[LOBO]
eremy opened the limo door for the gentlemen, exactly as his uncle taught him.“Above all else,” his uncle reminded gently eons ago. “Never ever ever speak unless asked to.”
And Jeremy was fine with that.
-He didn’t much like talking anyway.
One might imagine this to be good advice particularly when driving for Caesar the Rat; Caesar, an unprecedented eight litters old, had grown to such immense girth the entire vehicle tilted as he entered. You couldn’t miss the groaning sounds from the vehicle's suspension, but none in his presence ever spoke of it.
Two more rats flanked Caesar on either side: one administrative-looking and adroit, the other a thug or bodyguard.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” the administrative rat called. The steam from his breath blew through his manicured, gloved paws.
“No thank you,” she called, rapidly diminishing in the distance.
Jeremy noticed her bare prints in the snow led from the side door of The House a Go Go –“The House” as it is known. Diminutive in size in stature, Sugar Plum must have quietly slipped by him unobserved.
The bodyguard had a cellphone glued to his ear, removing it only briefly to duck inside the vehicle.
Having closed the door, Jeremy walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Warm.
Still shivering, Jeremy watched in the mirror and politely waited for instructions.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” said Caesar. He had uncharacteristically taken the seat directly behind Jeremy, and they were almost back-to-back. Jeremy could see Caesar’s labored breathing in his shoulders as he spoke, and the big cigar swiveled alternately behind his silhouette.
“Well, I told her Boss,” stammered the administrative rat. “Three times the pay than bartending. Ten times the tips. She wouldn’t have none of it.”
“She quit?”
“Claimed she was insulted.”
Caesar heaved a sigh. Plucking the cigar from his face, he used it to point at the administrative rat. “Ain’t she a gaddamm titmouse?”
“Third generation!” the administrative rat protested.
The bodyguard flipped his phone shut. “I got nothing boss. Tryin to get dancers in here Christmas Eve is gonna be tough.”
Caesars ears flicked, and in the rearview mirror Jeremy could clearly see the big awful scars in them. The left was by far the worse of the two: Caesar had nearly lost it in a youthful scuffle.
“You can’t run no topless joint without no goyls,” Caesar repeated.
“Did Sugar Plum quit?” asked the bodyguard, watching the barefooted figure vanishing in the cold darkness.
“Yes,” replied the administrative rat.
“I thought she might,” said the bodyguard. "That’s too bad. She mixed a mean Bloody Mary.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no booze,” Caesar underlined, agreeing.
Almost on cue, the last three customers of The House staggered out, mumbling angrily amongst themselves. A waiter, clearly pleading, followed them out.
“Gentlemen,” he whined. “Please come again!”
Caesar alternated the cigar between the two lackeys in the back seat with him. “Either of you worthless fucks know how to stir boozes?”
Both cringed in silence.
Caesar growled, and jammed the cigar back in his mouth.
The waiter from the restaurant approached the car, and the bodyguard eyed him carefully as Caesar cracked open his window.
“That was the last of them sir,” said the waiter. “And as of now, we don’t have any support staff tonight.”
“You can’t run no topless joint without no one stirring no gaddamm boozes!” Caesar thundered.
“But Caesar,” the waiter protested calmly. “It’s the night before Christmas, and all through The House not a creature is stirring.” He gestured to the footprints. “Not even a mouse.”
In Jeremy's side mirror, Caesar's cigar broke the plane of the open window.
“Don’t get lippy with me, punk.”
