The Lucky Doberman

Chapter 11: Count

We made it back to the first building and went to the elevator like usual.
I noticed he doesn't greet his employees which I find odd but I guess it goes back to the whole 'hating to talk' thing.

We stepped inside the elevator once it opened and went to the top floor.

It was just a wide open office.
Painted in black walls. Only lit by a lamp giving off a sunrise orange beam.

"Do you not like lights?" I asked in a soft tone in hopes he wouldn't think I was mocking him.
"Photophobia."
"I see." He's afraid of pictures?

He had two couches in front and behind a coffee table that sits in between them.
He handed me the bag then sat in one and I sat in another across from him.

I dumped the contents out onto the couch.

I watched him reach for the beautifully crafted glass bottle of whiskey that sat on the glass coffee table. He took the small glass next to it as well and began pouring.

It was only noon.

I watched him go into his suit jacket, as I picked up one of the wads of cash, and he took out a carton of cigarettes then placed it on the table.
"You don't have to stop smoking because of me. I'm okay, I promise," I assured him.
"No," he replied.

He's kind in an 'immovable demand' kind of way.

I began counting all of the stacks of banded cash.

One
Two
Three
Four

"Can I ask what part of Italy your family is from?" I asked.

Five
Six
Seven

"Sicily," he replied.
"Oh, that's nice. Mine is from Tuscany."
He looked at me.
"I know it doesn't look like it," I giggled. "But I'm half Italian. On my dad's side." I explained.
He sipped his drink.
"He was raised in New York and grew up around a lot of Sicilians."

Fifteen.
Fifteen stacks of cash.

I began flipping through each quickly just to make sure they were all hundreds.

"Mr. De Luca," I called and paused to look at him.
He looked at me again. I always assume that's his way of telling me to continue with what I'm about to say.
"Why do you tell me to tell you if anyone bothers me?" I questioned. I began flipping through again. The paper was soft.
"Because I got a lot of assholes workin' for me." he said and finished his glass before placing it onto the table.
"Oh..."

I thought of something else but didn't know if he was tired of me speaking to him or not.

I looked at him to try and read his body language.

He sat with his head turned to the side while looking at his phone and man spreading with both arms relaxed on the back of his couch.

"Ask," he stated with his eyes still on the screen.
"Why are you so violent?"
"I just said I got assholes workin' for me. And the kinds of assholes that work for me are too dumb or too selfish to understand that they did somethin' wrong just by the use of words."
I looked back at the money. "But...violence isn't always the answer. Couldn't you make it simpler for them to understand that what they did was wrong or unhelpful?"
"I don't believe in that 'violence isn't the answer' bullshit. A lot of times violence is the only answer, 'cause anything else ain't in their vocabulary."
I didn't respond.

"If a man starts pulling at your underwear without your permission you gonna tell him to stop because that's illegal?"
I looked at him.
"He ain't gonna. He knew it was illegal when he got the idea. Won't stop until you put a bullet in his eye."
"The man that you burned and choked today..."
"Gets off on yelling and threatening women. You got a soft voice, any asshole with ears knows you're a woman. You think you the only woman he's done that to? Just today?"
I didn't reply.
"He's alive, ain't he?" he asked me.
"Yea..."
"Focus on that."

Each bill was a hundred. I began counting how many were in each stack.

One
Two
Three

"You know how to shoot a gun?" I heard him ask me.
"Yes, sir."
"Stop callin' me sir."
"But..."
"You make me feel fifty years old."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied.
He didn't answer. Just kept looking at his phone.

Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen

"Um...How old are you?" I asked curiously.
"Why?"
"I just...I don't know...you said I make you feel fifty and I realized I didn't know your actual age..." I explained.
"How old do you think I am?"
"Well," I stopped counting.

"Your face itself doesn't look very old. Your eyes look older than the rest of you. I think that means you've seen a lot of things or you're just really tired. Maybe both. You have a nice head of hair. Your hairline isn't receding. Your voice sounds like an older man's but I might just chock that up to the smoking habit. You own a business but you're not grey enough to have had it for a very long time. If I put all of that together, I'd say you're...35."
"32."
"Damnit." I sighed.

"You look older," I stated.
"Thank you."
"Most people don't say thank you after that." I snickered.
"I don't want to look younger. If you look younger no one takes you seriously. I don't care if they find me good looking with a youthful face, I want respect."
"Hm..." it made sense but I'd never heard it before.

"Well I didn't say you weren't good looking," I added. "Just that you don't look your age. You're very handsome nonetheless." I looked back at the money and immediately regretted that sentence. Maybe that was too straightforward to tell my boss.

Twenty three
Twenty four
Twenty five.

"How old are you?" he asked and ignored my previous statement.
"23."
"Look at me," he commanded.

I did.

He really is handsome.
Devilishly.
Like he was drawn to Italian male model beauty standards.
Tall. Chiseled jawline. Full pink lips. Perfectly sculpted eyes. Even his eyebrows were perfect. As if he gets them plucked once a month.
It was an intense attractiveness. Like you're not allowed to look him in his eyes for too long.

"You look it," he stated.
"I look 23?"
"Mhm."
"Oh. Well that's nice."
"You a pushover?" he asked.
"I don't think so, why?"
"You got a soft voice and a pretty face. People usually think that means they can scare or manipulate you into doin' what they want."

He called me pretty.

"Oh..." I had to pretend like that information didn't go in one ear and out the other.

"Mr. De Luca..." I called.
"Hm?"
"Is what you do dangerous?" I asked.
We looked at each other again.
"I'm not answerin' that question," he said and looked back at his phone.
"I feel like, in a way, that answers the question..." I snickered.
He said nothing.

Fifteen stacks.
Twenty five bills in each stack.
Each bill a hundred dollars.

I did the math.

"I finished. It's 37,500." I stated.
He looked at me.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Where'd you learn to do that?"
"School?"
"Not the equation, asshole. The way you do it in your head fast."
"Oh, I don't know. I've always been pretty decent at math. I don't know how. Just happened," I answered as I stuffed the money back in the bag.
"Most people suck at math."
"Guess I got lucky." I joked.
"Yea...guess so."