Molly Moon & the Monster Music by Georgia Byng

bribe people to lose.”
    The barkeeper raised his eyebrows to warn the customer that Mr. Proila had arrived, but the man was too drunk to notice.
    â€œThat’s how Proila got so rich,” the man slurred. “By cheating. Cheating and conning. Tokyo was an easygoing place till he came along. My cousin runs a grocery store. Proila sends his heavies along every week. My cousin has to pay them not to burn his shop down.” He took a slug of his drink. “The guy’s a monster. He’s not even Japanese. What hole of a place did he climb out of?”
    Mr. Proila watched the drunken man’s lips in the mirror behind the bar. A sneer spread over his hard face. Then he strode toward the bar and hopped up onto a barstool.
    The drunken man turned and suddenly saw who was next to him. “Ergh . . . argh . . . Mr. Proila!”
    â€œBeen in this town long? Maybe you speak English. Speak English so my young friend can understand.”
    Mr. Proila picked up a cocktail swizzle stick and began inspecting it, his stumpy half finger twitching.“So?”
    The man nodded his head dumbly. “Yeah, m-my . . . my grandfather born here, my father, too, and so was I. My family’s been in Tokyo for hundreds of years.”
    â€œWell, I wasn’t born here,” Mr. Proila replied, his voice icy. In a completely different tone he said to the bartender, “Gimme my usual.”
    The bartender nodded, picked up the silver cocktail shaker and began preparing the drink.
    Mr. Proila went on in a matter-of-fact voice. “I wasn’t born here, but even so, this town is mine. Tomorrow, you are going to get out of my town. For good.” The man’s mouth dropped open. “If you delay for even a day . . .” Mr. Proila insisted, watching the barman shake his drink, “things will get very ugly for you.”
    â€œB-but, Mr. Proila, I didn’t mean what I said. It was the drink talking. I got family here.”
    The bartender passed Mr. Proila his drink. He took a sip. “I said, get out.”
    The man practically tripped over his own legs as he turned. Miserable and terrified, he stumbled out of the bar.
    He brushed past Molly. She saw the fear in his face, but felt no compassion for him. She was impressed that a man as small as Mr. Proila could be so feared. She stepped up to the bar and sat on the stool beside him.
    â€œDo you have concentrated orange squash on the rocks? With a twist of Tabasco?” she asked the barman.
    Mr. Proila laughed. He translated Molly’s request for the bartender. Then he lit one of his huge cigars.
    â€œSo . . .” he began, smoke puffing out as though his heart were on fire. “So you want to work with me?”
    Molly took a sip of her drink. “It depends.” She eyed Mr. Proila’s hand, with its missing finger, and wondered whether she ought to hypnotize him now. It would make everything much easier, yet it would also make things too easy. She knew she could get what she wanted from Mr. Proila without hypnotizing him, and that would make her achievement all the more satisfying. Besides, hypnotized, Mr. Proila wouldn’t behave harshly toward her, and she wanted to get the worst of him. She wanted his insults; she wanted to counter his rude comments. She wanted to hit back and show him that she could match his darkness. If she hypnotized him, all the sport would be gone.
    â€œWhether or not I work with you depends onwhat kind of deal you are prepared to give me,” she said.
    Mr. Proila grimaced. Molly didn’t give him a chance to reply.
    â€œI want a good apartment up front, all expenses paid. And cash up front, too. Let’s say five hundred thousand pounds—not yen. As soon as I start performing, I want half of all profits. And I want to see your accounts so I know you’re being fair. If I make you three million pounds of profit within a month, then my percentage