8. Wolfe
WOLFE
Sal’s been polishing the same glass for five minutes.
The glass has been clean since minute two. I noticed because I notice things like that. Same circular motion, same pressure, same speed. When someone repeats a task that’s already done, it means their brain is somewhere else.
I’m sitting at the bar in a Slayer shirt eating the chicken parm that’s become the only meal I look forward to. The breading has this crispy texture that my brain locked onto the first time, maybe because it matches the crunch of the Cheerios, and now it wants it again every time I sit down here.
The lunch rush has cleared out. There’s a couple in the corner finishing their coffee, two guys at the far end of the bar watching basketball, and me. Sal’s got my ginger ale poured before I even sit down because that’s what Sal does. He remembers.
“So I’ve been thinking,” he says, leaning on the bar.
“About what?”
“About you.”
My eyebrows furrow. “Me?”
“Yeah, well, you eat here almost every day. You sit at the same stool. You order the same thing. You drink ginger ale like it’s going out of style.” He taps the bar with his finger. “And my sister keeps showing up at the same time you do, which she says is a coincidence.”
“It is a coincidence.”
“Wolfe, I’m dumb about a lot of things. I’m not dumb about that.”
I take a bite of chicken parm and chew slowly because I don’t have a good response and chewing buys me time.
“She talks about you,” he says.
I stop chewing.
“Not a lot. E doesn’t talk a lot about anything. But she mentioned you twice this week without me asking, which for her is basically a press conference.” He grins. “She said you eat cereal for dinner every night and she finds it disturbing.”
“Cheerios are a perfectly balanced—”
“Yeah, she told me you’d say that.” He shakes his head. “Look, I’m not going to do the whole overprotective brother speech again. I already did that.”
“You did.” I drop my hand and tap my fingers against my knee.
“But I will say this.” He stops polishing the glass he’s been working on and looks at me. “She’s been different since you showed up. Not a lot. But enough. She’s less...” He searches for the word. “Wound up. Like she’s got one less thing on her shoulders.”
I don’t know what to do with that. My brain tries to process it and doesn’t get very far because the implication underneath his words is that I’m doing something good for Eva, and I don’t know if that’s true.
I’m lying to her about who I am. I’m using her as an intel source, a spy.
And I’m sitting at her brother’s bar eating his food while he tells me his sister seems happier, and the disconnect between what Sal thinks is happening and what’s actually happening makes my throat tighten and my gut churn.
“She deserves someone who’s straight with her,” he says. “That’s all I’ll say.”
Damn, that one lands like a brick to my chest.
The glass is clean. He’s still polishing it.
That’s when the chime over the door jingles.
Before I can turn my head, the hairs on the back of my neck shoot up.
Two men walk in. Gold chain guy and his short, neckless sidekick. I recognize them from my camera feeds. They’re in expensive suits but still manage to look like they have zero taste.
His spine stiffens. His grip tightens on the glass. His fingers tighten and his knuckles change color. I don’t know what he’s feeling. I never really know what people are feeling. But I know what his body is doing, and his body just went rigid.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
Gold chain leans on the bar. Too close. “Just checking in.”
“I’ve got a payment coming Friday. Same as always.”
“You’d better be on time with it.” He picks up a menu, flips through it without looking at a single page. “Mr. Hoxha isn’t happy with late.”
Hoxha. I make a mental note of the name.
The shorter one scans the room. His eyes pass right over me. A guy with a half-eaten plate of chicken parm and a ginger ale doesn’t register as a threat, so his eyes keep moving.
“Tell Mr. Hoxha I’m good for it,” Sal says. “Never missed a payment yet.”
“You missed two weeks ago,” Gold chain grunts.
“I was one day late. One.”
“Late is late.” Gold chain drops his voice and steps closer to the bar. “We’ve been patient. But patience has limits.”
Sal doesn’t flinch. His jaw locks and the muscle near his temple jumps, but his voice doesn’t waver. “I understand.”
“Friday. First thing. And you’ll give us the full amount this time. No more installments.”
“But that’s not what we agreed—”
“Agreements change.” Gold chain taps the bar twice with his knuckle. Same move as last time. Like he’s claiming the place. And Sal. Then he smiles at Sal like they’re old friends and leaves with No Neck.
The couple in the corner is gone. The basketball guys left ten minutes ago. It’s just me and Sal and whatever Marco’s doing in the kitchen.
Sal picks up the glass again and polishes it. Again.
It’s been clean for twenty minutes.
He catches me looking. “Business stuff,” he says with a shrug.
I nod. But I don’t ask any questions.
He turns away from the bar and slams his hands on the kitchen doors to open them.
Through the small windows, he leans back against the wall with both hands flat on either side of him.
His head hangs between his shoulders. I count ten seconds before he straightens up, scrubs a hand down the front of his face, and walks back out.
The glass is back in his hand before he’s fully through the door. He wipes down the end of the bar, leaving me to finish my food. Marco yells for Sal and he heads back into the kitchen.
The door chime rings and I look up.
Eva comes through the door the way she always does…eyes first. They scout the room as usual, which tracks considering the fact that she’s working for a Russian gangster. She sees me, gives me a nod, and drops onto her stool.
“Where’s Sal?”
“Kitchen.”
She looks at me and cocks her head. “You look weird.”
“That’s a new one.”
She rolls her eyes. “I just mean your expression is off. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Wolfe.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Your thumb is doing the thing.”
I look down. She’s right. My thumb is tapping against my leg, same way it was when those guys were in here. I hold my thumb still.
“Something happened,” she says. “Tell me now.”
Sal comes out of the kitchen before I have to answer. He’s all smiles, like he wasn’t just threatened by two menacing assholes. But Eva’s eyes narrow the second she sees him.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
“Nothing, E. It’s just been a long day.”
“Liar.” She points a finger at her brother’s face. “Your jaw is doing the thing.”
“I don’t have a thing.”
“You absolutely have a thing. You’ve had the thing since we were twelve.” She leans forward. “What happened?”
“Some guys came in to talk about business. That’s all.”
Her jaw tenses and she grips the edge of the counter. “The same guys?”
He doesn’t answer, just drops his eyes to the counter.
“The thug motherfucker one with the gold chain?”
Nothing.
“Sal, I swear to God—”
“It’s handled, Eva,” he says, raising his eyes to her.
“Bullshit. It’s not handled. I know you, Sal.” She jumps off the stool. “Which way did they go?”
“E. Sit down.”
“Which way?” she yells, her fingers balled into tight fists.
“It doesn’t matter—”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not—”
“Your hands,” she says. “Right now. You’re fucking shaking. What the hell, Sal?”
His eyes flash, his forehead pinched. He puts the glass down. They stare at each other and it’s like a standoff to see who’s going to blink first.
“Please,” he says in a low voice. “Just let me handle it.” Then he walks back into the kitchen, his shoulders slumped forward. Completely defeated.
Her stony expression cracks the slightest bit, and frustration seeps out when she realizes she can’t fix everything, as much as she might want to.
She turns to me. “Did you see them?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just sat there?”
“Yeah.”
“While they threatened my brother, you sat on your stool eating chicken parm.”
“I was gathering information.”
“You were gathering information.” She repeats it, an incredulous look in her eyes. She shakes her head. “That’s great, Wolfe. Really helpful. While you were gathering information, those men were in my brother’s face telling him they’re going to—”
“I know what they said. I heard every word.”
“Then why didn’t you do something?”
“Because doing something right now is how people get hurt. Including you.”
“Fuck this,” she mutters, flipping around to head for the door. I rush past her, putting myself between her and the door.
“Move,” she snaps.
“No.”
“Wolfe. Move.”
“You’re not going after them.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I’m not doing.” Her eyes are dark and hot. “Those men are threatening my brother. My brother. The only person in the world I have left. And you sat there and did nothing and now you’re standing between me and the door like you have some kind of right—”
She stops talking and shoves me with both hands. Hard.
I don’t move.
She shoves again. Harder. Shock flickers in her eyes. I guess she figures a guy like me will crumble when a little force is applied.
She doesn’t know me. Neither did my father.
“Get out of my way.”
She tries to go around me, and I catch her by the wrist.
Her pulse races under my thumb, fast and angry.
Three seconds. My brain counts them because that’s what my brain does, except it’s not doing anything else right now, which is very wrong. No analysis. No next move. Just her pulse and the warmth of her skin and a full system meltdown.
“Let go,” she says through clenched teeth.
I let go.
But she doesn’t step back. She stays right where she is, close enough that I can smell her soap. She stares at me with an expression that reflects no less than six things at once.
“Don’t ever grab me like that again.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t get to put your hands on me because you think you know better.”
“I know.”
“I hope so because the last man who thought he could control me is the reason I spent fourteen months in a jail cell.”