Chapter 5 - The Strategy of the Employment
The Redbird Diner was cold on Friday afternoon when Sadie walked out through the back door, her final paycheck clutched in her pocket along with a small paper bag containing three stale biscuits from the warming tray.
The rain had returned, a soft, freezing drizzle that turned the grease on the kitchen entrance steps into a slippery slide of grey mud. She didn't look back at the building; she had spent four years washing its tiles, and the only thing she would miss was the radio that played the country songs between two and four in the morning.
A black SUV was idling near the dumpster, its exhaust rising in a thick, white cloud against the wet brick wall.
The passenger door swung open.
Gabriel Finch sat behind the wheel, his dark wool coat unbuttoned, his face carrying that hard, unblinking stillness that usually made men on the North Side turn their cars around.
“Get in, Sadie,” he said, not looking at her. “The boy’s at his aunt’s house until five. You’re going to be late for the bus.”
Sadie walked over to the door, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her oversized flannel shirt. She didn't get in. She leaned her shoulder against the frame, her hazel eyes dark with a sudden, dangerous fury that made the drizzle look warm by comparison.
“You did this,” she hissed, her voice cracking from the cold. “Old man Miller told me the corporate board bought the building on Wednesday. You threw me out over a thousand-dollar tip I didn't even take?”
“I threw you out because you’re a terrible waitress, Sadie,” Gabriel said, his voice a low, gravelly hum as he turned his head to look at her. “And because my daughter needs a woman in the house who doesn't look at her like she’s a ghost. The job pays six thousand a month. Clear cash. You live in the cottage behind the garage. The boy goes to the parish school on Tenth Street. I’ve already paid the tuition for the year.”
Sadie let out a short, bitter laugh that turned into a puff of white steam in the freezing air. “You think you can buy a mother, Mr. Finch? You think because you have a ledger and a gun, you can just reassign people like furniture?”
“I’m not buying a mother, Sadie,” Gabriel said, his green eyes locking onto hers with a quiet, unyielding intensity that stopped the breath in her throat. “I’m buying an insurance policy. The doctors told me Chloe’s heart has an irregular rhythm from the shock. If she stops breathing again while I’m downtown dealing with the North Side kids, I want the woman who can pick a lock with a butter knife sitting sixty feet away. Get in the car, or I’ll have Rocco buy your aunt’s house by four o'clock.”
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Sadie stared at him for five seconds, her fingers wrapping around the three stale biscuits in her pocket until the grease soaked through the paper. She looked at the wet street, the gray sky, and the absolute certainty of the man in the leather seat.
She stepped into the SUV, the heavy door closing with a dull, final click that sounded like the beginning of a long, cold winter.
