“What’s that other place called?” Robert Possibly Richard asked. “Slick Rick’s? Got those dudes up in cages? Yeah, I think that’d be more your style.”
Ah, there it was.
This was exactly why Mickey hated working with the Luchesis; they were all a bunch of narrow-minded pricks. Mickey made no secret about who and what he liked, and it infuriated him endlessly he was gonna have to stand here and take this abuse if he wanted to get paid.
“I want my money,” Mickey said firmly, not allowing how his temper was boiling over to show. He could sense Duncan silently pleading with him, and he knew he had to stay calm. “Now,please.”
“You want a piece of me, sweet cheeks?” Tony offered, blowing him a kiss and cackling. “Come on. If I let you blow me, can we call it even?”
Oh, that was it.
Mickey grabbed the money from the table and turned to storm out of the little seedy bar. He could hear Tony and that other idiot, whatever his name was, laughing at him as the door slammed behind him.
He’d had enough of the disgusted whispers and underhanded comments, behind his back or to his face. He had been able to ignore the cheap cracks at his hairless appearance and sexuality and let them roll off his back because he always got paid.
But now…
Not being paid was a problem, a big one.
And Mickey was very good at solving problems.
“Mickey! Wait!” Duncan had come running after him, waving for him to stop.
Taking a deep breath, Mickey ignored Duncan and tried to center himself as he got behind the wheel. He drove a piece of shit sedan, and it did him no favors to drive angry. He let the rage wash over him and slowly exhaled, finally turning the key.
“Mickey!” Duncan banged on the window. “Hey! Will you stop?”
Mickey rolled it down. “What?”
“You can’t let those assholes get to you! Come back inside so we can finish—”
“No,” Mickey replied shortly. “I’m done with them.” He counted out some of the money, passing it over. “Here’s your cut, partner.”
“Mickey, what the fuck are you going to do?” Duncan demanded. “You’ve got that damn look on your face…”
“I’m going to handle it,” Mickey said. “Stay out of my way… and probably don’t come back to the bar today. Maybe not ever.”
“Mickey, wait! No! You can’t—”
He sped out of the parking lot before Duncan could talk him out of this. He had to be smart because what he was planning to do was very, very stupid.
Mickey lived with his grandfather in a dingy apartment near the Strassen Springs Pork Plant. It was small, filthy, and cheap. It was barely within the city limits and even on good days, the air reeked of death and rotten chemicals.
After parking his car, he headed to his front door. He lived on the second floor, and he quickly ran up the stairs. He processed how much time he had, and he knew this was going to be cutting it close.
It was just a few minutes after four o’clock, and Tony Luchesi’s crappy little bar officially opened for business at six o’clock. Right now, it would only be Tony, Robert, the bartender, plus the two thugs in the back protecting the stash of money they didn’t think Mickey knew about.
He would kill them all, take the money, and burn that shithole to the ground.
Duncan was going to be furious with him, but Duncan could piss right off. He didn’t have to deal with the bigoted bullshit like Mickey did.
“Michael…?” A weak voice called out to him as soon as he stepped into the apartment.
“Yeah, Pops?” Mickey locked the door up behind him, heading into the bedroom to find his grandfather.
The apartment only had one bedroom. Mickey slept on the couch.
“You workin’?” Pops asked, furrowing his thick brows as he struggled to focus. He was propped up in bed by a thick nest of pillows, and he looked so very small.
