Zo?’s irate man was a good six inches shorter than Beck. He popped up onto his toes in order to put his face in Beck’s. The guy might have anger on his side, but Beck had size, strength, and skill on his. He could break this man where he stood, if he wanted.
Beck raised his hands. “Sorry, sir, it was just an accident. We just bumped into each other. No harm, no foul.”
“Wrong. There is harm. There is foul.”
Beck furrowed his brow in mock intrigue. “Are you OK? I mean we just bumped. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’d be a lot better if assholes like you watched where they were going.”
“OK. Sorry. Not trying to pick a fight. Just wanted to make sure you’re fine.”
A woman picked up Beck’s phone and held it out to him. “Here’s your phone.” She glared at the irate man. “I think it’s broken.”
Beck examined his phone. The screen was cracked. In the scheme of things, it was a small price to pay.
The man stared at the damage, mouth open to hurl more insults, then all the tension went out of his body. “Hey, fuck it, I’m really sorry. I’m not pissed at you. I’m angry at someone else.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the restaurant where Zo? and the cop still sat.
Beck pointed at the man’s bruised face. “It looks like someone got angry with you.”
He touched his swollen and bruised nose. “Yes. Hence my mood. Let’s just agree that I’m the dick here. I’ll pay for the phone. It’s the least I can do under the circumstances.”
Beck knew in that moment that he had this guy.
“Don’t sweat the phone. I got suckered into buying one of those insurance plans where they replace it with the next-generation phone for free. So, you actually did me a favor.”
The man laughed. “At least I did something right tonight.”
“Look, if you want to make it up to me, buy me a drink.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll buy you two drinks.”
Beck put out his hand. “Brad Ellis.”
The other man shook his hand. “Rick Sobona.”
They walked half a dozen blocks to Poison, a bar that Sobona had claimed, “You’ll love.”
It wasn’t a place Beck could love. It was much too brash. Backlights behind the bar placed a heavenly glow on the expensive brand-name liquors, as if they possessed magical powers. Poison didn’t have bartenders. It had mixologists. The way people whooped and high-fived when the mixologists made a cocktail smacked of the desperation of trying too hard to have fun.
“Great place, right?” Sobona said.
“Very cool,” Beck lied.
Sobona cut through the people lining the bar in front of them. He flagged down Nick, one of the mixologists, who was sporting a prohibition look with gelled-down hair and a pencil moustache.
“What’s your poison, gents?” Nick asked.
Beck guessed that was the marketing slogan for these guys.
“This man is a cocktail genius. Give me that thing you gave me over the weekend.”
“That would be a John Gotti,” Nick said.
Beck rarely drank. He never possessed a hunger for it, so he drank only when social niceties required him to do so. Like now.
“Sounds like something I need to try,” Beck said.
Nick rapped the bar. “Two Gottis coming up.”
While Nick put on a show, making the cocktails, working a couple of shakers at the same time, Beck and Sobona shared small talk: where they lived, worked, hung out, and so on. Beck had to lie about the more social aspects of his life. His main social activity was teaching irresponsible people a lesson. This forced him to steal from conversations he’d had with his more gregarious coworkers.
Nick finished his performance and set the two drinks down in front of them. Beck asked for a water chaser and sipped the drink. It was a clash of sweet and sour. He assumed that was the point of a John Gotti.
“So, can I ask you a personal question?” Beck asked.
“Sure. We’re pals now.”
“Why the attitude on the street?”
Sobona frowned and shook his head. “I had just run into some bitch who pissed me off.”
Beck didn’t like the word bitch when used as a slur. He didn’t like name-calling in general. People might deserve a derogatory epithet, but it showed the mudslinger in just as bad a light. If people were bad, the appropriate reaction was to teach them a lesson. Insults were for children. Retribution was for adults.
“She did this to my face last night,” Sobona said, indicating his bruises. “I tried calling her on it, but she had some cop with her to cover her ass.”
Beck had to give Sobona props for admitting Zo? had done that to him. Most guys wouldn’t have admitted to taking a beating from a woman. Maybe Sobona wasn’t the blowhard Beck thought him to be.
“This bitch”—the word tasted as sour on his tongue as the John Gotti—“tell me all about her.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN