to wherever it had come from in the first place.
“Threatening a girl. That’s impressive,” I say, my voice shaking from anger more than fear. “You’re sick, the lot of you. Just take your money and get the fuck out,” I tell them, not even looking in their direction as I wrap a clean dishtowel around George’s injured hand.
“Don’t push us, Aimee ,” Baldy says as the other biker collects up the envelope and shoves it into a pocket in his leather jacket. “The Chief is going to hear about this, and you don’t want to make things any worse for yourself than you already have, sweet pea. Now tell Dick that we expect the rest of the money, with interest, at the end of next month or he’ll find himself even shorter than he already is,” the bald guy hisses, laughing at his own joke.
“How is he supposed to do that?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut. It was something I’d never been very good at—my dad used to say that I was born without a “brain to mouth” filter; anything that I think just tends to come spilling out before I can stop it. “You Angels have been sucking this town dry for years, so there is no more money! ” I shriek at them.
“It’s protection money, sweetheart. That’s what you pay us for, for your own protection,” Blondie explains, speaking slowly as if he thinks I’m completely crazy, which I suppose I might seem to be to them.
“Protection from whom? ” I ask, pulling myself up to my full height, ignoring Big George tugging on my uniform with his good hand, trying to get me to shut up.
“From us, hot lips, protection from us,” Blondie says menacingly as he and Baldy turn and walk out of the diner.
Without even giving them a second thought, I reach for my cell and dial 911. “Ambulance please,” I say, and stop when I see George shaking his head again and again. “You need an ambulance big guy. That hand is going to need stitches,” I point out.
“Hang up the phone, Aimee,” George says between gritted teeth as he looks down at the towel covering his injured hand. “No ambulance, no hospitals,” he tells me and the look in his eyes tells me that there isn’t going to be any persuading him.
“You’re as stubborn as a mule, G,” I tell him. “You head into the kitchen, I’ll grab the first aid kit,” I instruct, pushing him in the direction of the back room.
As I rifle around in the cubby-holes underneath the counter, my eyes travel to the table that the cops are sat at, still doing great impressions of ostriches, sticking their heads in the dirt and ignoring everything around them. “You should be ashamed to wear that uniform.” I veritably spit the words out at them and they have the decency at least to look embarrassed before I sweep out into the kitchen cursing.
I do my best to patch George’s hand up, and once the bleeding has stopped it’s easier to see that the cut isn’t all that bad. It’s going to be painful for a few days, but it didn’t look like the knife had done any permanent damage. He can still move all of his fingers and that’s about as far as my medical expertise goes.
“When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut, Aimee?” Big George asks, shaking his head in mock despair at me.
“When someone else starts speaking up,” I tell him without missing a beat as I wrap the gauze around his hand. It’s not neat, but it’ll do. “What happens now?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Well, I show Dick the message that they wanted to send,” George sighs, waving his bandaged hand at me, “And then he either comes up with the cash or I reckon the Angels will burn this place to the ground.” He says it as nonchalantly as if he were talking about the weather.
“And does he have the money?” I ask, wondering at how the man is always so unbelievably calm. Whatever it is that he puts in his coffee, I decide that I might need
“Threatening a girl. That’s impressive,” I say, my voice shaking from anger more than fear. “You’re sick, the lot of you. Just take your money and get the fuck out,” I tell them, not even looking in their direction as I wrap a clean dishtowel around George’s injured hand.
“Don’t push us, Aimee ,” Baldy says as the other biker collects up the envelope and shoves it into a pocket in his leather jacket. “The Chief is going to hear about this, and you don’t want to make things any worse for yourself than you already have, sweet pea. Now tell Dick that we expect the rest of the money, with interest, at the end of next month or he’ll find himself even shorter than he already is,” the bald guy hisses, laughing at his own joke.
“How is he supposed to do that?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut. It was something I’d never been very good at—my dad used to say that I was born without a “brain to mouth” filter; anything that I think just tends to come spilling out before I can stop it. “You Angels have been sucking this town dry for years, so there is no more money! ” I shriek at them.
“It’s protection money, sweetheart. That’s what you pay us for, for your own protection,” Blondie explains, speaking slowly as if he thinks I’m completely crazy, which I suppose I might seem to be to them.
“Protection from whom? ” I ask, pulling myself up to my full height, ignoring Big George tugging on my uniform with his good hand, trying to get me to shut up.
“From us, hot lips, protection from us,” Blondie says menacingly as he and Baldy turn and walk out of the diner.
Without even giving them a second thought, I reach for my cell and dial 911. “Ambulance please,” I say, and stop when I see George shaking his head again and again. “You need an ambulance big guy. That hand is going to need stitches,” I point out.
“Hang up the phone, Aimee,” George says between gritted teeth as he looks down at the towel covering his injured hand. “No ambulance, no hospitals,” he tells me and the look in his eyes tells me that there isn’t going to be any persuading him.
“You’re as stubborn as a mule, G,” I tell him. “You head into the kitchen, I’ll grab the first aid kit,” I instruct, pushing him in the direction of the back room.
As I rifle around in the cubby-holes underneath the counter, my eyes travel to the table that the cops are sat at, still doing great impressions of ostriches, sticking their heads in the dirt and ignoring everything around them. “You should be ashamed to wear that uniform.” I veritably spit the words out at them and they have the decency at least to look embarrassed before I sweep out into the kitchen cursing.
I do my best to patch George’s hand up, and once the bleeding has stopped it’s easier to see that the cut isn’t all that bad. It’s going to be painful for a few days, but it didn’t look like the knife had done any permanent damage. He can still move all of his fingers and that’s about as far as my medical expertise goes.
“When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut, Aimee?” Big George asks, shaking his head in mock despair at me.
“When someone else starts speaking up,” I tell him without missing a beat as I wrap the gauze around his hand. It’s not neat, but it’ll do. “What happens now?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Well, I show Dick the message that they wanted to send,” George sighs, waving his bandaged hand at me, “And then he either comes up with the cash or I reckon the Angels will burn this place to the ground.” He says it as nonchalantly as if he were talking about the weather.
“And does he have the money?” I ask, wondering at how the man is always so unbelievably calm. Whatever it is that he puts in his coffee, I decide that I might need
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