beverages. And the reason they’re being served is Beck’s little brother, Henry. The boy’s skin is pale and pasty, covered in sweat. This is not good. Other patrons, drinking their morning coffee, are likewise unimpressed with the scene and fair enough.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s not even ten in the morning. When they refused him service he went behind the bar to get the bottles himself,” says the guy beside me. He’s a handsome man with a short Afro, wearing a pinstripe suit with a silver tie. Mid-thirties at a guess. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lawrence. I’m Aaron Watson, general manager of the Heritage.”
“Hi.” We shake hands. “Call me Alice.”
“All right, then, Alice.”
“How should we handle this?” I ask.
His gaze registers surprise, but it’s swiftly covered by a friendly professional demeanor. “As much as I’d like to drag him out of here by the scruff of the neck, I’m supposed to contact Smith to come and deal with any situation. That’s how the family likes things done. Unless you have a better idea?”
“Let me tr talking to Henry first.”
“They’re a long way from sober. Do you think that’s wise?”
“I’ve spent most of my working life dealing with people a long way from sober.” I shrug. “But if it all goes to hell, you can tell Beck it was my fault.”
Aaron just smiles. There’s no way he should have to deal with a mess of the Elliots’ creating. But here we are.
Henry and his three buddies are partying hard. One empty bottle and another half full sit on the table. Top shelf single malt, of course. Privileged little shits.
And from the looks of the glasses, Henry’s been mixing it with cola. Expensive scotch and soda, that’s a hanging offense right there.
“Party’s over, Henry,” I say with a smile. “Time to go, boys.”
Henry, his face red, just laughs. “Hey, it’s Beck’s latest screw. Sorry. Girlfriend, I mean. How you doing? I’d introduce you, but, honest to God, I can’t remember your name. I mean, why bother learning them? None of you last for long.”
His friends all chuckle like he’s a comedic genius. Drunken assholes are pretty much the same the world over. Age and money mean little once the booze hits your bloodstream.
I pick up the bottle of scotch, passing it to Aaron.
“Give it back,” growls Henry, slamming his hand down on the table. “Or I’ll have all of your asses fired.”
“I don’t actually work here, so…not much of a threat.”
“I own this fucking place. You and the other basics can leave now.”
“Thing is, you don’t own me.” I smile. The trick with dealing with drunks is confidence. Act like you have total authority and some dark, drunken part of their brain starts to wonder if maybe you do. “You three, Henry’s friends, up and out.”
His friends shoot him questioning looks. Henry’s cheekbones stand out in stark relief. “Gold-digging fucking bitch, you can’t tell us what to do! Go find a dick to suck. That’s the only thing you’re good for.”
“Quick question, Henry. Why should I hesitate to call the cops? I mean, I could just call your grandmother, but I’m figuring this would be so much more memorable if you got your sorry asses dragged down to the lockup. And don’t think the same doesn’t go for all of your little friends.”
Now they exchange nervous glances.
“I neither know nor give a flying fuck who any of you are,” I say. “Get moving. Now.”
There’s some muttered swearing and furious looks, but his three buddies eventually get to their feet and stomp out. Part of the problem dealt with, at least. Aaron gives the nod and a couple of security guys follow them. Hopefully they’ll get them home safely. I have enough on my plate just dealing with Beck’s little brother.
Henry’s red eyes are furious.
“Don’t make me call her,” I say quietly. “I’ve been on the receiving end of her bullshit. You know you don’t want that.”
And no matter what a little shit he’s being right now, he has to be hurting. What with his father dying and everything. Change is hard. Some of the fight leaches out of him at this, making him more sullen teenager than anything. He gives me a resentful glare. “What are you going to do, then?”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Gone.”
The hell? “Where?”
He just shrugs.
“Okay. So you and those three drank a bottle and a half between you?” I ask. “Hope you feel good now because you’re going to feel like hell soon enough.”