San Francisco, California
April 20
Roman Block slammed the door to his Tesla, utterly dissatisfied at the soft thump. He walked with purpose up his front walk, ignoring his elderly neighbor who had paused her nightly rose bush inspection to wave.
Idiots! This is why I micromanage. They had one simple task, but no. Those morons had turned it into a clusterfuck.He dreaded the risk and the inconvenience, but he was going to have to oversee this himself.
His fury dissolved to unease in an instant when he saw his front door ajar and his alarm disengaged. He touched his fingers to the door, pushing it open the rest of the way, and spotted Loker Stillwater helping himself to a whiskey. Roman pushed down his unease. He’d been handling thugs his entire life. He could handle the gang leader.
Stillwater kept his back to Roman. “You have my money?”
Roman set his briefcase down, closed the door, and joined him at the bar. He reminded himself that Stillwater was a street gangster, nothing more. He may have been wearing a two thousand dollar suit, but beneath it were the scars and tattoos of a man who had spent his life in The Tenderloin.
“Not yet, but I’ll have it within the week.”
“May I ask how?”
Roman’s first instinct was to say no, but he could only push Stillwater so far.
“There’s a woman, Calliope Garland. She has the information we need on a work cell. I get that phone, I get my money.” At Stillwater’s raised brow he amended, “Our money.”
“And you will do that, how exactly?”
“I’m handling it personally. As I said, within the week.”
“All right.” Stillwater downed the eighty-year-old scotch like a shot of rotgut and set the glass on the bar. He withdrew his phone and walked to the front door. With a hand on the knob, he turned back to Roman and in an even voice added, “The money. One week.”
He left. The threat remained. Roman reached for the whiskey.