Taste Of Scotch // James Valdez

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"This one's fake," I declare, snatching the bill from James's hand. His eyes narrow as he tries to focus.

"They're ripping you off. All U.S. money weighs a gram. This one? Too light, James."

"I don't see it."

"You don't see, you feel. It's about the thickness of the paper, not a beauty contest," I retort, my tone dripping with impatience.

"Are you sure?" He asks, skepticism lacing his voice.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "I was a money changer for three years in Sinaloa, James. You don't mess up with the boss's money unless you want a short career. And by short, I mean six feet under."

"It still does, Elena," he says, his voice taking on a sterner edge.

I cut him off by lifting my shirt to reveal the scar on my left side. "In Sinaloa, you don't make mistakes with money. I spent two months in the hospital because of this little mix-up." I let the shirt fall back, my point made.

His gaze flicks between the bill and me, uncertainty clouding his features. Understandable, given we only met yesterday, but if he trusted me at the supermarket, why the hesitation now?

Maybe because there, it was just a fat store manager, not a room full of armed men.

The door creaks open, and Lopez steps in. James and I turn slowly, like statues coming to life.

"Hey, is something the matter?" Lopez asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

James clears his throat, a battle of decisions playing out in his eyes. He's hesitant but commits, stepping towards Lopez, the bill waving like a flag. "I'm gonna need to weigh this bill."

"You think I'm cheating you?" Lopez's voice pitches high, his posture stiffening. My stomach drops; this could go south faster than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

"I don't know," James says, turning towards the table with the scale. "But the girl here thinks it's fake." He tosses the bill onto the scale with all the finesse of a toddler throwing a tantrum. "So, you won't mind if I just... verify, right? For peace of mind."

I lean against the table, arms crossed, my eyes not leaving Lopez. "Yeah, let's just make sure everyone's playing fair. You know, for... educational purposes." My voice drips with mock sweetness, cutting through the tension like a knife through butter.

Lopez steps forward, his face a storm cloud. "If she's wrong, I demand reparations." The sound of a gun cocking slices through the air. I glance over; the barrel's pointed at my face, the lump in my throat growing like a balloon about to pop. I clench my fists, willing them not to shake. No way I'm showing fear. These guys would use it as seasoning on their dinner.

My gaze shifts from the gun to James, who's looking at me with raised eyebrows, silently asking for the go-ahead. I nod, my voice steady despite the chaos. "Weigh the bill, James. I promise it'll be lighter."

He places the bill on the scale with the delicacy of a bomb disposal expert. All eyes fix on the tiny black scale like it's the oracle of Delphi. A soft ding signals the verdict. I read the numbers, and relief washes over me like a cold shower on a hot day. I was right. It was less than a gram.

"That doesn't make sense," Lopez stutters, his face contorted in disbelief. I had a feeling he wasn't our Judas.

"Let's try it again," James says, looking at me. "Find me another one."

I dive into the case, flipping through bills like a magician with cards. My fingers, more discerning than any machine, pick out another suspect. "Here, this one." I hand it to James with a flourish.

He places it on the scale, and our eyes lock for a moment as the numbers confirm my suspicion. Suddenly, James is a blur, gun out, grabbing Lopez. "Are you ripping me off, Lopez? Huh!" His voice is a thunderstorm, booming and terrifying.

"No, no!" Lopez pleads.

"Are you ripping me off!"

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Lopez's voice echoes off the walls.

"How do we know you didn't plant it when we got the coke? No, James, Lucian's the only other one I let handle the money besides me." Lopez's words tumble out like a landslide.

Lucian, ponytail flapping, starts babbling. "No, no, no, I've been with you for nine months, Mr. Lopez. You know me. I've never cheated you." He digs into his pockets, pulling out keys. "You wanna check my house? Here, take the damn keys. I've never stolen from anyone."

He's lying. His face is as readable as a children's book. If he's handing over keys, the money's not there; it's elsewhere.

"Don't check his house, check his car," I blurt out. "If the money was at his house, why give up the keys? He wouldn't. Check his car."

James, still gripping Lopez, nods. His face is a mask of rage, his body tense. "Check it. Check every inch."

An hour later, we're in the garage, watching Lopez's men dismantle Lucian's car. I stand beside James, arms crossed, feeling his impatience like static in the air as they unscrew the last bolt.

A loud thud, and money cascades out like a waterfall. I exhale, relief flooding me.

"What can we do to make this right?" Lopez asks, looking at us.

James turns to me, his face inches from mine. "He stole from us. What do you think we should do?"

The room goes silent. All eyes on me, but my gaze is locked on James. My cheeks burn, not with embarrassment but with the cold realization of where this ends.

"Kill him." The words are out before I can second-guess them, cold and final as a judge's gavel.