Page 27 of Dirty Pool

Fuck.

“Where did you hear that from?”

“Word travels, Michel.”

“You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear. If you believe everything, then you’ll stand for nothing, Sal.”

The man grunted, but Michel didn’t turn around to look at him. It was far easier to see the truth when someone was looking at his face. Or, that’s what his father always liked to say, anyway. Michel didn’t know if it was entirely true, but he wasn’t about to test the theory out right then, either.

“Just stay the fuck away from the Irish,” Sal said, “and make sure you keep your head down, too. No more trouble, Michel.”

He lifted a hand over his shoulder. “Understood.”

• • •

“You the doc?”

Michel glanced away from the bartender he’d been chatting with for the last half hour. Apparently, the man had never been to New York, and Michel thought that was a fucking shame. Now, standing just a foot away from Michel’s back waiting was yet another customer. The bartender, knowing what Michel was doing in this club, turned away to leave him to his business.

He appreciated it.

Because finally … someone figured out it was better to just place him somewhere to sell their drugs. This club just happened to be mob-owned on the Italian side of things, so of course the employees knew to mind their business when the time called for it.

Of course, he was trying to follow the rules and stay out of trouble. He was only doing his business where he was supposed to be doing it, or where he had been told to work. That way, no one could say shit if something happened.

And yeah, he was keeping his head down. He hadn’t approached the Irish, and he had not crossed paths with even one since the weekend before. All good things, he was told. No one was too pissed off about what happened which meant he was expected to just keep moving and doing his thing like nothing was wrong.

Which meant … no Gabbie.

That didn’t mean he liked it.

Michel would be a damn liar if he said the phone in his pocket wasn’t burning a hole just sitting there. It would only take a single call—he had her number, right? One call, and he’d get to see her again.

He resisted the urge to do exactly that as he turned on the stool to face the waiting customer. Given that he sold outside of a regular, safe place—like his small bungalow, or something—everything he had on hand in his messenger bag was already weighed, and prepackaged. It made for easy, and fast, exchanges out in public.

Two hands meeting.

Cash sliding into his.

Drugs moving to the buyer.

“I am the doc,” Michel said, trying to keep his tone level. He still hated that fucking nickname, but it seemed like it grew on everyone else before it ever worked for him. Now, everybody who met up with him to buy simply asked if that’s who he was, and then they knew they could get their shit. “Who sent you over?”

The guy looked to the side, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t answer right away which made Michel stiffen a bit on the stool. The man nodded, and then looked back at Michel with a shrug.

Something’s wrong.

Michel knew it.

His first thought wasn’t cops, though, because he knew better than that. He was a small-time dealer doing this on the side when he was bored. It wasn’t even about the money because he’d have to move a hell of a lot more product to really make a difference. It was highly unlikely that he had even got on any cop’s radar as of yet.

“Uh, was just told you were the doc if I wanted to pick up some—”

Michel held a hand up to stop the guy from saying more. He didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes shifted to the side again, in the same direction as before. What was over there in the crowd that seemed so interesting, anyway?

Fourteen.

That’s how old Michel had been when he sold his first pill to some football player in his private high school full of rich kids that had more money than they knew what to do with. From that first sale, he’d learned a lot. His last name afforded him a bit of respect at home because fucking nobody wanted to mess with a Marcello, regardless of how much money they had in their bank accounts.