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My hands curled into fists as I watched the flames lick at his feet. I stepped back again as the heat radiated off Porter’s body.
“Ah! Ah!” his blood-curdling screams echoed in the night.
“Burn into ash, motherfucker,” I roared.
A smile that mimicked the Jokers was plastered on my face.“Time to pay Quinn a visit.”
***P***
Saturday at noon, I sat in a booth at Quinn’s restaurant overlooking the parking lot.
I remembered when I met Quinn. He tended the bar at one of the DeLuca gambling houses. During his lunch breaks, he’d sit at a corner table covered with plastic containers. He sampled the food that was in the containers, then scribbled on a notepad. I’d seen him do that for almost a week straight. I walked over to him.
“Hey Quinn.”
His brown eyes met mine. “What’s up, Franco?”
I sat in the chair across from him. “What’s all of this?”
The brightest smile lit up his brown cheeks. He straightened his muscled frame.
Five years ago, Quinn played football at the University of Oregon. I made good money from the bets I placed on his games. He should’ve gone pro, but that was a topic for another day.
“I’m opening a restaurant near U of O.”
I lifted a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Every day I taste test different dishes that I’ll put on the menu.”
Cajun shrimp wafted up my nose. “Everything looks delicious.”
He reached into his backpack on the floor and retrieved a plastic fork locked in a plastic sleeve.
“Try any of the dishes.” He placed the fork in my hand.
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I just hope it tastes as good as it smells,” I said as I pulled the fork from the plastic sleeve.
Clip stood nearby, grunting. I ate somewhere different almost every day because he was concerned, I’d get food poisoned. It wasn’t uncommon for the DeLuca enemies to attempt to take us out by poisoning our food.
“Clip, it’s all right. Quinn had no idea I’d ask to taste his food.”
“Yeah, Clip, I don’t have ill will toward Franco. He’s been good to me. I wouldn’t try to hurt him.”
I smirked as I shoved a forkful of grits with a plump shrimp on top into my mouth. The Cajun spices exploded on my tongue. The herbs in the grits weren’t overpowering. “It’s delicious.”
“You can have the rest, Franco.”
“Thanks. When will the restaurant open?” I asked between bites.
“In a few months. Every Thursday I park my food truck near U of O’s campus. The college kids flock to the truck in droves. I had to show my dad proof the restaurant would be a success before he invested in the restaurant.”
“Well, I’ll definitely stop by for lunch sometimes.”
Clip grunted again.
“Clip, just stop by and pick up the boss’s meal,” Quinn said.
“I will,” Clip growled.
