The following story is fictitious, of an explicit and adult nature. This story is not meant to be viewed by anyone under the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18, offended by adult material or such material is barred by the standards of your community, please leave this page now.
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Saturday.
Tommy didn't even look at Gerry. He didn't even turn around. He just sat there at the bar, nursing his Dewar's shot.
"How are we going to fix this, Gerry?"
Zephyr was a small, dingey, run-down oak plank social club in the basement of a Hell's Kitchen tenement. Creaky floors, creaky bar, wobbly stools and splashed with art deco train fare. The place was empty, except for Tommy Desalvo. And now, it also included the tentative presence of Gerry Flaherty. Gerry hadn't said a thing. Tommy knew that he'd entered the club by the rush of air that fanned his back when Gerry opened the door.
Gerry's heart raced. The only time that he ever came to Zephyr was to discuss business with Tommy. Discussing business meant that he owed Tommy money. He never saw Tommy when things were going well.
Tommy was the son of a feared neighborhood wise guy. He was connected, but not a true gangster. That didn't make Tommy any less volatile. His hair trigger temper was genetic and legend.
Gerry stood, frozen. His heart pounding in his ears made the deafening silence press in on every square inch of his body.
"Are you deaf?" Tommy snarled.
"I'm sorry Tommy. I don't have your money", Gerry demurred.
"This is not a good thing, Gerry. It's been two months since the Packers game and the juice gets tacked on every three days. Do you have ANY idea how much you're into me for?"
"I've been working over time. I can ..."
"Bullshit!" Tommy roared, his fist denting the wood of the bar. "You can work over time for a hundred years, and you're still not going to be able to get me my money, Gerry. I've got expenses too. I can't pay my rent with your bullshit excuses for why you're not giving me what you owe."
"I can get you your money, Tommy."
"Yeah, you and every other sad sack fuck. It ends here."
Without turning around, Tommy reached into the left inside pocket of his brown leather bomber jacket.
"Tommy, please don't ..."
"I'm not gonna shoot you, you dumb asshole. I'm getting my cigarettes." Tommy held up the red and white Marlborough hard pack in between his right thumb and forefinger, and waved it for Gerry to see. He then raised himself from his stool, planted his feet firmly on the floor and slowly walked behind the bar.
"What would it get me if I killed you, Gerry? Nothing. I'd still be out hundreds of thousands with nothing to show for it. And besides, Jenny would never forgive me for killing her father, now would she?"
"Are you going to have me beaten up, is that it?"
"Now, what do I gain if you get put in the hospital and can't work?"
"What do you want from me?"