Kop

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The place was almost empty. There were two boozers splitting a bottle at the far end of the bar and a gray-haired woman with her head on a table, out cold with an empty glass in her hand. The windows were closed up tight. The aircon was blowing full.

Bensaid and I were standing face to face, the bar standing between us. Bensaid was the owner of this rat hole. He ripped off his patrons by cutting his brandy with water. He kept a bottle capper in the back room that he’d use to seal the bottles back up so you couldn’t tell.

“You better not be holding out on me,” I said as I pocketed the thin wad of bills, too thin.

“You don’t trust me? You know I wouldn’t short you.” Bensaid tried to look offended.

“Bullshit. Where is the rest of my money?”

“Son of a bitch!” He slammed his drink glass on the bar, splashing brandy up onto his bushy arm. “I’m sick of your bitchin’, comin’ in here every month ’cusin’ me of this shit. It’s all there. Count the fuckin’ money yourself you don’t believe me!”

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