Chapter 3 - The Price of Thirty Cents
Sterling froze. "What?"
"The watch," Mr. Kane repeated calmly. "Take it off."
"Mr. Kane, please, this is a heirloom piece—"
Frank took one heavy step forward.
Sterling frantically unbuckled the gold clasp with trembling fingers and held the watch out. Frank took it, walked over to my mother, and dropped the forty-two thousand dollar Rolex straight into her damp, soapy apron pocket.
Mara gasped, stepping back. "I... I can't take this! I don't want this!"
"It's not yours, Mrs. Carter," Mr. Kane said to her gently. "It's collateral. Arthur is going to buy it back from you."
He faced Sterling again.
"Here is how the rest of this afternoon works, Arthur," Mr. Kane said, his tone devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "You are going to walk back to your office. You are going to open your safe. You are going to pull out five thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents in cash."
"I... I don't keep that much cash in the office safe!" Sterling stammered.
"Then you'd better start calling your bank," Frank suggested from the side. "You've got twenty minutes before the branch on 5th closes."
"Wait," Mr. Kane added, holding up one finger. "I wasn't finished."
Sterling wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his navy blazer. "What else?"
"That five thousand four hundred is the principal," Mr. Kane explained. "Now we discuss the interest."
"Interest?!" Sterling cried out. "Seventy-seven days isn't—"
"Seventy-seven days of a four-year-old child watching her mother skip dinner," Mr. Kane interrupted sharply. For the first time, his voice carried a deadly, dangerous blade. "That carries a daily penalty rate of one thousand dollars per star."
He tapped his breast pocket where my blue-lined paper sat.
"There were twelve stars on that page, Arthur. That’s twelve thousand dollars."
"Twelve thousand?!" Sterling gasped, his face turning pale green. "That’s extortion! You can't do this!"
"I am doing it," Mr. Kane said quietly. "And because you made Mrs. Carter clean grease traps while crying in the bathroom today, you are also going to sign over the title of that silver Mercedes parked out front."
Sterling’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "The AMG?! I haven't even driven it fifty miles!"
"Then it will have fantastic resale value for Mrs. Carter’s new college fund for Rory," Mr. Kane replied smoothly.
"You're destroying my business!" Sterling yelled, his fear briefly giving way to hysterical anger. "I'll go to the police! I'll tell the alderman! You can't just shake me down in my own restaurant!"
Mr. Kane didn't get angry. He didn't even raise his brow.
He simply turned to Frank.
"Frank."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call Alderman Rossi. Tell him we're pulling our backing for his re-election campaign. Tell him Mr. Sterling here feels the neighborhood isn't being properly regulated."
"No! Wait! Don't call Rossi!" Sterling practically dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together in desperate plea. "Please, Mr. Kane! Rossi will destroy my liquor license! I'll pay! I'll pay whatever you want!"
"I don't want 'whatever I want,'" Mr. Kane said coldly. "I want seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents. Cash. In fifteen minutes. And the signed title to the vehicle."
He turned away from Sterling, taking my hand again, and walked over to where my mother was standing.
Mara looked like she was about to faint. She was trembling so hard her knees were knocking together under her black work pants.
"Mrs. Carter," Mr. Kane said, his tone shifting entirely back to polite respect. "My name is Vincent Kane."
"I... I know who you are, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I apologize for the behavior of my tenant," Mr. Kane said, gesturing toward Sterling, who was currently scrambling toward his back office like a panicked rat. "I pride myself on running an orderly district. When the people who work in my neighborhood aren't paid, it reflects poorly on my management."
"Mr. Kane, please... you don't have to do all this," Mara stammered, looking at her apron pocket where the heavy Rolex sat. "I just... I just wanted my wages so I could pay our rent on Monday. The landlord gave us a three-day notice."
Mr. Kane frowned slightly. "Who is your landlord?"
"Mr. Vance," she whispered. "From the 4th Street apartments."
Mr. Kane looked over his shoulder at Frank.
Frank pulled out a small black leather notepad and made a quick entry with a silver pen. "I'll handle Vance before dinner, Boss."
"Thank you, Frank," Mr. Kane said. He looked down at me. "Rory."
"Yes, Mr. Kane?"
"Are you hungry?"
I looked at my mom, then back up at him. "Mommy made me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, but she didn't have any jelly left."
Mr. Kane turned to the kitchen line, where three line cooks were peeking through the order window, petrified.
"Who is the head chef here today?" Mr. Kane called out.
A young guy with a tall white chef's hat stepped forward nervously. "I... I am, sir. Chef Pierre."
"Pierre," Mr. Kane ordered calmly. "Prepare two steaks. Prime ribeye. Medium rare for me, whatever Mrs. Carter prefers for her. And bring out a plate of your finest desserts for the young lady. Extra jelly."
"Right away, Mr. Kane!" Pierre practically tripped over himself turning back to the grill.
May you like
"Mr. Kane, we can't eat here," my mother pleaded, mortified. "I'm still on shift—"
"Mrs. Carter," Mr. Kane said, pulling out a chair at the finest center booth in the house—the one reserved for celebrities and politicians—and motioning for her to sit down. "Your shift ended the moment your daughter handed me that paper. Sit down. Rest your feet."
