Now here was this random guy who’d already saved my life—you know, after nearly taking it—offering to lighten the load of those worries?
“What are we talking about here?” I asked, ignoring the churning in my stomach when discussing money.
“Five grand a month in weekly installments.”
Five grand a month.
That meant an extra twelve-fifty every week.
Just to not go to the cops about what I’d seen.
Was there really even any choice at all?
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asked, taken aback at my sudden compliance.
“Well, it really doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice here,” I said, trying to play it down.
“That’s true,” he agreed.
“So what now?” I asked.
“Now, I take you home and tell you how to take care of those wounds.”
“And the first payment?”
“Six days from now when we can be sure you’ve kept your mouth shut.”
“Then?”
“Then I will drop by and give you the cash. Same goes. Every week.”
“Where?”
“Your house. Or work. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
“Work,” I hissed, the reality dawning on me.
How was I going to work with a bum shoulder and thigh?
“Yeah, you have to keep working,” he told me, seeming to read my thoughts. “Don’t envy that,” he added. “But you can’t suddenly have a lot of cash with no way to explain it. From a tax standpoint, amongst other shit.”
He would know, I guess.
“Okay,” I said, thinking that if I took enough over the counter meds, I might be able to pull it off. Especially if I found ways to walk less and not carry plates with the one arm.
Sure, my tips were likely going to suffer while I healed, but I was just going to have to be okay with that.
The hush money would help make up for it.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “You ready to get out of here?”
With him?
No.
But what choice did I have?