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Like we were there to shoot the shit.
The bastard was tied to the chair, knowing his life was on the line, and we were unfazed.
Either it’d rile him into talking or insult him into it, his ego hit that he wasn’t under our skin. That his life meant that little to us.
He looked the second type, so I gave him my back as I talked to Nox. “Been thinkin’ about getting season tickets to the Bs for next year.”
“Cost a dime.”
“See Chara slammin’ bastards into the glass two feet in front of me? Worth the price.”
“Aye, that’s true. Dair’s been on my ass to get season tickets to the Sox even though that asshole doesn’t even live in the States, but Bs might be better.”
“Can’t go wrong either way. Or Celtics for that matter. Pats are good, but you’ll freeze a nut sittin’ out there all winter.”
There was muffled talking behind me, the metal chair creaking and scraping across the concrete floor.
Nox and I ignored him and continued our conversation until there was so much movement, I worried he’d knock his chair over, smash his head on the floor, and takeaway my fun.
“Didn’t your ma ever teach ya it’s rude to interrupt?” I moved to him, pulling the dirty gag away and then immediately dodging the loogy he tried to spit my way.
Predictable.
So much for a challenge.
“Fuck off,” he bit out, stretching his jaw side to side.
“Man,” I started, circling the chair, “isn’t it Criminal 101 to not return to the scene of the crime?”
“Aye,” Nox agreed. “But ya know they always do what Nash orders.”
“That’s bullshit. I’m no one’s fuckin’ dog.”
Ignoring him, Nox rubbed his beard. “What do ya think Nash was looking for?”
Vic’s cocky smirk fell when I said, “Nothing.”
Predictable.
A-fuckin’-gain.
I looked from Vic to Nox. “My money says Nash refused to pay this dumbass for the first job since he failed.”
“Fuck off,” Vic said, but it lacked the anger it should’ve held.
This isn’t about the money.
“Interesting,” Nox muttered, picking up on the same thing. Stepping away from the wall, he studied Vic and his flop sweat. “He went back ‘cause he wants back in Daddy Nash’s good favor. Shit shaking up over there?”
“Fuck off,” he repeated, that time looking pissed—and not just at us.
“Oh, damn.” I smirked, slowly shaking my head. “You’re already out. Cut off. We make a call from your phone, he’s not answering.”
“He would,” he tried.
A thought hit me, and disappointment sank heavy in my gut. “If he’s cut you off, that means he’s not worried about you talking ‘cause he’s been phasing you out longer than you know. You’ve got jack-fuckin’-shit to tell us.”
And I dragged myself from drunk, happy O for nothin’.
