Canon piped up. “Louie’s been skimming from the liquor runs, I told you. And that new corner by the college? It’s dead. Kids these days are on Adderall, not whiskey.”
Moab snorted. “Or maybe the prospects are too slow moving product. I heard the last shipment sat in the kitchen for two days.” He shot a look my way.
I didn’t flinch. “If it was up to me, I’d snort it all and invoice you for the experience.”
A few men laughed. Moab didn’t.
Vin cut the laughter with a single finger tap on the table. “Enough. Here’s how it’s gonna go. Canon, you and Moab handle the Louie situation. Shiv, you bring the prospects up to speed on college ops. And if one more case of Jim Beam sits for longerthan five minutes, the prospect responsible is gonna drink it all or die trying. Clear?”
Three men answered, “Gospel,” in unison.
I stayed silent, which got me a nod from Vin. “Next, security,” he said. “With that last fight, cops are sniffing again. Axel, you work any bars before?”
I shrugged. “I’ve worked a lot of things.”
Vin looked through me. “You ever break a guy’s arm for not tipping?”
I smiled. “Only if he had it coming.”
“Good. You and Shiv do door tonight.”
Meeting adjourned, everyone returned to their default states of bickering, drinking, and plotting. Shiv cornered me by the exit.
“You ever run college collections before?” he asked, fishing a pack of smokes from his pocket.
I shook my head.
He lit up, exhaled in my face. “It’s easy. Most of them are too scared to say no. If you get a holdout, just threaten to post their mom’s nudes on Reddit. Works every time.”
I laughed. “You do that often?”
He grinned. “I got a whole file. Wanna see?”
I declined.
That night was my first on door duty. The bar ran at a low thrum, but it was the faces that made it interesting; college kids with fake IDs, retired hellraisers with old club colors, and the regulars, who viewed the place as a last stand against the collapse of Western civilization. My job was simple: scan for trouble, bounce the trouble, and collect cover charges. Shiv taught me to shake down anyone in Greek letters for extra, “just for the privilege.” I took to it fast.
An hour in, a man in khaki shorts and a Vineyard Vines polo showed up, arms roped with muscle but face baby-smooth. He flashed a smile and said, “You guys got IPAs or just pisswater?”
I said, “We got IPAs, but they’re all labeled ‘Pisswater.’ You want it or not?”
He tried to laugh it off, but then Shiv did his favorite trick—stepping in, standing too close, and saying, “That’s a nice watch, is it real?” When the kid didn’t answer, Shiv smiled wide and said, “Good. You get to keep your arm.”
The preppie hustled inside. Shiv leaned close. “You see what I did there, Axel?”
I nodded.
“Never let them think you won’t do it. Even if you’re just fucking with them.”
I logged it. Peanut might’ve been a psychopath, but he was an efficient one.
Later that night, as I cleared the back alley for trash, two other prospects—Chase and Flip—were out there “smoking a joint” but actually just killing time.
Chase was built like a rubber chicken, all joints and bones, with a laugh that made you want to check your wallet. Flip was smaller, covered in stick-and-poke tattoos, and had a permanent bruise under his left eye. They were the first to see me as an actual threat, not a temp. They showed it in small ways.
“Yo, Axel,” Chase called, flicking his smoke into the dumpster, “I heard you used to run with the Cartel. That true?”
Flip snickered. “More like ran from them.”
