Emma.
Swinging doors swished shut behind Randy as he slipped into the kitchen of The Scotsman. Scotty stood in front of the deep fryer, cigar dangling between his lips, a fry basket full of chicken wings in his left hand. He rubbed his right hand over his round belly, leaving a smudge of barbecue sauce on the white apron. Randy cleared his throat. Scotty swore and dropped the fry basket into the fryer. The grease hissed and popped before splattering onto his bare arms. He jerked away with a scowl until he recognized Randy’s face, and all the color drained from his ruddy complexion.
“Jesus, Mackenzie, you scared the shit out of me.” Scotty drew in a deep, shaking breath and moved to put the prep table between them.
The scents of chicken and spices mingled with cigar smoke in the heavy air of the kitchen. Circles of sweat stained the underarms of Scotty’s T-shirt. He cast a nervous glance from Randy to the back door as if judging the distance. An inch-long ash quivered at the tip of his cigar. Randy stared at it, fascinated, waiting for it to drop into the fryer.
“Dude, that shit cannot be sanitary,” he said with a shake of his head, wrinkling his nose. “How the hell do you pass inspection?” He lifted a French fry to his nose, shuddered, and dropped it back on the plate.
“The cook walked out an hour ago,” Scotty said. “Food won’t cook itself. And I’ve got a full house out there tonight.” The hooded eyes glanced warily toward the door again.
With a long sigh, Randy leaned against the counter behind him and scrutinized Scotty. In his experience, there were only two kinds of men. Those who stood their ground and those who ran. Scotty, despite his beer belly and double chin, was definitely a runner. Given half a chance, he’d be a mile down the road as soon as Randy blinked an eye. To dispel any notions of escape, Randy shook his head in mute warning.
“So what’s up?” Scotty asked, wiping the perspiration from his shining crown with a dishtowel.
“You know what’s up,” Randy said, voice even and direct. He placed a hand on the counter, inches from the knife block, and tapped a finger on the granite. Scotty’s gaze flicked from the knife block to Randy’s face and back to the door.
Intimidation and subterfuge, no matter how effective, were a highly unpleasant necessity of the job. Some mornings he could barely look his reflection in the eye. It was the reason he hadn’t shaved in three days. The bristly hairs itched something fierce. His fingernails rasped through the stubble along his jaw, soothing the itch.
Scotty stared at him, frozen in place with the cigar ash growing longer by the second. “You said I had until the end of the night,” he said in a voice thick with distress. “It’s still early. You said…”
Randy shook his head and leveled his gaze on Scotty, taking in the puffy face, broken blood vessels around the knobby nose, and the bloodshot eyes. “Dude, you’ve really let yourself go. Have you thought about going to the gym? You should stop by Raoul’s sometime. I’d be happy to help you set up a workout program. Maybe do a little sparring?”
“I’ve got a bad back,” Scotty stammered, “and bad knees.”
Randy shrugged. “Just a suggestion. Think about it.”
“I don’t have your money.” The confession burst from Scotty’s lips like a gunshot, comical in its desperation. “But I can get it if you give me another chance.”
Randy shook his head and tried to hide a smile. This was going to be so easy. The long, slender boning knife slid from the wooden block with an ominous hiss. He ran a fingertip along the blade. Of course, he had no intention of using it, but Scotty didn’t know that. Sometimes having the reputation of a badass paid big dividends.
“So what are were going to do about this?” Randy asked, balancing the flat side of the blade on the tip of his finger. “I can’t keep carrying you, Scotty. It’s bad for business,
Swinging doors swished shut behind Randy as he slipped into the kitchen of The Scotsman. Scotty stood in front of the deep fryer, cigar dangling between his lips, a fry basket full of chicken wings in his left hand. He rubbed his right hand over his round belly, leaving a smudge of barbecue sauce on the white apron. Randy cleared his throat. Scotty swore and dropped the fry basket into the fryer. The grease hissed and popped before splattering onto his bare arms. He jerked away with a scowl until he recognized Randy’s face, and all the color drained from his ruddy complexion.
“Jesus, Mackenzie, you scared the shit out of me.” Scotty drew in a deep, shaking breath and moved to put the prep table between them.
The scents of chicken and spices mingled with cigar smoke in the heavy air of the kitchen. Circles of sweat stained the underarms of Scotty’s T-shirt. He cast a nervous glance from Randy to the back door as if judging the distance. An inch-long ash quivered at the tip of his cigar. Randy stared at it, fascinated, waiting for it to drop into the fryer.
“Dude, that shit cannot be sanitary,” he said with a shake of his head, wrinkling his nose. “How the hell do you pass inspection?” He lifted a French fry to his nose, shuddered, and dropped it back on the plate.
“The cook walked out an hour ago,” Scotty said. “Food won’t cook itself. And I’ve got a full house out there tonight.” The hooded eyes glanced warily toward the door again.
With a long sigh, Randy leaned against the counter behind him and scrutinized Scotty. In his experience, there were only two kinds of men. Those who stood their ground and those who ran. Scotty, despite his beer belly and double chin, was definitely a runner. Given half a chance, he’d be a mile down the road as soon as Randy blinked an eye. To dispel any notions of escape, Randy shook his head in mute warning.
“So what’s up?” Scotty asked, wiping the perspiration from his shining crown with a dishtowel.
“You know what’s up,” Randy said, voice even and direct. He placed a hand on the counter, inches from the knife block, and tapped a finger on the granite. Scotty’s gaze flicked from the knife block to Randy’s face and back to the door.
Intimidation and subterfuge, no matter how effective, were a highly unpleasant necessity of the job. Some mornings he could barely look his reflection in the eye. It was the reason he hadn’t shaved in three days. The bristly hairs itched something fierce. His fingernails rasped through the stubble along his jaw, soothing the itch.
Scotty stared at him, frozen in place with the cigar ash growing longer by the second. “You said I had until the end of the night,” he said in a voice thick with distress. “It’s still early. You said…”
Randy shook his head and leveled his gaze on Scotty, taking in the puffy face, broken blood vessels around the knobby nose, and the bloodshot eyes. “Dude, you’ve really let yourself go. Have you thought about going to the gym? You should stop by Raoul’s sometime. I’d be happy to help you set up a workout program. Maybe do a little sparring?”
“I’ve got a bad back,” Scotty stammered, “and bad knees.”
Randy shrugged. “Just a suggestion. Think about it.”
“I don’t have your money.” The confession burst from Scotty’s lips like a gunshot, comical in its desperation. “But I can get it if you give me another chance.”
Randy shook his head and tried to hide a smile. This was going to be so easy. The long, slender boning knife slid from the wooden block with an ominous hiss. He ran a fingertip along the blade. Of course, he had no intention of using it, but Scotty didn’t know that. Sometimes having the reputation of a badass paid big dividends.
“So what are were going to do about this?” Randy asked, balancing the flat side of the blade on the tip of his finger. “I can’t keep carrying you, Scotty. It’s bad for business,
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