Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(152)

That makes today’s visit to Mickey all the more important. A morale booster.

“Alright, none of you get any assumptions in your heads, alright? Stick together and keep your nose out of the dirt, and whatever happens, never talk to any cops if you don’t know where their paycheck is coming from. Got it?”

There’s a shout of agreement from the club, and I give a curt nod.

“Good. Now who knows about this fucker Mickey?”

Lukas, our treasurer, speaks up first. “That the guy who owns Mickey’s North Liquors?”

“You got it,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Mickey’s an older guy, been running that shithole of his for decades. Never met an employee who’s come out of there without getting burned bad. There’ve been rumors about this bastard getting away with anything with his employees. Seventy-hour work weeks, no overtime, weaseling his way out of sick leave. Word through the grapevine at the unemployment office is that Mickey just laid off two of his workers with no notice, no severance, and no prospects. Incidentally, one of ‘em just found out she’s pregnant.”

There’s a chorus of outraged shouts from the club.

“Piece of shit!”

“Typical, fuckin’ fat-cats.”

I wave my hand at all of them to get them to settle down. “Alright, alright. Let’s take that enthusiasm where it matters, alright? Now I don’t know about you, but I think Mickey pulling this shit is a little too well timed to be a coincidence. Are we gonna let the FBI be what sends us running when the worker folks need us?”

There’s a shout to the effect of “Fuck no!”

“I didn’t think so,” I say, striding towards the door. “Now let’s ride.”

Minutes later, the wind whips across my face as our bikes tear through the streets of the city, our line of roaring engines announcing us as we made our way to the outskirts of town, a good ways from The Glass.

The FBI may be in town, but I won’t let that get in the way of business. After all, how can the workers of the city feel protected if we take to the hills the second the suits from Washington show up? The people need someone who will do what needs to be done through thick and thin.

It doesn’t take us long to get to the liquor store. There aren’t many customers around at this time of day, but it’s getting later, and the after-work crowd will roll through before long.

I don’t mind that. It won’t take long to get our message across to Mickey.

Our bikes take up most of the run-down parking lot. It’s a shoddy looking place with a burned-out letter in the grungy sign. Mickey cuts corners wherever he can, either in the employee’s paychecks or the building’s upkeep.

I stride up to the building and see a young man, presumably an employee refilling an ice machine out front. He glances up at me as I approach, then does a double-take as he notices the rest of the club behind me, looking alarmed.

“C-can I help you?” says the man in a thickly accented voice.

“I don’t know,” I say, “you a new hire here?”

“Hire? Uh, yes sir.”

“How much is the old man paying you?”

The man is visibly shaking now, and the fear in his eyes tells me everything I need to know even before he begins shaking his head and feigning not being able to understand my question. He’s clearly an immigrant being paid under the table.

“The answer is ‘not fairly,’” I say to him, giving the terrified man a pat on the back as I nod for the rest of the club to follow me inside. Some of the boys give him an encouraging nod as they file in after me, but the man is too terrified to react.

As we slowly flood the entrance to the shady liquor store, Mickey Lamar himself raises his head from behind the counter, a perpetual scowl on his face. He’s a wiry guy in his fifties, thin from doing nothing but working the shop his whole life and blessed with a kindly, elderly face. But the moment his eyes fall on all of us, his whiskery face blanches behind his thick-framed glasses.

“Fucking shit,” I hear him whisper as he starts to fumble at the counter, but before he can do anything, I hold out a hand to him while the other goes instinctively to the pistol tucked in my back.

“Hold up there, Mickey,” I say as I circle around the counter before tilting my head towards the club. “Fellas, mind tellin’ Mickey’s treasured customers that he’ll be closing shop early today?”

The club obliges, and the few customers in the shop are politely asked to make their way out while Mickey and I glare each other down over the counter. My hand is still at my gun. I don’t think Mickey has it in him to try anything stupid, but I know there’s a shotgun behind that counter, and I’m not taking any chances.