Under George Milionis' watchful eye, a siege mentality was instituted at Simon's Used Cars. Whether it was Blake or James on the lot with a customer, Geo and Alex monitored their every interaction through the office window. Under intense scrutiny, Blake couldn't escape the feeling that he was acting suspiciously by trying to not act suspiciously.

One thing he knew for certain, don't look happy. Not a single person who worked for the Milionis organization looked happy. Not ever. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember anyone smiling, not a sincere smile anyway, not a smile that said life is awesome and I'm enjoying the hell out of this moment. And so, if he felt a smile coming on he shut it down so he wouldn't stand out and draw unwanted attention. Each morning when he got ready for work, he left his happiness and his smiles at home.

Throughout the week, Blake and James exchanged knowing looks each time an unfamiliar vehicle drove through the lot, down to the garage, and back out a few minutes later.

One afternoon, the old man got into his Cadillac, prepared to back out of his parking space when a heavy-duty pickup truck blocked him in. The driver hopped down from his cab leaving his truck running and paced to a Jeep Gladiator that caught his attention. Geo laid on the horn and shouted out the window, "Move that truck."

The driver glanced over his shoulder and hollered, "Chill, grandpa."

Blake and James watched wide-eyed as Alex charged out of the office, climbed into the guy's truck, and backed it out of the way.

The driver made the worst miscalculation of his life, chasing after his vehicle, shouting "Hey! Asshole. Get the hell outta my truck!"

It seemed unfathomable that an object the size of Alex could move so quickly and with surprising agility. He was out of the truck and on his remorseful victim before the man could backpedal. As Alex bulled forward, the loudmouth launched a pathetically ineffective punch. His mouth fell open when he was jerked off his feet, his airborne body driven headlong into the fender of his truck. Both skull and fender suffered impact damage. Alex yanked the dazed man off the asphalt by his hair then threw rapid-fire punches, flattening his nose, snapping his jaw, and creating craters where his cheekbones were once located. He dragged the unconscious victim across the pavement toward the rear of his vehicle then heaved him into the truck bed where he landed with a resounding CLANG. Alex climbed into the truck cab, cut the wheel hard, and sped out of the lot.

In shock from the explosion of violence they'd just witnessed, Blake and James could only nod when Geo slowed his Cadillac at the office and said, "You two. Hose down the lot here and clean up this mess."

Watching him drive out onto the street, James muttered, "You mind getting the hose? My lunch is coming up." He bolted for the bathroom.

Thursday morning, a bright yellow Corolla with spinning rims and an oversized carbon fiber spoiler rolled into the lot, speakers thumping rap music.

With wild eyes bulging in his crimson face, Uncle Geo burst out of the office. "Turn off that goddamn jungle music!" he roared.

The tinted driver's window went down revealing a sunken-eyed kid in the driver's seat. He began to pass a leather pouch out the window when Geo shouted, "Not here, you fuckin' imbecile! Down the garage. How many times I gotta tell you?"

Friday afternoon, just as Blake finished a sandwich at the office desk, Rachel called.

He answered, "Hey, Babe. How you?"

"Fine," she replied tersely.

"What's wrong?"

"Our landlady 'reminded me' rent's due today."

He winced. "Yeah, I left some money on the dresser."

"Three hundred short."

"Sorry. Can you cover me until Monday?"

She sidestepped the question. "You can't get your hands on three hundred dollars?"

"Don't stress about it. I'll deal with it."

Alex drove up from the garage in his hulking Chevy Tahoe. "Hey," he hollered out the window.

Blake pointed to himself.

"Yeah, you." He waved Blake over. "Uncle Geo wants to see you."

"Gotta go."

She heard his voice flatten. "Are you okay?"

"I hope so." His mouth went dry. He dropped his sandwich wrapper into the trash can next to the desk, fighting the instinct to run. Instead, he trudged out to Alex's vehicle and climbed up into the passenger seat adopting a facade of stoicism. "Hey. How's it going?"

"Another fuckin' day in paradise."

To Blake, Alex seemed like a super-sized version of one of those cement-headed gym bro's determined to get back at the world because he didn't make the football team or couldn't get a date in high school. Probably every time Alex bench-pressed, he pictured some coach or a particular girl who turned him down and their faces still fueled him. Twelve years after graduation he was still nursing grievances, which had mutated into ugly, raw aggression. Add to that his anger management issues and he was an ideal recruit for the Milionis family business.

Not another word was uttered as Alex drove down the driveway to the garage, never once making eye contact.

Feeling the growing anxiety of a man on his way to a firing squad, Blake was escorted through the garage, and down the hallway where the frosted glass window had been replaced in the office door.

Alex rapped on the door with his thick, bruised knuckles.

"It's open," Geo called.

When Blake entered, he found the old man sitting on the corner of the desk, flipping through his pocket tablet, pen clenched in his yellowed teeth. This was a man who clearly took bitter pleasure from ruling his ugly little corner of a ruthless world.

Alex ambled in, closing the door behind him.

"The night of the break-in," Geo said. "Where were you?"

"Was that Wednesday?" Blake asked.

"Tuesday night."

"Uh, Tuesday. I think I was with Damon. Hangin' out at his place. I'm almost positive."

"Almost? What did you do afterwards?"

"Pretty sure I picked up my girl. At work," he said, looking up at the ceiling.

"Where's that?"

"Booty's Sports Bar."

He circled something on his tablet. "Booty's you say."

Blake nodded.

The old man stood. "I'm sure you hear people talking around the shop and up on the lot. Anything come to mind that might be of interest to me?"

Blake concentrated on offering a blank expression as he felt a trickle of perspiration running down his back.

Geo moved closer. "Just so we're clear about this," he said, his breath smelling like spoiled milk. "Even if it wasn't you that broke in here--"

"--It wasn't me." He barked a dry cough into his fist.

"Should I come to find out that you have information that you are withholding from me, then I consider you a part of this unfortunate incident. Is that understood?"

Blake nodded. Uncertain about what to do with his hands, he jammed them into his pockets.

He looked over his glasses, tapping Blake's chest with his pen. "So, now that you've had a minute to think about it, I'm asking you again." He left a pause that seemed to go on forever. "Is there something you heard that might be of interest to me?"

"No. Nothing... If I hear something I will definitely let you know."

The old man's gray eyes searched Blake's face.

########

In a small office adjoining the faded floral wallpapered kitchen, Mrs. Caputo sat at her desk, meticulously counting out cash. Rachel looked on with her hand covering her mouth and nose, eager to conclude the transaction. The apartment smelled like the woman had been simmering the same pot of garlic on the stovetop for ten years and never bothered to open a window. Three giant wooden spoons hung beside a framed painting of a green pepper that must have been mounted to the wall sometime in the 1980s.

Every light in the apartment and office was on. An old picture tube TV in the living room played some cheesy 1970's movie featuring a doe-eyed blonde who looked vaguely familiar and the small TV in the kitchen was tuned to 'Wheel of Fortune' at an uncomfortably loud volume. The electric company probably sent Mrs. Caputo monthly thank you cards for using more electricity than U.S. Steel.

Under the bright lights of her kitchen, the woman's face reminded Rachel of one of those old dolls with a cracked ceramic face, like she bore a collection of every bad day in her life represented by lines engraved in her forehead, at the corners of her sunken eyes, and at the edges of her sagging mouth.

"Forty-five, nine hundred fifty. Don't get many pay with cash." The landlady wrote a receipt, then clucked her tongue at Rachel's skimpy uniform. "So, what are you? Like some kind of exotic dancer or something?"

Looking the woman in the eye, she saw a limitless capacity for resentment. "I'm a bartender."

"Bartender? I never seen a bartender dressed in them tiny shorts you wear. And showin' your boobs around. Bet you get a lotta tips."

Rachel reached for the receipt but the landlady pulled it away. She turned in her chair, bony elbow planted on the table, locking Rachel in a hard stare.

"You got secrets, don't you? Something about people like you. You got a look. You all do. I can see it in your face."

"My receipt." Rachel extended her hand. "If you don't mind."

Before surrendering it, Mrs. Caputo said, "I make it my business to know what's going on around here."

########

That evening in Tom's Diner, Uncle Geo peered out the front window from his seat in a booth sipping from a cup of tea. Unable to squeeze into the booth, Alex dragged a chair to the table then proceeded to devour three plates loaded with turkey and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.

Jenny, the waitress, served a slice of pie to Uncle Geo. "Here you go, hon."

He rested an elbow on the table. "You know the guy from the garage across the street there?"

"Mack-Quaid?" She scratched her forehead with her pen. "Nice man. Loves his meatloaf."

"Does he come here by himself, or with a buddy?"

"You with the police or something?"

Alex raised his eyes at her as though she'd just told a joke. Geo shook his head.

"Hey, I ordered a milkshake," Alex said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Sorry, hon," Jenny replied. "I'll get that for you. Vanilla, right?"

He nodded then pressed his fork down into a pond of gravy puddling in a crevice of potatoes.

She went to the counter.

Uncle Geo surveyed the used car lot across the street listening to the light tick, tick, tick of some form of light precipitation hitting the window, caught in the narrow band between cold rain and ice pellets. He brought the tea halfway to his mouth. "One man sits up here with a clear view of the lot, while the other one breaks in. It's an inside job or at least help from an insider. Somebody who's been watching Pat and Karas, who knows their schedule. Prob'ly that colored kid."

He leafed through his notepad.

"This sports bar came up a couple times. Might be worth taking a ride out there." He speared the tip of his apple pie and brought it to his mouth. He winced, tossing his fork onto the plate. "Homemade?!" He wiped his tongue with a napkin. "Pehhhhhh! Sugar and chemicals. I wouldn't feed this skata to my dog.