Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance by Tracy Fobes Page B

bar.
    “Well, life ain’t treating me good,” Simon groused, after a moment or two.  “This neighborhood, it’s got dementia .  It can’t remember things.”
    “No, it can’t,” Monahan agreed.
    The waitress stopped by then, dropped off Simon’s beer, took Monahan’s and Winsome’s order, and then disappeared again.
    Simon sipped his beer.  “ You two can’t remember things.  Didn’t you hear me say fucking two o’clock?”
    Monahan nodded. “We heard you, boss.”
    “And what time is it?” Simon asked.
    Winsome continued to shell peanuts, though he worked more slowly now.  “Two fifteen.”
    “That’s right.  You’re fifteen minutes late.  For fifteen minutes I’ve been sitting here, drinking beers that old hag brings me and thinking about how this neighborhood and my own bratok can’t remember .  It’s insulting.”
    “We’re sorry, boss,” Monahan quickly replied.
    “Sorry.  Sorry,” Simon gave him a mocking frown.  “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills.  It doesn’t keep my feelings from being hurt.”
    Monahan swallowed and looked away, to sweep the bar with a nervous glance. 
    Simon focused on Winsome.  “So...you got anything good to tell me?  Like maybe how people are starting to recall how I’ve bailed them out of bankruptcy ?  That they’re grateful?”
    Winsome stopped shucking peanuts.  “We delivered the messages.”
    “Oh, you did .”  Simon made a show of thinking this over, though inside, he was still pissed that they’d made him sit around for fifteen minutes while they jacked off.   “And how were the messages received?”
    “The Gallent bitch did nothing but piss and moan.”  Winsome shrugged his shoulders.  “You know women.”
    “Ah, Christ.”  Simon shook his head.  “She knows that the interest is gonna keep compounding, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So is she gonna pay up?”
    “No.  Not now, anyway.”
    Simon nodded.  He’d expected exactly this.  Not many people paid up.  But he was okay with that, because if they didn’t pay up, he could use them in other ways. In fact, the pakhan in Brighton Beach preferred new bratok over payment. “She’s gonna front for us, then.”  He said this as a statement, not a question, because she’d be truly stupid to do anything else.
    “Well, she didn’t agree to that either,” Winsome said.
    “Christ on a cross!”  Simon shook his head sadly.  “You’re just gonna have to convince her.”
    Winsome offered his boss a grim smile.  “I’m pretty good at that.”
    “I know you are.”  He paused, annoyed that everyone needed all of this convincing, and then asked about the other matter.  “And Hansen?  Is he still bitching about being our loan front?”
    An even grimmer smile curved Winsome’s lips.  “That’s why we’re late, boss.  We needed some extra time to convince him.  He was getting cold feet.”
    “Cold feet ?”  Simon leaned a little closer.  He didn’t hear Winsome speak with that kind of tone often: righteous, deeply satisfied.  “From the most benevolent businessman in all of Rockport Grove?  What a damned shame.”
    “We thought so, too,” Monahan chimed in.  “He was sitting there in his blue suit, looking suave, with eyes so blue they could convince you he was one of God’s own angels.  But Mr. Winsome here, he knows his shit.”
    “Yes I do,” Winsome agreed.
    “So what happened?” Simon was all ears now.  “Did you threaten to cut his dick and balls off, and shove them down his throat?”
    “Hey, we ain’t the Mexicans,” Monahan complained.
    Winsome reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief.  Spots of blood stood out in bright red relief against the white cotton.  He handed it to Simon.  “A gift for you, boss. From Hansen.”
    Simon took it and held it in his hand.  It didn’t weigh much.  The blood on it still felt wet.  “Is it a finger?”
    “Nope.”
    “Two fingers?”
    Winsome shook his head.  “It’s