Short Cut (The Reluctant Hustler Book 2)

by J. Gregory Smith

Milosh sat at his table grinning like the Cheshire cat. The Tank sat at the next table over where he could see me and the front door at the same time.

  This back table sat near the small kitchen and hidden from the front part of the shop.

  “Welcome, Kyle. I’m so glad to have heard back from you.”

  “You’re a persistent man.”

  “Relentless,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink? Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  “Right to business. Very good. You wish for me to release Beet from his obligation?”

  “No.” I took out an envelope. “I want you to accept fair payment for his loan and then he has no obligation to you. Nor will you hire him to work for you in any capacity.”

  “Are you going to define ‘capacity’? I am just an immigrant, after all.” He smirked.

  “Save the act for the customers.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. Now then, are you prepared to move forward?”

  “I am.” I felt coated in filth.

  “Let’s outline the terms. You’ll find I can be reasonable.”

  “Fine. I will work, using the network and contacts from my colleague and what I have developed myself, to solve problems and help deals get done. In essence, I will be available to work outside the system in ways that provide discretion and support outside normal expertise.”

  “That’s not very specific,” he said.

  “What do you want, a legal agreement? Let’s try again. I can provide things, goods, services and information not available elsewhere, for a fee,” I said. “And in the interest of clarity, I will not support violent activities, provide or broker weapons, or work with recreational drugs. I’ll be happy to give the underserved community access to funds, paperwork or other services, not to mention apply leverage to facilitate bureaucratic logjams.” VP had helped me come up with some of the verbiage.

  “Logjams? Loans? We already do that. You have some large group of customers outside our territory? You have some permissions I am not aware of?” The confusion spread across Milosh’s face.

  “Permissions? Yes, you could say that. I was planning on doing the loans right here in Fishtown.”

  “I don’t need help with that. This is bullshit.”

  “You’re right, you don’t need help with that work.” I took out another envelope and placed it on the table.

  “What is that?”

  “That, Milosh, is your franchise fee. Pick it up, take it with you, and close up shop. Go back to Kosovo, go anywhere but here. I’m buying you out.”

  Milosh laughed, but his eyes darted toward Tank. “You have balls, more than brains, but you have enough of those to know who will work for who.”

  “Correct. I won’t work for you, and I’m not here alone.” I put my fingers in mouth and blew a shrill whistle.

  Tank reached inside his jacket. I heard the front door jingle and the metal detector shriek, pause and shriek, again and again.

  Behind us, heavy feet stomped in the kitchen and down the back hall.

  Milosh said something to Tank in what was probably Albanian. I think it meant something along the lines of, “Don’t get us killed.”

  The handful of staffers working the front were ushered into the back by some freckled heavyset guys, all with dark or red hair. The guy leading the group in the back was almost as large as Tank and he had black hair to go with his black eyes. A bone-white scar crossed his forehead and his nose canted to one side.

  I didn’t recognize most of the men. This last guy I knew by reputation and his notation in Ryan’s codebook. He was known on the street as Cullen the Killer.

  “How we doing?” he asked me.

  “I’m not sure. Milosh, how are we doing?”

  “Just like that?” he asked. “I take your money and disappear?”

  “For you,” I said, “it’s exactly that simple. For me, a little more complicated. But that’s my problem. The idea is that you take the money and go so you can avoid the disappear part.”

  One of the red-headed goons found that funny.

  I continued. “You had to keep pushing. Couldn’t leave Beet alone. Or me. Well, you got me in the game, after all. Just not with you, Milosh. I made a deal with the Irish.”

  “You lie.”

  Cullen came forward. “You know who I am?”

  Three Irish guys stood behind Tank. First time I ever saw him look nervous.

  “I do,” Milosh said.

  “Good.” Cullen nodded at me. “He’s with us. That means you don’t say yes or no to him. You take his money and say goodbye, or deal with my people. Right here and now.”

  Milosh wasn’t stupid. “We accept the deal.” He picked up the envelope. “Perhaps we can do business again in the future.” He looked at me with pure malice.

  “Live long and prosper.” I gave him the finger.

  * * *

  In five minutes, we’d all filed out of the place. I looked back and saw one red-headed guy lock the door and hang a “closed” sign. The rest of the “lads” cleared out and I was alone with Cullen.

  “Thanks for the whiskey,” Cullen said to me.

  “I hope the boys enjoy it.” I’d given him the bottle of rare whiskey that I received in gratitude for the cancer meds for that guy Ross’s sister. Apparently, she was already feeling better. Sounded fast, but what did I know? It felt nice to try and do a little good.

  “I’m sure they will.”

  I took a small package from my pocket. “This is for you. Thanks for getting my back.”

  Cullen took it and tore it open, then looked shocked at the plastic-encased baseball card. “Yastrzemski? This real?”

  “It better be, or I’ll give you his name.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I’m kidding. It’s real.” Mental note: do not joke around the tiger cage.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m in the knowing business,” I said. “Hey, the boys aren’t keeping me around ’cause I scare anybody.”

  He was lost in his new card like a little kid. Well, a kid who was six-five and killed people for a living.

  “I’m supposed to wait until you go,” Cullen said.

  “Okay, I’m out of here,” I said and got into the truck.

  “See you around.” He waved.

  God, I hoped not.

  * * *

  I drove back to Rollie’s feeling kind of sick to my stomach. Also confused. Also good, because when I saw Beet he would be a free guy. Milosh was pissed, of course, but his fear of the crew in the coffee shop wasn’t feigned.

  Hell, they scared me, and I realized that was exactly what the O’Briens intended.

  There was a police car double-parked in front of Rollie’s, holding an open spot for me. I pulled in and got out of the truck.

  Bishop sat in the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

  “Front seat or back?”

  “Funny guy.” He pointed to the seat next to him.

  I hadn’t been kidding.

  “We going somewhere?”

  “Just talking. I’ve been where you are. It’s going to be okay.”

  “How do you mean?” I said.

  “I was watching how you handled yourself,” he said. “You have the toughest guy in Fishtown eating out of your hand.”

  “That’s what you saw, huh?” I paused. “I’m surprised they didn’t make you.”

  “Oh, they know who I am. I guess that’s nothing to be proud of, but that was my point. You probably will never see most of those guys again. I don’t deal with them and neither will you.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Is that what you want? All in for the family and like that?”

  “No!”

  “Newsflash, they know that. Look,” he said, “they’ve got a lot of dirt on me. I have no illusions about that. But I fill a niche for them from time to time. I decide if it isn’t okay. I’m not looking to hurt anyone, never have.”
<
br />   “Neither am I,” I said.

  “You have connections that can be useful. They have plenty of heavies, as you saw for yourself. And our connection to them can help us, get it? Doc Crock isn’t around to work for us.”

  I had to admit he had a point.

  “I can’t help but feel like I sold my soul,” I said.

  “Do I look like a priest? You’re a favor broker, live with it,” Bishop finished.

  I got out of the car and went inside to see Rollie.

  * * *

  “How’d it go?” Rollie knew what I’d been doing. “You’re here, so it couldn’t have been too bad.”

  I took the beer he offered. “Where’s Beet?”

  “In back. I told him to pick some weeds for me. He seemed happy to have something to do.”

  “Busy as a one-armed weed-puller?”

  “Something like that.”

  I let the pause hang in the air.

  “Rollie, what did I just do?”

  “You did what you had to. And, no small thing, I think you probably saved that guy’s life.” He pointed out the kitchen window.

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “You ran off that scumbag at the coffee shop, didn’t you?”

  “By working with other scumbags.”

  “So?”

  “I never saw so many Irish wise guys in one place,” I said. “Talk about coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Yeah, they can do that. But you solved the problem. Milosh was going to push you until you gave in. Personally, I don’t need the house tossed again and if he’d come after me, I’m too old to fight with him. I’d be up for murder or in the morgue.”

  “I wish I could say you were wrong.”

  “It’s not perfect, but you found a way to scare him off without bloodshed. Bishop would tell you the cops couldn’t prevent it. They’d just be there when Beet or I or you got a toe tag.”

  “And now I’m mixed up with them.”

  “Think of it as they’re mixed up with you.” Rollie finished his beer. “Ryan wasn’t a saint, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t do some good. You’ve seen that for yourself, already been part of it. You color outside the lines, but I know you’re a good person.”

  “It gets messy, though,” I said.

  “Kid, the older I get, sometimes I think the only difference between messy and clean is who got caught.” He rinsed the empty beer bottles and placed them in a recycling crate. “Trust your instincts. Ryan left you with a toolbox. It’s up to you how you use it, not him, and not the Irish Mob.”

  “You’re a hell of a career counselor, Rollie.” I clinked my fresh beer against his.

  This next was going to be hard.

  “And if I’m going to replace Ryan,” I said, “it’s probably a good idea for me to move out of here. I figure his old house is as good a place for me as any. I’d hate to drag you down if I screw up.”

  Rollie nodded. “I appreciate that, but you need me, I’m just a phone call away. Except no collections. I’m too old to be a leg-breaker.”

  “I’m sure I can use all the help I can get. Think Tom will want to stick around?”

  “When he gets here, I’ll bring him by Ryan’s place for you.”

  “VP told me if I didn’t work with her, she was going to dox me into oblivion.”

  “Is that bad?”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure. Guess I better not find out.”

  Beet came inside. One arm was filthy, but he’d kept his cast arm pristine. “Hi Kyle! Did you talk to Milosh for me?”

  “Yup. You’re all set. No more coffee shop.”

  Beet beamed. “Thanks! I thought he’d never let me quit.”

  “I guess I’m in the helping business now. Hey Beet, wait here. I got something for you.”

  I went up to my room, which was about to revert to a spare bedroom in Rollie’s house. I found the package and brought it downstairs.

  “What is it?” Beet said.

  I opened the bag for him since he only had one arm to use.

  “A new Spock shirt!” He worked at wiggling his slinged arm free, then gave up and grinned at me. “A little help?”

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my wife whose first draft reading challenged me to raise my game and helped make for a much better story.

  I want to recognize the outstanding cast of editors, David Downing of Maxwellian Editorial Services and proofreader Michael Dunne. Finally, thank you to E-Book Launch for the great cover art and formatting work!

  Note from the Author:

  Thanks so much for reading. If you enjoyed this book, I’d greatly appreciate a review on Amazon or Goodreads. They can go a long way to help reach new readers.

  If you have a question or comment you can reach me directly at gregsmithbooks@yahoo.com.

  You can follow upcoming releases and author doings at my Facebook page here:

  https://www.facebook.com/J-Gregory-Smith-Author-297074464674/

  You can also find my author page from Amazon here:

  https://www.amazon.com/J.-Gregory-Smith/e/B002VW9IIU/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In addition to the Reluctant Hustler series, J. Gregory Smith is the bestselling author of the thrillers A Noble Cause and The Flamekeepers. He also writes the Paul Chang Mystery series including his breakthrough novel Final Price and the sequels, Legacy of the Dragon and Send in the Clowns.

  Prior to writing fiction full time, he worked in public relations in Washington, D.C., Philadelphia and Wilmington, Delaware. He has an M.B.A. from The College of William & Mary and a B.A. in English from Skidmore College.

  He lives in Wilmington, Delaware with his wife and son.