Chapter 3
STELLAN
The golf cart teeters and nearly goes over as I take a wild turn going way too fucking fast. Wind whips through my hair, and a group of old bastards watches me with real rage. These country club people don't seem to like me very much. One waves a club and yells something obscene.
I choose not to reply. My better nature prevails. Which might be a first.
“Offer them two million,” I shout into my phone as the cart clatters onto a path. “Go up to five if you have to.”
“Five million?!” My realtor sputters at the other end of the call. She’s a sharp lady, but this is absurd even by my lofty standards. “Stellan, that building isn’t worth more than $1.5M at most.”
“Then get the deal done.”
“The building isn’t even on the market. I put in some calls—”
“Six million. Eight. I don’t give a shit. Make it happen, Cathy.”
She lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. This might not be about money.”
“It’s always about money, and you know it.” I come to a skidding halt at the back side of the club’s main building. It’s a bougie spot outside the city in the affluent Main Line suburbs. Real estate is obscene out here. An actual golf course is like playing putt-putt on top of gold.
I hang up and shove the phone into my pocket.
With a whistle and a smile, I stroll into the back entrance.
Nobody’s around as I make my way toward the kitchen, pausing only to poke my head into the dining room.
It’s early, a little past nine in the morning, so the place isn’t too crowded. Most of the members are out playing.
That’s good. Don’t want to disturb their breakfast.
I find the double doors and push through. Several cooks are lazily prepping for lunch. A few look up with confused frowns, but nobody moves to stop me. The main chef is likely busy with the few breakfast orders that did come through.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I say as I walk past.
One older Hispanic guy squints at me. “You lost?”
“No, amigo, estoy exactamente donde necesito estar.” No, friend, I’m exactly where I need to be.
He looks bemused as I keep going deeper into the kitchen. It smells like bacon and French fries. The heat coming from the ovens is oppressive. No wonder people hate working back-of-house jobs. It’s a never-ending shit storm.
I find my friend waiting back at the dishwashing station. Which is an honest-to-god surprise. I expected to roll through and leave empty-handed. No part of me imagined this scumbag would actually show up for an early morning shift.
But there he is. Brain-dead, swaying on his feet, probably coming down from a vicious high, but alive and well.
He’s balding, tattooed on his neck, slovenly with a patchy beard and greasy skin, plus a dozen or so scars crossing along his hands and arms. He doesn’t notice me until I’m right on top of him.
“Hello, Hector. Been a while.”
Hector, my very good friend, stiffens. He looks back at me in a panic. His squinty eyes widen. “Stellan? What the fuck, bro?”
I press the tip of my knife tighter against his spine and lower my voice. “If you make a scene, I’ll kill you before I leave. We need to have a friendly talk.”
Hector clears his throat. “Yeah, okay, sure. There’s the walk-in right over there.”
I add some pressure on the knife. “I don’t like the cold. Try again.”
“Fuck, bro! The bathroom!”
“Take me.”
He turns and walks at a steady pace. I stay close, smiling casually at the few guys who look over.
But I’m guessing they know my good friend Hector pretty well by now.
They probably implicitly understand that he’s a lowlife piece of shit and anything he does is inherently trouble.
Nobody sticks their neck out for him, despite the terror on his face.
We reach the bathroom. I kick the door shut and lock it. There’s a single toilet and some fancy soap on the sink. Hector whirls on me, hands raised.
“Stellan, bro, I know what this is about, bro, but we don’t gotta be like this. I’m at work, bro.”
“I noticed. Dishwasher? Really?”
“Don’t disrespect a working man, bro.”
“You sell meth.”
“I need steady employment for my parole officer, okay?”
I sigh and shake my head. “You’re such a piece of shit, you know that?”
If I were anyone else, there’s no doubt in my mind Hector would take serious offense to that. Instead, he only grins stupidly. “Yeah, bro, I know. You’re right. I’m a piece of shit, right?”
I tap the knife against my palm, considering. Here’s a guy doing his best. He’s waking up, clocking in, earning a check. Sure, he hits the street at night, slings drugs, beats prostitutes, but even still. A guy’s gotta get his kicks, right?
“Thirty-five hundred,” I tell him simply.
He scoffs a laugh. “What the fuck?”
“You owe me thirty-five hundred dollars. Three thousand five hundred, in case you weren’t sure.”
“I know what that is, but I mean, bro, I don’t got that much. Are you crazy?”
“Thirty-five hundred. That’s two thousand for the drugs you shorted me, plus a thousand for selling on my territory, and another five hundred for my time today. Thirty-five hundred.”
“I can’t, I mean, bro, look at me, you think I got that much lying around?” He sputters, gesturing at his dirty clothes. “I wash fuckin’ dishes and sell gram bags of meth. Come on, give me a break. I’ll work it off, whatever you want, but—”
I move forward. Hector probably knows it’s coming but he’s too slow and too stupid to stop me.
I grab one of his flailing hands, turn my body so his elbow is tucked into my armpit, and slam his palm down flat on the vanity.
I lock my grip, using my body as leverage, and stomp one foot down to pin his left shoe in place.
“Fuck! Oh, shit, Stellan, what the fuck!”
“Last chance.” I get the knife ready.
“Bro, I don’t have it, I swear, I’m sorry, I’ll do everything, please don’t, just please don’t—” He’s blubbering now. It’s pathetic.
“Five hundred discount for every finger.” I stab the knife down. His pinky pops off like the cork from a bottle of prosecco. Blood spurts out and he screams in agony. “Now it’s three thousand.”
“Oh my god, my finger, my fucking finger!”
“Pay me.”
“Please, Stellan, please—”
I move on to the ring finger. It takes a little more work or maybe I’m just bored. The bone cracks and the finger tumbles into the sink. More blood pours out. “Twenty-five hundred.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Oh my god!”
“Can you pay me now?”
Hector stares at me in the mirror, eyes wild and wide—
And he shakes his head, pale and sweating.
“One more,” he whimpers.
Well, fuck me.
I have to admit, that’s incredible. He knows his financial situation. He’s also smart enough to know that I’m doing him a solid. If I weren’t willing to give him a finger discount, I’d probably just cut his throat and toss him in the river.
I slice off his middle finger as quickly as I can. It’s a mercy, really.
Once I release him, he drops to the floor, cradling his ruined and bloody hand. I toss him some paper towels. He wads them against the wounds.
“Two thousand,” I say, poking at the severed fingers. “You got two thousand?”
“I’ll give it to Frankie tonight.” He’s sobbing and hugging himself. “I swear, I just gotta get it from my apartment.”
“If you try to run, I’ll kill you and I’ll burn your mother’s apartment. I’ll slice off her fingers, make sure she matches her son. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Stellan. I swear, I won’t do it again. I got the money. I’m so sorry, bro.”
“I bet you are.” I toss his fingers to him. “I think these are yours. Tell those rats you work with that I’m watching. I want my cut. Don’t make me come here in person again. You know I hate working hard.”
I leave the bathroom whistling to myself. Several of the cooks are gathered in the hall looking on in terror. The guy I spoke to when I first showed up stares at me with fear and respect.
“Esta bien?” he asks. Is he okay?
“Sobrevivira, desafortunadamente.” He’ll live, unfortunately.
The sunlight feels oppressive. I walk to my car with my hands shoved in my pockets. I hoped that coming here and taking care of Hector myself would be cathartic. It’s been a while since I’ve gone on an old-fashioned shakedown like that. Typically, my crew handles these details.
And it did feel good. I relished the feel of the blade through his flesh. There’s a part of me that’ll always love pain. Suffering never fails. It never walks away. It never turns its back. Suffering is always there for me.
But Hector wasn’t enough. I need more to quiet the voice in my head. There are too many pressures right now, and a huge hole opened in the middle of my life last week. Maybe I thought I could fill it with blood.
Apparently not.
My phone rings as I start the BMW’s engine.
“Stellan? It’s Cathy. The owner got back to me.”
“Was our friend amenable to my offer?” I wipe my hands on a spare towel I keep in the glove compartment.
“Two million did the trick. You’re overpaying, though.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Send over the paperwork. I want this to close as soon as possible.”
I smile to myself. Cathy couldn’t possibly understand, but this is going to be one of the best investments I’ve ever made. It’s a long-term play.
Potentially, it’s the rest of my life.
All for a fucking waitress.
A girl who could be the key to everything.
Only she has no idea.