Deep within the recesses of Shooter’s gentlemen’s club was a door. It was a thick wooden door, reinforced with a two-inch-thick steel plate. Behind the door was the main office. Though not the biggest, it had a very comfortable feel about it. Soft carpet lined most of the floor, with polished tiles peeking out from the edges. The rear wall was covered in video monitors that covered every foot of the club and the surrounding block. Hunched over a steel desk directly in front of these cameras was Marcus.

Dressed in a black T-shit and black stocking cap, he looked every bit of a cat burglar, but the gold-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose threw the outfit off. Most people would never know he wore glasses, because you hardly saw him with them on. They irritated his face and made him feel stupid, but when it came to making sure his paper was straight, all that shit flew out the window.

Marcus looked up from his desk at the sound of the manager’s door creaking open. Only two people had the key to the office, so there was no need for him to grab the twelve-gauge that was resting against the desk near his leg. The man who walked in looked to be between the age of sixty and sixty-five, but Marcus knew for a fact that he had been on this earth for nearly eighty years. His black shirt was worn open, exposing the gold cross nestled in a bush of graying hair. Though his body had begun to wilt some years ago, he still emitted the same aura he did at the age of twenty-five. When in the presence of men like him, you had no choice but to show respect. Yes, he looked very much like a typical older man, but Shooter was one of the last real gangstas.

“Boy, don’t you never go home and sleep?” Shooter asked, standing in front of the desk.

“This place ain’t gonna run itself, Shooter,” Marcus replied.

Shooter shook his head. “Man, I had a buddy like you back in 1961. He was always working at his print shop, trying to tighten shit up, never placing any of the weight on his employees.”

“Shooter, do we have to go down memory lane right now? I’m trying to get this done.”

“Boy, don’t cut me off when I’m talking.” Shooter unsheathed the blade he carried strapped to his forearm. “You show some damn respect before I open you up in this bitch, hear?”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah, sorry, Shooter.”