The small room at the back of the ostrich spot smelled like old cigarettes, fried meat, and sweat. Leonard stood in the centre, still as stone, while the owner paced behind the desk like he had some kind of power.
He didn't.
"You came all this way for meat, or you came for your cut?" the man asked, wiping his face with a cloth that looked like it had seen war.
Leonard didn't answer. He just looked at the man, he didn't even blink.
"You owe me," Leonard said finally, his voice calm. "You were supposed to pay three weeks ago."
"I told you business's been slow."
Leonard tilted his head. "You sold twelve crates in two weeks, I know your numbers."
The man's laugh was forced. "Crates of chicken, crates of ostriches and not weapons."
Leonard stepped forward.
"I took the guns off your hands when the police were about to bury you. I cleaned up your record, I burned footage and I paid off officers. And you're standing here playing dumb?"
