Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I park, get out, and try the handle. It’s open and I step into a smoky, dimly lit room. It takes me a second to get over the assault of cigarette stench—smoking indoors should be illegal—but I keep my mouth shut and stare at my surroundings.
It’s a bar like I thought, and it’s a total dump. Taps on the left, bottles lined up behind them, and an old woman leaning against the wall watching a Wheel of Fortune rerun on TV. In the back, several big guys sit around puffing on cigars, and right between two ugly, nasty assholes sits Tony Cowan looking very unhappy.
At least until he spots me and waves me over.
All eyes turn as I head toward the group. Six men stare at me with expressions ranging from boredom to disgust. My heart leaps into my throat and I feel like my feet are going numb with fear. These aren’t the kind of men that let a woman walk through the door and out again without some trouble and I’m terrified it’ll be worse than I’m imagining. I try to smile but nobody smiles back, and the biggest of the group leans forward and taps his cigar against an ashtray.
The danger is palpable and I’m suddenly very fucking mad at Tony Cowan.
“You the money?” the big guy grunts.
“Uh,” I say and look at Cowan. “Am I?”
Cowan nods once. “These gentlemen and I entered into an agreement recently, one which I find I cannot quite hold up. I hoped that my new producer might take care of said agreement for me, if you’d please.”
“What the nice director here is trying to say, miss, is he owes me $2,530, and I’m gonna break his fucking ankles if he doesn’t give it to me right now.”
I gape at him and blink rapidly. How the heck did I go from crying in my friend’s beautiful Old City home to this total dump and these obvious gangsters? Cowan’s grin remains plastered on like he’s got a gun to the small of his back, and that’s probably not far from the truth.
“What’d he do?” I ask.
The big gangster grins at me like he didn’t expect me to do anything but pay. “Mr. Cowan here entered a few games of chance and bought more than his fair share of crack cocaine.”
“For research purposes,” Cowan quickly says.
“And I don’t give a fuck what he did with the crack. All I care about is getting paid. I like Mr. Cowan’s movies very much, which is why I let this go on for so long, but a man’s got to eat, miss.”
“Yes, a man’s got to eat, Pussyfingers here has a point.”
“Pussyfingers?” I tilt my head toward the big man. “That’s you?”
“My mother gave me that nickname,” he says and everyone at the table laughs like it’s a joke they’ve heard a million times but they’re too afraid not to pretend to think it’s still funny.
“All right, Mr. Pussyfingers. I don’t have that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to go to an ATM, unless you take checks?”
“There’s a machine around the corner. We can wait. I’ll keep Mr. Cowan here entertained.”
“They’re delightful company, really,” Cowan says with a sight. “Now run along, little suit.”
I give him a sharp look. This bastard is making me pay his drug and gambling debts and pulling me into what looks like an extremely dangerous situation, not to mention he’s exposing my unborn child to a cubic ton of secondhand smoke, and I am more than a little unhappy about this.
But I leave the shitty dive and find the ATM in question. It’s plastered with graffiti and stickers, but it works, and even has enough money inside to cover me even though it charges me five bucks per transaction and only releases five hundred at a time. When I’m done, I head back inside and hand the cash to the lovely Mr. Pussyfingers.
“Thank you very much,” Pussyfingers says, running a thumb over the stack. “Tony here’s lucky to have a lovely friend like you, miss.”
“Tony here is lucky he’s not dead.” I gesture with my head. “Come on.”
Cowan gets to his feet, grinning huge. “Gentlemen. It was truly an honor and a pleasure. For you all, at least. For me, it was nothing but a long nuisance.”
“Looking forward to your next movie, Mr. Cowan,” Pussyfingers says as Cowan hurries past me toward the door. “Give me a consulting credit, you fucking bastard!” The table laughs for real at that one, and I follow Cowan out onto the street.
“You are truly a good producer, suit,” he says, striding away from the bar. “One of the best I’ve ever had. I recall this one trip to Buenos Aires—”
“Cowan.” I snap his name like a leather belt on flesh. “Stop.”
He looks surprised and I bet he’s not used to having people talk to him like that. But a smile comes across his face. “You have spine. I like it.”