𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 ⚔︎

7

the may sunshine filtered through the windows of eddie's silver ferrari as he smoked a marlboro gold cigarette, wrist perched on the doorframe. he drove through the streets of sunnyside, queens, with sunglasses shielding his eyes. sal sat beside him in the passenger seat, grumbling and polishing a pair of shoes, while mike was in the back reading the newspaper. it was the first of the month, which meant only one thing — it was debt collecting day.

the men fell into their usual routine. they drove through every borough in the city to get their money from each individual: from queens to brooklyn, staten island to manhattan, and up to the bronx, nobody was missed off of the list. sal would carry a notepad and pen, marking off everyone's names, locations, and the amounts that they owed, while mike carried a map if they ever got unfamiliar with their surroundings (a rare occasion) and kept an out for any trouble, his trusty shotgun stashed beside him on the backseat.

"oh, these fuckin' slip-ons will be the death of me!" sal cried, shaking his head. he scrubbed his shoes with a rag. "why'd they ever take the laces off of shoes, huh? i oughta get some steel-caps, like giovanni has. that kid's got some good shoes."

mike tutted. "stop whining. it's a tiny mark, you can barely see it." he peered over his newspaper and into sal's lap. "besides, you're using polisher, when you should be using baking soda to remove scuffs..." he returned his gaze to his newspaper. "fuckin' idiot."

eddie chuckled. "put your shoes back on, you're stinkin' out the car. we're almost at mr robson's place."

mr robson was a man who owed eddie $5,400. he had been struggling to pay his mortgage on his house and had come to eddie asking for a loan, which he now needed to repay, as it was the first of the month. eddie had given him an extra week to cough up the money, as he was $600 short the last time they came.

everyone in new york feared the first. the first was always payday for eddie: and he'd get his money, whether you liked it or not.

he parked on greenpoint avenue and the engine emitted a low growl as he pulled into an empty space. eddie and sal got out of the car, while mike stayed to keep an eye out. sal (reluctantly) slipped his shoes back on and eddie adjusted the pistol in the back of his suit trousers.

"you know the drill, mike. if we're not out in fifteen minutes, drive 'round back and pop the trunk," eddie said.

"you got it."

driving around the back and popping the trunk meant that, if mr robson didn't have his money like he promised, he would be dealt with in a very, very serious manner — perhaps even a fatal one.

eddie knocked on the front door of mr robson's duplex. he had to shout as the man was half deaf. "mr robson! are you home?"

soon enough, mr robson opened the door. he was an elderly man, give or take eighty, and had a disability that made his hands permanently shake. he was of a short stature, maybe 5'5, and had big, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"morning, edward," mr robson said, dipping his head in respect, hands shaking as he reached up to scratch his nose.

"morning, mr robson," eddie said. "how are we today?"

"brilliant, thank you."

"d'you have the rest of the five grand that you owe me?"

mr robson nodded again. he turned away for a second and reached for something behind him on the hall stand. sal instinctively put his hand on the gun tucked into the front of his belt. he peered cautiously at the old man.

"here you go," mr robson said, emotionless, as he handed eddie an envelope.

eddie took the cash out of the envelope and counted it. "one hundred... two hundred... six hundred."