and talking. His chefs prepared lunch quietly as ‘Spooky,’ by Atlanta Rhythm Section, played in the background.
He turned the box to and fro, looking for a sender name or company information. Whatever was inside perfumed the air—obviously, it was a baked good. It had been dropped off by a courier, though neither he nor anyone at the compound had requested such a thing. Whatever this is, it smells delicious. He slowly removed the ribbon and allowed the sides of the box to fall open. Inside sat a large pie, perfectly baked to a shiny golden brown. A small hand-written card was tucked near it.
‘Something special, just for you.’
He read it one more time. His intuition kicked into gear, and he was no longer mesmerized by the delectable aromas brimming from the box. Cool air surrounded him, as if a ghost was breathing death into his ear. He snatched a knife from the butcher block and stabbed the pie, expecting to see something. There was nothing wrong—it was a moist apple pie, his favorite. But then, he saw a glint of metal. And another. And another.
He reached in and pried one of the gleaming silver spikes out of the crust, along with gooey apples. A razor blade… He picked up the pie, cursed, and tossed it with all of his might into the trash can. One of his many enemies was trying to send a message. He was about ready to laugh at such foolishness, when he noticed the pie had slid halfway out the pan when he threw it away, and writing could be seen on the bottom of the aluminum pan. He grabbed a spoon and scraped the pie and crust completely out into the trash, then read the message, crudely written with a black Sharpie…
Cyrus, you can’t silence all of us.
Leave well enough alone. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew.