wasn’t sure what was going on. “I can’t…I don’t think I can, um…”
“Tell you what. How about you seat me at a table as far away from those screaming kids over by the window as possible, and then you go get the manager? I’ll officially be a customer then, and it’ll be the sort of thing you’re allowed to do.”
“Is there a problem here?” The guy from the front had finally emerged from his stupor and come inside, hackles raised, still holding the keys to the Lamborghini in his hand.
“Yes, there’s a problem, Jesus Christ!” August rounded on the guy and immediately got in his face. “What did I tell you about taking care of that car? What did I just tell you? Get the fuck out there and keep your goddamn eyes on it, because so help me God, if I come outside and there’s one single scratch on it, I’ll have your job. Is that clear enough?”
“Mr. Mason.”
Ah, now there was the voice he’d been waiting to hear. August turned around, completely ignoring the fact that the man he’d shouted at had been creeping one hand down to the small of his back. Augustus wouldn’t notice it, so he couldn’t either, but shit, he would never live it down with Ricardo if he got shot by some random mafia soldier because he played his character too well.
“Mr. Silva.” August smiled his playboy grin again. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“So I hear. Loudly.” Silva smiled back, and it was almost convincingly genial. He was a barrel-chested man in his mid-thirties, with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. He was good looking in a slightly rough, salt of the earth way, and he, at least, wasn’t wearing a visible weapon. Not surprising. “Let’s take this to a table, shall we? Donnie,” he looked at the man who’d followed August in, “take good care of Mr. Mason’s car. Jenny, we’re fine,” he added when she grabbed a laminated menu and some silverware. “Mr. Mason won’t be staying to eat.”
He led the way down the central aisle of the restaurant to a little two-person booth in the back, by the emergency exit. August let his eyes roam over the stereotypically Italian décor with a little sneer while he quickly charted every way he could get out of here in ten seconds or less if he needed to. They sat down, and a second later a waiter showed up with ice water for both of them. “Can I get you anything else to drink, sir?” he asked August respectfully.
“I’ll take a 2015 Testamatta Colore if you’ve got it,” he said, naming a wine that cost around five hundred dollars a bottle, “in a really big glass, or water. Bottled, please,” he added, pushing the glass back toward the waiter with a little sniff.
“I’ll…check the cellar?” The waiter glanced at his boss.
“We don’t have it.” Silva’s voice was a bit flatter now. “Don’t worry about it.” He picked up his own glass of water and had a sip, then folded his hands on the table. The waiter took the opportunity to flee. “What can I do for you this afternoon, Mr. Mason?”
August put on his charming face. It was perilously close to his smarmy one—he had to play this just right. “No need to cut right to the chase, Pedro—can I call you Pedro? It’s been, what, months since we’ve seen each other? Ever since that last charity get-together…thing. How’s business?” He glanced around the restaurant. “It looks…busy.”
“Busy enough. How about yourself, Mr. Mason?” Silva smiled blandly. “You ever get around to cutting a check for the new wing of the children’s hospital?”
“Was that what the party was for?” August marveled. “God, I couldn’t even remember the speaker, just the fact that they were serving beanie weenies as an appetizer.” He shuddered. “And yes, I think I gave them twenty thousand dollars or something like that. Enough for a few more beds.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“I’m a nice guy,” August replied with perfect earnestness.
“You wouldn’t know it, the way you treat my employees,” Silva went on, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t care what kind of money you’ve got. That doesn’t fly in my establishment, Mr. Mason.”
Aggression and charm are fails, time to go with blunt. August rolled his eyes. “Are we pretending now that you’re a perfectly upstanding citizen who’s never yelled at an employee? Because if we are, then I’m wasting my time coming here to talk to you.”
Silva tilted