The Meeting

Chapter Three

Bowen

  The door opens to the bar as a woman with dark cherry hair waltzes through like she owns the place. Her demeanor is tenacious and she’s carrying herself like it's her God given right to be here. She steps up to the bartender and asks him something, he turns his head and points at me. Fuck. Usually my manager handles the nuisance of hiring someone, but as of yesterday, I now have to deal with that again. 

  Cherry Red walks straight to the table I'm sitting at as I read the receipts from last night's deliveries. "No." I state nonchalantly, keeping my eyes glued to the papers. 

  "I'm not asking for a date, just a job." She responds with a sweet smile. Right, as if I'd date anyone, let alone her. She looks like a misplaced Princess, trying hard to not fit in. 

   Studying her face, she’s young, like possibly not old enough to be here, young. 

  “How old are you?” I ask, sitting back in my seat. I pray she’s over eighteen. 

  “You can’t ask me that,” she says with a single raised eyebrow. 

  “I don’t see an application sitting in front of me, so yeah, I can ask that. I need to know if you're even old enough to be gracing us with your presence.” I reply coldly, sarcasm drips from my tone. 

  “My presence is free currently but if you’d like to change that, I’m more than willing.” She fires back and I feel my lips twitch with what should be a smile. She’s quick, I’ll give her that.

  “Age, Red.” I say with a sigh.

  “Thirty three..no…thirty five.” She folds her hands in front of her like a prayer and either she has the best plastic surgeon in the world or she’s full of shit. 

  “If you’re thirty five, you either sold your soul to the fountain of youth or you have the best plastic surgeon in the entire world, neither of which I think is true so instead of wasting my fucking time why don’t you tell me you’re real age and we can continue this underwhelming conversation.” I snip, annoyed to be even playing this childish game. 

  “Oh you meant my age,” she says placing her hand on her chest theatrically, “I thought we were guessing yours.” 

  No you didn’t. I lean back in the chair and pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I can feel the headache coming on and I feel like it’s going to last way past the end of this conversation. 

  “Are you an idiot?” I ask blatantly. 

  “Not professionally,” she replies, “but I have played one on TV.” Her dark green eyes sparkle with mischief and I, again, don’t have the time or the mental capacity to deal with this bullshit. I stare at her for a long moment, inspecting her again. The overpriced bag on her shoulder doesn’t match the clothes she’s wearing. Is she a thief? Why the fuck is she so pretty? Cherry red locks frame her porcelain doll face. My cock twitches in my jeans as my eyes trail down her body. My stare must have an effect on her because she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. 

  “I’m nineteen,” she says finally. I have no idea how long it’s been since either one of us said anything. I was too busy wondering what she looked like under that striped button down and holed jeans. I say a silent thank you that she’s over eighteen and I’m not a full size pervert…today. That’s the funny thing about doing what I do, people would never assume I’m not a good guy, they’d say no way not him, he’s a great guy, stand up businessman with friends and a family he sees at Christmas. 

  “You can’t work behind the bar, you aren’t old enough but I do need another waitress. Where was the last place you worked? Have you ever served before?” 

  “I’ve been serving my entire life,” she mumbles more to herself than me. 

  “What was that?” I ask, my cock pressing against the zipper of my jeans so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break free and try to go home with her like a lost puppy. 

  “I said, I’ve been serving my whole life, just not professionally.” She repeats with a straight face. 

  “What’s your name, Red?” 

  “Ri- Harley, Harley Beaumont.” She stammers and I know well enough that the name she gave me isn’t hers. I know secrets and the people who keep them and this girl just said her name like it was her dogs. 

  “Harley, I’m Bowen Fox.” I hold my hand out to her to shake and she grabs it forcefully. Someone in her life taught her how to shake a man’s hand and it’s not a trait many women these days know. She holds my eyes as her palm leaves mine. 

  “Fox? Like…” she motions around her with her index finger. 

  “Yep, Fox like The Fox Hole.” I state with a nod. 

  “Ohhhh,” she says with a matching nod, “nice place.” 

  “Thank you,” I reply, “come back tomorrow and Chantel can get you set up. We open at eleven so if you’re here about ten thirty we can get your paperwork done before your shift starts?” I say it like a question and I have no god damn clue why. 

  “Perfect, I’ll be here at 10:30. Thanks Bowen…errr Mr. Fox.” She corrects with a wide smile. 

  “It’s just Bo.” I state with a smile of my own. Why the fuck am I smiling? 

  “Bo,” she repeats and the sound of my name in her voice does something weird to my insides. “I like that, it fits you.” 

  

********

  I can think of four thousand other things I’d rather do than sit in the parlor of this dated brownstone in south Boston. Clipping coupons with my nana sounds more riveting than sitting here with these assholes but a job is a job and money talks.

  “That little bitch ran away.” Enzo seethes, knocking his fist against the table, the ice in the whiskey glasses clinks loudly from the force. “You should have let me marry her when she turned eighteen like we originally agreed.” 

  “You mean when she was still finishing school?” Dominic replies coldly. These fat mafia fucks have been blubbering all evening about Enzo Moretti’s runaway bride. 

 “I don’t give a fuck if she was still in school or not. If she comes back tainted,” Enzo narrows his eyes, “there will be blood to pay. Hers or yours, I don’t care.” 

  Dominic sets his whiskey glass on the table calmly before pulling a revolver from his breast pocket and shoving it against Enzo’s temple like it’s no big deal. 

  “You threaten my blood again and I will show you yours. You hear me? Nod your head or so help me God, Mr. Fox will have one hell of a mess to clean up. I assume brain matter is not easy to remove from a chandelier.” 

  “It’s not.” I reply cooly, taking a long sip of the whiskey. Enzo narrows his eyes at me but nods his head in agreement with Dominic. 

  “Good, now apologize to our guest, I won’t tolerate your rude behavior.” 

  “I-“ Enzo starts to refuse but Dominic pushes the revolver harder against his temple, pulling the hammer back.

  “Apologize,” Enzo grits out through his teeth. 

  “Good,” Dominic puts the revolver back into his breast pocket and grabs his glass off the table. 

  “Now, can we get down to the reason I’m here? I’m not a bounty hunter, I don’t track people down. If you have a mess, I’ll clean it up but I’m not Liam Neeson and my particular set of skills will not help you in this scenario.” I state.

  “No. We don’t need you to track Ripley down. I need you to take care of a former business associate. He’s gotten out of line recently and he needs to be dealt with.” 

  “Permanently?” I ask, I need to know whether I’m going to be sending a message or sending him home.

  “Yes.” Both men answer in unison. 

  “Okay,” I stand from the chair abandoning the whiskey, “text me the info to the number you called me on and give me until the end of next week.” 

  “The end of the week? It’s Saturday.” Enzo guffaws. 

  “Yes, at the end of next week, much like bringing life into the world, taking life is a tedious process.” I walk out of the room, giving them no chance to ask extra questions or shoot the shit with me. 

   The engine of the car purrs as I sit outside the brownstone, I’m not stupid enough to think these men won’t double cross me. I'm waiting for Enzo to leave and head back to his apartment downtown. Yes I researched him, yes I know he’s just over fifty, he’s got high blood pressure, hidden offshore accounts and a mole he’s getting removed from his back next month because his doctor is worried it might be skin cancer. I don’t fuck around with the people I do jobs for, I’ll be balls deep in your life before you even knew I was there. Enzo was supposed to marry Dominic Beretta’s oldest daughter today, she was a no call no show. Smart girl, I couldn’t imagine a girl who just finished school being married to a man that’s days away from an AARP membership. The door to the house opens and Enzo walks out, lingering a little too long with Dominic’s wife as she hugs him goodbye. This guy is a slug. He walks down the steps after the door closes behind him pulling the fob for his car from his pocket. The lights of the car flicker as he unlocks it and he folds himself into the tiny sports car like an accordion. Red lights glow against the dark of the night as he turns the car on and signals that he’s entering traffic, I do the same, following him towards his apartment. 

  At the intersection he takes a right instead of a left and I continue to follow him, where are you going sir?  When he stops in front of a familiar building and parks outside I watch him as he enters and snap a quick picture on my phone in the event I ever need it. That’s the trouble with being a criminal doing business with other criminals, the lines drawn in the sand by the law don’t necessarily apply anymore. I can’t call the cops and neither can he. Everything has to be handled like the old west, quick draw and quicker thinking. I watch him for a few moments through the fogged glass of the window. What are you doing here, Mr. Moretti?