LITMIR.BIZ

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hidden beneath his lapel.

      “My ma’s sick,” Butch said. “Looks like she might be dying. My sis, she has a good heart. She’s doing everything she can. She has an idea that might save her but I guess it involves DePechio. I got no idea what she has in mind, but I told her I’d try to get her in.”

      The two bruisers stood hard like they were hewn from stone. They considered Butch’s proposal for a silent moment. After a beat, the one who had been doing all the talking finally spoke up. “Bring the girl inside. I will have a word with the boss.”

      Butch waved Twana out of the car. She crossed the street. Just before she and Butch entered the big red doors of the restaurant, she reached up and touched the little lipstick case at her chest.

      Twana and Butch waited in a foyer outside the dining room. One of the guards stayed behind while the other went to talk to DePechio. Twana looked over the big man. His muscle-bound arms filled out his suit nicely. His face, chiseled to toned perfection, looked like it belonged on the cover of GQ. But something seemed off; although all the parts were in place, she found him all-in-all too perfect to be attractive. The guard looked like he had been built for one purpose: punching.

      The other guard pushed open the dining room door and entered the foyer. “The boss, he’s confused as to why you would bring your sister to see him. He doesn’t understand why you might want to compromise this reputable establishment by allowing an outsider to breech its sanctimonious walls.”

      Twana scoffed.

      “It’s like this,” Butch said. “She’s my sister. Don’t you have a sister? Doesn’t the boss have a sister? I mean, what am I supposed to do when she comes to me crying?” Butch left out the part about Twana blackmailing him with the threat of blowing the whistle on what she knew about DePechio--which was, to Butch’s regret, quite a lot of information.

      The guard issued an impatient sigh. “You got ten minutes,” he said and stepped aside.

      Butch swallowed and offered Twana a hand.

      She glanced at his hand and shot him an are-you-serious expression.

      Butch dropped his hand, swallowed again, and pulled the dining room doors open.

      Orlando DePechio sat at a corner booth with his back to the wall. A plate of kung pao pork and a beer sat in front of him. He looked up from his meal as Butch and Twana made their way across the dining room. “Hello, Butchie.” DePechio smiled--a long curve of a grin that had a way of terrifying Butch. “I ask you to bring me the numbers and you come to me asking for favors.”

      Butch and Twana stepped up next to DePechio’s booth. Butch stared at the ground. Twana looked DePechio right in the eye.

      DePechio looked Twana over. She was the spitting image of Butch, only with long hair and a few years less life experience. She had an intensity about her that DePechio had learned to recognize in people who were angry or desperate.

      “And what’s your name, little girl?” DePechio asked, pushing his plate away.

      “Name’s Twana. I’m Butch’s sister.”

      “Your brother does a lot for me, and I appreciate it. He runs a few errands, does a little house cleaning. Most of all, he keeps his mouth shut about my business, don’t you Butch.”

      Butch nodded but kept his eyes on the ground.

      “You ought to show some respect and look at me when I’m talking to you.”

      Butch looked up from the ground into DePechio’s eyes. He felt a lump rise in his throat.

      “What can I do for you, little girl?”

      “My name isn’t little girl.”

      DePechio chuckled. Butch felt every chortle like a nail driving into his coffin. Maybe he should have refused to bring Twana to DePechio and let the chips fall where they may.

      Twana went on: “I have a proposition that I think might be extremely lucrative, but only to a man with the right resources.”

      DePechio raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what kind of resources are you referring to?”

      “I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. DePechio,” Twana said. “I watch the news; I read the papers.”

      “I see.” DePechio nodded toward the dining room entrance where one of the guards stood. The guard nodded back and began crossing the room toward DePechio’s table.

      Butch whimpered.

      “Before you sick your pit bull on us,” Twana went on. “You should hear what I have to say. I’m not talking about chicken scratch here, I’m talking about millions of dollars in residual income by granting you control over a single asset.”

      DePechio frowned and raised a hand. The guard stopped where he was. “Just because I have a sense of humor,” DePechio said. “I’m going to hear you out.”

      Twana took a deep breath. She’d practiced her pitch in the mirror countless times. She cleared her throat and went into it. “Have you ever heard of Bieber?”

      DePechio blinked and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

      “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him; he’s the only person who makes the papers more than you.”

      Butch winced. “Yea, that pop-tart brat with the songs and the pelvic thrusting that kids today call dancing. Sure I’ve heard of him. What’s that got to do with anything else?”

      “As you probably know, Bieber made the news recently.”

      DePechio balked. “Kid, I had nothing to do with it. I’m a businessman. Car bombings aren’t my style.”

      “Take it easy,” Twana said. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I just want to make a deal.”

      DePechio shrugged. “Okay, kid, go on.”

      “Let me paint a picture for you. What if Bieber didn’t die in the accident. What if the whole thing was a hoax, a publicity stunt? What if Bieber was still alive and, even more importantly, willing to sign the rights of his future albums and live performances over to you?”

      “I ain’t no record producer.”

      “Bieber’s first album sold over eight million copies. His second, Love and Rocks, did more than triple that. Bieber’s estate is worth nearly a billion dollars. He is a money machine. And it all can be yours.”

      DePechio smirked. “That sounds all well and good, but there’s one catch: Bieber’s dead, blown to a million bits.”

      Twana removed the chain and lipstick case from her neck and tossed it onto DePechio’s table. It landed next to his plate of kung pao pork.

      The guard in the back of the room drew a pistol from beneath his lapel and aimed at Twana. DePechio raised a hand, indicating for the guard to put away his heat. The guard complied.

      DePechio picked up the lipstick case and examined it. When he recognized what was stuffed inside, his lips peeled back into that smile that had a way of terrifying Butch. “Oh, Butchie, I’m beginning to like your little sister.”

      “It’s Bieber’s. I was there. I caught it like a piece of candy at a parade,” Twana said.

      DePechio grinned. “Well, it makes a nice souvenir, but it don’t mean much to me.”

      “Come on, Mr. DePechio, don’t make me spell it out for you.”

      DePechio put the lipstick case down on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He fixed Twana with an amused expression. “Why don’t you indulge me; spell it out.”

      “Bieber isn’t the only one making the news these days,” Twana said. “Everyone knows about your less-than-ethical pharmaceutical endeavors.”

      DePechio spread his hands

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