I’m all business-like as I plant myself at his table, my hands folded over each other. “Join our organisation.”
Paul Heatley wipes his glasses, places them on the tip of his nose, and slides them back into place. He strikes a match, clocks the karaoke singer with the helium voice, sets the Sambuca alight – and downs it in one. Breathes fire across the table my way and grabs the bottle for round I’ve-lost-count. Not bad to say he doesn’t drink.
I grab his wrist and shake my head. “No.”
“Take your hand from me, Beech. I’m in a good mood. Party mood. Dancing on the ceiling mood.”
“I want my answers tonight, before you slide beneath the table for the evening. Will you join our organisation?”
He laughs and shakes away my hand. Swigs another shot. “We all want answers. My bank manager, my wife, my boss, and me…
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