“Comment ça va?” Years I’ve spent distancing myself from the accent I was born into, not out of embarrassment, or shame, but because in my line of work, the fewer distinguishing features a man has, and the less anyone knows about me, the better. Valir is a language rooted in Cajun, but distinct enough in dialect that it’d be instantly recognizable. I’m one of the many who’ve contributed to the decline of my native tongue, but in my case, it’s a matter of keeping my identity concealed, or risking a bullet in my ass. Yet, somehow, Luc brings me back to my roots every time.
“Pas bon.” Not good. He falls into one of the chairs in front of my desk and groans. “She finally packed up an’ left. Di’n’ even say goodbye, her.”
He’s the quintessential bayou boy, with his ragged ball cap and muscle shirt, but the curveball is his hopeless yearning for romance, which has earned him the nickname Casanova. A trait I can’t much relate to, from where I reside on the opposite end of the spectrum in all my cynical distaste for love.
A passing discomfort sweeps over me when I glance back to find him bent forward and looking downtrodden, as he shakes his head. I’d sooner stab an icepick into my eyeballs than talk about relationships.
“I swore she was da one, me. Even picked out a ring.”
“Sorry things didn’t work out. How’s business?” A lame response, but I wouldn’t even begin to know what else to tell him. Women have never been more than a transaction of needs for me, and parting afterward is what I appreciate most of all.
“Business is good. Not like what you got goin’ on, but it’s good.” For the last couple of years, Luc has struggled to get his venture into Valir cuisine up and running. The guy is horrible with money, and in spite of the advice I’ve given him over the years, he continues to flounder a bit. Good, for him, is breaking even, which is better than the debt he was looking at before. Problem is, he’s too kind, always giving away something for free. Including his heart. “I jus’ don’ understand da women sometimes. Don’ know what dey want.”
Not this again. Thankfully, something draws my attention from the conversation, as Luc prattles on about a girl whose name, or face, I wouldn’t remember if my life depended on it.
On the main floor below, a man I recognize as one of Julio’s enforcers, with unruly black hair and the loudest button-down shirt in the place, paws at one of the dancers on stage. Not a second later, the sharp buzz at my hip is the anticipated call from Levi, and I signal to my cousin to stop lamenting about his ex’s panty drawer for a moment to take it.
Phone to my ear, I keep my eyes on the asshole who seems to have no concept of self-preservation--or anonymity, given his chosen profession. What the fuck kind of hitman dresses like a seventies pimp?
“Whatchu want me to do wit’ this one, Boss?” The uncertainty in Levi’s voice is justified, seeing as pissing off a member of the cartel can be tricky business. Particularly one as smug and arrogant as this prick seems to be.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, before clicking out of the call. “‘Excuse me, I got something to take care of.” Stuffing the phone back inside my pocket, I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, and give Luc a quick pat on the shoulder as I pass.
On his feet before I reach the door, he trails my steps. “Everything good?”
“Non, just some couillon don’t know to keep his hands to himself.” I pull my Glock from its holster at my hip and pop the mag for a quick check. As always, my preference is not to resort to violence because it makes a scene. Scenes draw cops and unnecessary inquiries. But when arrogant pricks with a god complex and no scruples enter my establishment, it’s all fair game.
No matter who he’s affiliated with.
“Ah. I’ll come wit’ you.” At nearly six-foot-seven, with muscles practically spilling out of his shirt, Luc could pass for an oak tree. Would make a decent bouncer, if he didn’t like fighting so much. And women, which is what I’m guessing got him into trouble with his own.