Chapter 4 Jo Where's My Money

Frank worked for a mob boss named Mr. Ricky, shaking down the shops in Little Gotham week after week without fail. Dukes served as his muscle, a silent threat that rarely needed to speak, and the two had been partners for several years, forging a bond built more on necessity than trust. They drove around in a shiny black car that carried a classy mob feel, its polished chrome and deep paint reminding Frank of the cars of old, the kind his father used to admire from a distance.

A freezing fog hovered in the air, thick enough to swallow the streetlights whole, as Frank and Dukes made their way to the Bottoms. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, reflecting off the broken windows they passed, scattering fractured light across the cracked pavement. This part of Little Gotham looked abandoned, as though the city itself had given up on it long ago. The paint on the buildings had chipped and faded, peeling away in curling strips that exposed the gray rot beneath. Even the streets weren't paved; they were covered with gravel instead, and Frank could hear it crunching under his wheels, a steady rhythm that matched the tension building in his chest.

Frank stopped the car, brakes screeching in protest, and looked up at the large painted sign atop the building - a bright red lobster claw, curled and menacing against a faded background. It read Papa Jo's Seafood Shack.

"Jo's late again," Frank said, killing the engine.

Dukes loaded his gun with practiced ease, the click of metal sounding almost casual in the quiet car. "Third time this year."

Frank struck a match against the rough side of the box and cupped his hands around it to light his cigarette. He rolled down the window to blow out a puff, but the wind pushed the smoke right back in. Dukes coughed, his nose cringing.

"Franky, roll up your window. That stinks," he said, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Stop being a baby about it. It's only the smell of my smokes," Frank replied, taking another drag just to prove his point.

They climbed out of the car, doors shutting in unison with a heavy, metallic thud. Dukes shivered against the cold and buttoned up his jacket. "Freezing out here," he muttered.

Inside, the warmth of Papa Jo's Seafood Shack stood in stark contrast to the chill they'd left behind. Frank took off his hat and hung it on the stand near the door. Dukes scanned the room, spotted Jo near the back, and pointed. Before they could take another step, a waitress approached.

"Hi gentlemen, my name is Jane. How many people are in your party?" she asked, her voice bright and practiced.

Frank leaned towards her, his tone dripping with false charm. "Sweety, I'm here to talk to your boss. Let him know Franky's here."

"What do you want to talk to Jo for?" she asked, suspicion flickering across her face.

"Just mind your business and get him," Frank snapped.

Jane walked briskly across the floor to a man in a white three-piece suit standing by the swinging doors, his hair slicked back, a thin pencil mustache framing his upper lip. She told him about the men waiting by the entrance. Jo's composure faltered for a moment, his hands fidgeting as he straightened his tie before moving toward the entrance.

"Go deal with your customers," he told Jane, his voice tight.

"Okay, Jo," she replied, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"Greetings, gentlemen," Jo said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Jo," Frank replied flatly.

"Come, let's speak in the back," Jo said, his voice shaking as he gestured toward the office with a trembling hand.

Jane watched them go, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. Dukes closed the office door behind them with deliberate slowness and locked it, the bolt sliding into place louder than it should have. Jo sat down, clasping his hands tightly to hide their shaking.

"So, how can I help you guys?" he asked, his voice unsteady.

"Jo. Jo. Jo. You know what I hate the most?" Frank asked, circling the desk slowly.

"What's that?"

"It's people like you. You try to play like you don't know why we're here."

"No, Mr. Frank, it's not like that," Jo insisted, shaking his head.

"Then you tell me why I am here."

"Because my payment is late," Jo admitted, his shoulders slumping.

"Bingo. Why is it late, Jo?"

"Mr. Frank, about the money - I just need a little more time. My business is struggling right now, and I just don't have the funds," Jo pleaded, his voice cracking.

"You don't have the funds? This place is packed, Jo, and you expect me to believe that?" Frank's voice rose, disbelief coloring every word.

"Yeah, but this is our Monday lunch rush. We are always busy on Monday, Mr. Frank," Jo explained, desperation creeping into his tone.

"No, I don't think you understood. I don't care about your Mondays. What I do care about is Mr. Ricky's money, and if I don't see Mr. Ricky's money, you and your establishment might not see tomorrow." Frank leaned in close, letting the threat settle before pulling back.

Dukes stepped closer, cracking his knuckles with a sound that seemed to fill the small room.

"But - " Jo started, his voice breaking.

"Shhh. I'm still talking. The boss said Monday, right, Dukes?"

"That is what he said," Dukes confirmed, low and even.

"So, tell me what happens if I don't have the money for my boss," Frank said, staring into Jo's frightened eyes.

"I don't know, sir," Jo answered, the words barely making it out.

"I'll tell you what happens: I get the snot beat out of me. That's what happens. Do you want this pretty face of mine to be beaten?" Frank asked. Dukes smiled at the thought, clearly enjoying where this was headed.

"No, Mr. Frank," Jo said quickly.

"Neither do I, Jo."

Frank waved his hand in the air, and Dukes drove his fist into Jo's stomach without hesitation. Jo crumpled over, gasping for breath, tears welling in his eyes.

"So, where is his money?" Frank asked, his patience gone entirely.

Jo reached under the center of his desk, his hand trembling. Dukes lifted his jacket to reveal his gun.

"I'm not reaching for anything, I swear," Jo said, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. He untaped a wad of money hidden beneath the desk and slapped it onto the surface, his hand lingering there for a moment, as though letting go of it physically pained him.

Frank picked it up and tossed it to Dukes without a second glance. "It better be all here, Jo. Dukes, count it."

Dukes scrolled his thumb across the bills, eyes narrowing in concentration.

"So, is it all there?" Frank asked.

Dukes nodded once.

"Good. Now, was that so hard, Jo?"

"Please, Mr. Frank, can't you show us a little mercy? This is all we have. Without this money, we won't be able to stay open," Jo begged, his voice breaking into something close to a sob.

"And that is not my problem. My job is to collect the boss's money. If you have a problem with that, Jo, why don't you tell Mr. Ricky yourself? I'm sure he'll understand."

"I can't do that," Jo whispered, defeat washing over his face.

"I see. If you are late with Mr. Ricky's money again, you and your employees will be floating in the Gotham River. So don't be late next time."

"Yes, sir," Jo managed, his head bowed low.

Dukes unlocked the door and opened it, the sound cutting through the heavy silence of the office. They headed to the front, leaving Jo hunched over his desk. Frank grabbed his hat and walked out without a backward glance. Jane rushed to Jo's office moments later and found him crying, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

"Are you alright, Jo?" she asked gently, kneeling beside him.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he said, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, his voice betraying the lie.

"Okay," she said softly, though she didn't quite believe him.

"Jane."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell the girls we're closing early."

"Okay, Jo," she replied, casting one last worried glance before leaving to deliver the message.

It was starting to get dark, and a light layer of sleet had fallen on their car, coating the windshield in a thin, glittering sheet. Frank took out the money, and with his back turned to Dukes, he pulled a hundred from the top of the stack and pocketed it in one smooth motion, sure Dukes hadn't seen.

"What are you doing, Franky?" Dukes asked, a knowing edge in his voice.

"I'm adjusting my belt. Why?" Frank replied, feigning innocence.

"You know you can only take so much from Mr. Ricky before he finds out," Dukes said, his gaze steady and unblinking.

"You saw that, huh."

"Of course I did. Nothing escapes my view. Being the muscle isn't my only job. Just know this: Mr. Ricky might be like a brother to you, but friendship is thinner than money."

"So, are you going to snitch on me, Dukes?" Frank asked, searching his partner's face for any sign of betrayal.

"I'm no snitch. You can trust me, Frank. I'm just saying, don't get caught. He doesn't just get rid of you; he gets rid of your family, and he gets rid of your friends."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to get caught, okay?" Frank said, forcing a confidence he didn't quite feel.

"Alright," Dukes replied, though doubt lingered behind his eyes.

By the end of the week, they had hit every business in Little Gotham, leaving behind a trail of frightened shop owners and empty cash registers. Frank heard on the news that Jo was found dead in his office on Tuesday morning, the report delivered in a flat, detached voice that made the tragedy feel distant and unreal. His gun lay on the floor beneath his dangling fingers, the scene arranged with a precision that told its own quiet story. His waitresses said they never saw it coming. They insisted that Jo had always seemed like a very happy guy, and none of them could explain why a man so full of warmth would end his life the way the papers claimed he did.