“That’s not a number,” I reply.
Murphy scratches the side of his jaw and looks down at the counter before answering.
“Five that I know of,” he says. “Maybe six. Bars mostly. A couple small shops that deal with a lot of cash.”
My fingers tighten slightly against the wood.
“And they’re paying him.”
Murphy doesn’t answer right away.
Which is answer enough.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.
Murphy rubs the back of his neck.
“Look,” he says carefully, “most of those places are barely scraping by as it is. Somebody like Voss comes along, starts making threats, breaking things, sending guys around to remind people what could happen next… people start making calculations.”
“What kind of calculations?” I ask.
“The kind where they decide a few hundred bucks a month is cheaper than rebuilding their business from the ground up.”
Anger starts creeping up my spine.
“So they just roll over and pay him.”
Murphy lifts one shoulder slightly. “They survive.”
“And the ones who don’t?” I press.
Murphy exhales slowly.
“They get hit harder,” he says. “Windows smashed. Deliveries disappearing. Equipment getting damaged. One place had a truck fire in their parking lot last month.”
The words settle heavy in my chest.
For a moment I just stand there staring at the shelves behind him, picturing The Rust Nail with its boarded windows and that stupid note someone left on the bar.
This wasn’t random.
This was a system.
Murphy watches my expression closely.
“You’re thinking about doing something,” he says.
I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe.”
“Rae,” he says firmly.
“What?”
“That look on your face never leads to anything good.”
I push off the counter and step back toward the door.
“Relax,” I tell him.
