Hunter’s “Oh, shit” radar starts blipping. He flashes to his father and how he was good at talking a bad situation into a good situation—had that gift of gab when shit wasn’t going so well. Hunter says, “Ms. Malone, I can see you’re dealing with a real shit sandwich, Itch skipping out and shorting you. And ol’ Oscar back there don’t seem to know his numbers too good—been fiddling with three grand like maybe it’s a foreign language he can’t comprehend. I can count it out for you, right here or wherever, have your guys watch. Regardless, I get it. The stress. Why I quit my job. Tired of dealing with less talented fucks.”

“And what was this that you did for a living?”

“Repaired and built and rebuilt motorcycles. Choppers. Harleys. You name it, I can fix or refabricate it. My boss was a total dickweed. And average with bikes. He just happened to be the guy with the reach, the connections, and the capital.”

“Well, this is my business,” Malone replied. “And when product goes out, cash must come back in. Got a daughter’s college tuition to pony up for. Employees to pay. Hell, ol’ Itch here must think I’m running a rental service, in which payments can be deferred. He just give us an envelope of cash like he always has, thinks things is all good, and cuts out. Turns out, he shorted me. Never done that before. Always been a square dude.”

“I am a square dude,” Itch says, and Hunter cuts in.

“He is a square dude. I think he got in a bit over his shoulders. Got a lady with a bad burn for primo bud on the home front, and she’s a strong-minded woman like yourself.”

“Mr. Hunter, I have two girls. One in high school, one in college. Both from the same weasel of a man that’s buried over on that hillside, right under a rosebush. Thing is, I’m thirty-seven years young, and I don’t put up with any malcontents. Man works for me, I give him product, he sells the product, returns what he earned in order to get compensated. And I give enough freebies of my product to those I employ to not be shorted.”

Hunter searches for something to latch on to. Sometimes flattery helps. “You don’t look like you’re a day over thirty.”