“Now, that’s more like it. As I was saying, my buddy would sometimes work from sunup to sunup, running this damn company. One morning the manager came in and found his ass keeled over one of them printing machines. Seems he had a heart attack and fell over in it. He had the number forty-eight stamped on his face ’bout fifty, sixty times, ’cause that was the page he was printing when he died.”

Marcus put his ink pen down. “Interesting story, Shooter, but what’s your point?”

“My point is, you need to let that gal we pay to handle this type of thing do her job, before somebody finds your ass dead from exhaustion.”

“Work now, rest when you’re dead,” Marcus shot back. “I gotta keep this joint popping, man. You don’t want me to look like I’m slipping with my club, do you?”

“Your club?” Shooter squinted. “Li’l nigga, need I remind you whose name is on that marquee?”

“Nah, Shooter, I ain’t mean it like that,” Marcus said.

“Then say it how you mean it, dammit.” Shooter slapped his cane against the table. “Just because I let your li’l ass help me out round here don’t make it yours. I’ll kick you and the funky piece of money you put up on the damn streets. Can ya dig it?”

“This is your club, baby, you got it,” Marcus said, trying to hold back the laughter.

Shooter was usually a sweet old dude but could be as mean as a rattlesnake. Years ago when Marcus was trying to come up on the fast track, Shooter had become somewhat of a mentor to him. He watched Marcus go from a petty thief to a businessman, and was proud to say he had a hand in it. Shooter had been the one who’d taught Marcus the importance of stacking his bread.

Shooter had owned the spot for a number of years, but when he first opened it was just a bar. He had some good years with it, but as the neighborhood changed, so did the people. The bikers from Hell’s Kitchen had started coming down and causing all kinds of conflict in the black establishment. This was where Marcus came in. At the time he was still on the grind, so Scooter enlisted him and some of his boys to do security at the bar. During the next conflict, two people were placed in the hospital and one was never heard from again. Word soon got around that Shooter wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with.