She leaned forward, in what she knew was a failing attempt at alienating herself from the stench and hazy smoke of cheap cigarettes that hovered insubstantially around her. She frowned ever so slightly as her fingers ran the length of the empty Martini glass, fleetingly and absentmindedly.
The weird looks had stopped, at least. More than one person had to put the effort required into refraining from casting glances in their direction. Although it was only to be expected, with the eclectic group of girls and two boys hanging around, trying hard not to garner the attention they unwittingly drew.
She glanced at her group, contemplatively. The guys were pretty ordinary. And girls were acceptable, or more so, in the eyes of the drunk and obscene. They would, and did find themselves hit on constantly by numerous men who, as they had told their wives back home, were ‘working late at the office’.
Tonight was different, however, because she was there, along with her right-hand, the Watcher and long time friend.
Those who had looked once did not dare to glance in their direction again.
She herself only allowed one suggestive, sidelong glance per man, and they made sure that when it did happen, the man in question would know not to ever do it again, should he value his sight. She would stare calmly back, especially deft in communicating her thoughts via gaze when she wanted to. And whoever was on the other end would immediately understand, unless they had a particularly thick skull; which is always a definite, plausible, probability. Even the smartest could be especially dull with the fumes of alcohol clouding his mind.
But generally they understood the idea, or if not the idea itself, at least the feeling, the downshifting, the instinct to fight or flight, in which the latter was always a more welcome option. For there was never any hint of a future sexual encounter in those glares; there was, no hint of a future at all. Only a promise of certain death at delivered after a decisive time spent writhing in agony.
The only ones who weren’t subject to such rejection were the ones lucky enough to unintentionally stir her interest, or that of her right-hand.
She glanced quickly at her friend, who nodded back, her straight hair swaying and falling over her eyes, which glinted devilishly, complementing the smirk playing on her lips as they both watched the drama unfolding at the other end of the atmospheric, dimly lit room.
From what she could see, the redhead sat comfortably on the pale blonde’s lap, with her arm draped around his broad shoulder. The blond was a notoriously silly excuse for a Capofamiglia. Not only was he a weak, pathetic man both physically and mentally, but he found it in himself to rule with an arrogance that surpassed even those who were allowed to be.
Everyone knew that the world belonged to her. No one would dispute this. It was a known fact. She had only allowed his existence because was, if nothing else, harmless. Although she had been in a good mood the last time she had decided this, and such a verdict is always open to major alterations.
He was laughing loudly, obnoxiously, and she twitched, growing more irritable by the second. She forced herself to ignore it, and concentrated instead on his companion. The redhead was a bombshell, no doubt, with her long and richly colored hair flowing over her bare shoulders in voluminous waves. The black shirt she was wearing accentuated her curves, and left enough to the imagination that she could be neatly; justly classified at a higher class than most of the gangster molls that frequented the shady bar they were all in. The flickering lights continued to illuminate the redhead’s pale skin unpredictable flashes. Though distracting, they weren’t intense enough to induce seizures.
She continued to watch, while absentmindedly motioning her Watcher closer.
“Boss?”
“Make sure the others are ready to go,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving the other corner.
The Watcher moved silently away, melding into the shadows smoothly without another word.
The blond said something, a joke at which the others men chuckled appreciatively at. The redhead grinned, her lips pulling back over a set of gleaming white teeth. It was a magnificent smile, but unsettling. There was a bit of something else in there, but from the looks of it, no one else picked up on the slight menace.
There was a sudden yell of mixed pain and confusion. It was so quick that, had she not been so in-tune with violence as she was, she would have missed it completely. The redhead had twisted in his lap, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and punched him full in the face, all in less than a second.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” he roared, only to have the redhead’s heel crush two of his toes in response.
He doubled over on his chair, cursing into his knee as he clutched his injured foot. The blood poured down from his broken nose in streams, blossoming into crimson flowers on his expensive Hugo Boss dress shirt.
She rose slowly to her feet, dropping a neatly fifty dollar bill onto the counter, and moved swiftly, lithely to intercept the redhead’s trajectory towards the door.
She came up behind the redhead, finding herself a few inches shorter even with her four-inch heels, and strategically placed a hand at the small of her back. She did not flinch as the redhead whirled to face her, a snarl of indignation rising in her throat; it was probably just some of the residual anger. She did not smile, but winked conspiratorially at the redhead, a silent way of asking her to play along.
“I’m Lindsay,” the redhead murmured, winking back, before tossing her head confidently and saying loudly for all to hear, “Hey, how’re you doing, bossbabe?” How she managed to propagate her enthusiastic voice at such a level was beyond comprehension.
She glanced back at Joe, still not smiling, to gauge his reaction. His expression was priceless and was probably the only thing that saved his life up until that moment that night. But then he just had to say something else. Inaudible, and incomprehensible as it probably was even if she had heard it spoken aloud, she could still read his fat lips. It didn’t take a genius to know what had just slipped off his filthy tongue.
Her patience had been tested. And the verdict was clear. That was it.
Without hesitation, she pulled out a gun in the blink of an eye, the silver metal glinting briefly before she pulled the trigger. Still smoking, she slipped it back into her coat, and motioned a speechless waiter over. She pulled out a checkbook and quickly scrawled an amount that did not inspire coherent speech. She finally smiled, albeit apologetically. And said to softly to the waiter, nodding her head in the fallen blonde’s direction. “Tell your manager this is the down payment for a new and better location – you can’t continue to operate here, with his blood tainting the floor.”
“That’s custom SIG P229, right?”
She turned to the redhead, startled by the twinkling eyes and pleased smile. And she was sorely reminded of a sugar-happy child in a candy store.
“It’s pretty.”
