LitShark
Predator
- Joined
- Nov 8, 2002
- Posts
- 3,440
The snow was fresh on the ground, spotted and crossed with black where the narrow buggy tires and footsteps had pressed the powder down into mud. Sean Kline’s breath billowed out from around the brim of his hat, rabbit skin gloves tucked inside the deep pockets of his ankle length overcoat. Fresh flakes landed gently on his shoulders and hat, blooming outward into small damp spots of moisture on the tan colored fabric, liquefying on contact.
“They should have been here by now.” Sean groaned, extracting one hand from his pocket to reach into the pocket of his vest, removing a gold pocket watch and flipping open the face. “Something’s gone wrong. We should leave.”
“They’re coming, they’re coming.” The salt and pepper headed, wanna-be wiseguy who Sean had only heard referred to as The Greek reassured him. “You worry too much. Canadians aren’t always in a rush as much as you.”
“Business always comes first.” Sean sighed, raising a wide arc of steam around his hat when his breath met air.
The Greek lit a cigarette, and shortly after, a spotlight on the horizon cut through the low hanging mist over the black surface of the lake. Almost as if The Greek’s cigarette had drawn the boat out of the darkness with flame, in some bizarre gypsy ritual which Sean would never fully comprehend. He nodded over his shoulder to his associate Byron, who was a negro, but otherwise a trustworthy and capable fellow. Byron flashed the headlamps of the oversized, covered truck that would transport the shipment of whiskey. Once it was unpacked, they’d cut it with water and funnel it into old bottles of Scotch so that they could charge double and still undercut the competition’s prices.
In no time, the boat corrected its course, moving toward the flashing headlights. When the bottom met the sandy shoal, men in waders and long underwear hopped over the side, quickly lowering down crates of bottles and running them onto shore. The first among them set his burden down at Sean’s feet, splashed up to his chest in nearly frozen waters and shivering in the snow.
“You’re late.” Sean muttered, extracting his as yet unseen hand from his other overcoat pocket, possessively clutching an oversized roll of high value bills.
“Yeah, well…” The man in waders scoffed, holding his arms out to catch a dearth of flakes which joined the moisture already streaking off his arms. “Goddamn weather.”
“Nonetheless.” Sean muttered, loudly snapping off the top five bills from the thick fold before handing it over to the soaking Canadian. “Breach of contract has consequences, this reduction in your fee should suffice for my time wasted.”
With the stack of bills passed, the man who had come off the ship held the stack up to eye level, closing one eye and squeezing the stack between two fingers. Lifting it and letting it down to test its weight.
“Yeah, okay. We’ll take it. But you ought to remember, you aren’t the only thug trying to get your hands on this stuff down here. We’re taking risks too, on our end.”
“If you think you’re the only supplier who can be bought for the sum I’ve just paid you, you’re the biggest fool living. Now run on back to your captain and make sure he knows not to make promises he can’t keep. Byron, hurry up and load the truck.”
* * *
The Tiffany’s chandeliers were already lit by the time Sean returned with the shipment. He passed orders down to Byron to oversee the mixing and rebranding of the Canadian whiskey that would allow them to sell it as Scotch. In the several hours he had been gone, Sean’s work had piled up back at the Fleur Du Lys, everyone had questions for him. Which crystal glasses were to be set out and which were to be held back, which China settings were appropriate—mostly shit that Sean couldn’t care less about.
He was in the midst of putting out three fires when Byron came from the back.
“Sir, the performers are ready. Shall I have your personal bottle of Scotch brought down?”
“Performers? We still don’t open for another four hours, what the fuck do I need performers for?”
“Auditions, Sir. For the new Sunday set. Remember that you insisted that all hiring and firing decisions went through you directly.”
“Shit! Of course, yeah—bring the bottle.”
Sean had set up his nightclub to ensure that no strangers ever crossed his path outside of patrons to be fleeced. There was too much that went on behind the scenes of this polished gem that was of questionable legality and morality. He didn’t want any outsiders (even performers) stomping through his carefully arranged operation which had been so difficult to acquire in the first place.
How many had died in the endeavor, to carve out this small piece of downtown Chicago as his own? Jimmy, Ben, Carl, Andre—his mind wandered through the blood-soaked streets which were all still so recent and fresh in his mind as he poured himself three fingers of Scotch from a crystal tumbler. He sat down at the front and center table, his customary spot for watching auditions. It was typically one of his more pleasurable duties to the operation, but the late shipment had fucked his entire schedule all to pieces, now he’d need to multitask.
“Alright already, send out the first act, goddamnit!” Sean called into the wings, glancing up from his thick, leather-bound ledger book, going over the previous night’s receipts as he took a sip from the glass of brown liquor. “Or am I supposed to handle soft-shoe duties as well in this fucking place?”