"You took seven million dollars from me, and I want it back."
"I don't have it."
"You're going to get it."
"I'm not–"
"You know how I got to where I am, Mr. Barringer? I served my country flying supply planes from the states for army rangers."
Alarms go off in my head when he says army rangers. My adoptive father, Jack, was an army ranger, but I'm not going to let this guy know that what he's saying means anything to me.
"And."
"And I knew your foster dad or sorry...adoptive father, Jack."
I don't move a muscle in my face.
"Your father and a man named Nathan Carter and I had a deal back in the old days. We were all partners."
"That's bullshit. My father was a stone mason."
"Come on now, you think you and Jack lived in the ritzy part of Brooklyn off of a mason's income? Hell fucking no. Your father made his money with me back when we were rangers. I moved a lot of heroin in those planes I flew and he helped me. The split was fifty/fifty. I got fifty percent for transporting it and your father, and Nate split their half for helping me get it on the plane."
"Even if I were to believe this tall tale of yours, if you think Jack left me a lot of money when he died, let me assure you that he didn't. Just a small life insurance policy. If he had the type of money you're talking about, I would have known."
"You're one lucky son of a bitch, do you know that? If you were anyone else, you would have been dead the first thirty days of your stay in this steel cage. But seeing that your father saved my ass once or twice when I was young and dumb, I'm going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. I know Jack didn't have any money when he died. I knew everything about Jack. He had a gambling problem and a woman problem. He spent way too much money on craps and beer and pussy."
I tighten my fist that's resting on the table between us.
Jack was a good man, and I won't tolerate anyone telling me any different.
"Listen up–"
"No, you listen, Mr. Barringer. Our other partner, Nate, probably still has his money and the sweet thing is, is that I don't owe that son of a bitch shit. You're going to get it from him, or I promise you that you're dead the second you step out of this prison."
I stare at the one-eyed devil in his one good eye and can see that he means exactly what he says. I didn't protect my ass literally and figuratively in this place for five years to die.
"I haven't seen Nate since my father's funeral, but when I did he certainly didn't seem like he was rolling in it."
"What made us good at what we did is that we never brought attention to ourselves. You never even heard of me, right? That's because I keep a low profile. I'm way under the radar. So is Nate. Trust me when I say that he has some money stashed somewhere, and you better hope that it's at least seven million dollars."
"And how do you propose I steal this imaginary money?"
"You're a professional thief, Mr. Barringer. Do what you do best. Lie."
I slam my hands flat on the table in frustration garnering the attention of a couple of guards.
"Keep it down, Barringer," one of them warns me.
"I steal drugs from drug dealers," I say through clenched teeth. "I don't steal money from my father's friends."
"Drugs are money, Mr. Barringer. My money. Listen, I realize that you have some sort of Robin Hood fetish. I don't know why. Maybe you heard that your biological mama was a heroin addict or maybe a few of those kids in the foster home overdosed on some bad smack? Whatever the reason, that seems to be why you steal from businessmen like myself that only deal in heroin, and then you flush it down the toilet or some ridiculous shit like that. You think you're making a difference? Hurting us? Well here's the reality check. You aren't making a dent in my business. You aren't stopping anything. You're just making things difficult for yourself."
"If I wasn't making a difference, you wouldn't be here now would you."
He tightens his tie.
His voice rises an octave.
