Gabe wasn’t allowed to wear jeans though. Xero had drawn the line at that. He insisted Gabe be well dressed for meetings, even if the clientele weren’t. So he was forced into a pair of stone coloured slacks and a button down shirt. Gabe had strangled himself into a tie, but he wore it loosely, open at the neck. Catching himself in the mirror, he thought it made him look dangerous in the same way Xero did; a tiger with sheathed claws. His criss-cross face was at war with the preppy, tennis club outfit, but did nothing to hide his true nature.

He conducted the meetings alone. The clientele he met with weren’t the kind to employ their own bodyguards. They were thugs, bar owners, club marquises, backyard lordlings, and Gabe was expected to handle himself.

Gabe also had his own reputation preceding him. His face was clearly marked and he was enough of a regular at the cages that he had gained a twisted kind of fan club. People liked someone who won ninety percent of the time, since it made good betting. So his violent, alternate personality crept ahead of him when he held a meeting. That, along with Mr. Xero’s brand emblazoned on his head, ensured respect before he had to earn it.

Though he was happy to earn it. And earn it he did.

He was good at this.

Skills he’d developed from his bootlegging days snapped back quickly, like elastic. People rarely out-talked him when he was on a roll and he knew instantly when he was being given the runaround. This wasn’t like bargaining for merchandise however, he was bargaining for favours.

The people who he was sent to deal with were always asking favours. Money, time, a word said in the right ear, a way out of a bad decision. But humans were dishonest by nature. They looked at Gabe’s youth and face and forgot he had been hired by the Spider for a reason. They thought his easy grin and quips made him feeble minded. When this happened, Gabe was quick to point out their mistake.

“Mr. Reynolds, I love your place.” Gabe said, grinning happily and raising the free beer that had been pushed into his hand, but not drinking yet.

Reynolds was a wiry old sort, white hair too long and frizzy, brushed carelessly over his shoulders. He wore a stained vest and his face was a weathered rug over his skull. He looked like the kind of man to whom petty cruelty came easy.

“So glad you like it, young man.” He replied, smiling falsely with nicotine stained teeth. Gabe could even see the fine hairline cracks in them.

Gabe sat back, imitating a pose he’d seen Xero use many times; one leg crossed over the other and hands laid to rest in his lap. “How can Mr. Xero help you today, sir?”

Reynolds didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a deep draft of his own beer, from the bottle. Gabe suspected it wasn’t his first, or even his second.

“I hear you’re a fighter.” He said, looking at him critically.

“Oh dear, I thought it was obvious.” Gabe said, quirking an eyebrow which made his scar stretch tight.

Reynolds nodded and took another swig. After smacking his lips loudly. “I also hear you’re a faggot.”

Gabe clucked his tongue. “Now that’s a nasty word, Mr. Reynolds. Consider this a warning.”

Reynolds eyes darted to the left, where two younger versions of himself were sitting. Gabe caught the look and was quick to say, “Come on, Mr. Reynolds, I don’t want this to end in fists. Well, a good fight is always worth the time, but really, I’m here on business.” He grinned again.

Reynolds’ thin veneer of politeness was gone now, revealing the caustic, sour man he really was. “I don’t deal with perverts.”

“It is fortunate for you, that I do, then.” Gabe replied, then winked. “Though you’re really not my type.”

Standing abruptly, Reynolds made a clumsy attempt at swinging the bottle he was holding at Gabe’s head. Catching it easily, Gabe’s other hand smacked Reynolds’ head down on the sticky table between them, then pressed the heel of the bottle down over his temple. The other two men had stood up quickly at this but Gabe raised an admonishing finger.

“Uh-uh boys, the adults are having a conversation.” He said sternly, then leaned down to Reynolds’ ear. “Now, are we going to conduct business, or do you really want me to walk away from here and tell Mr. Xero to put you on his naughty list?”

Reynolds was breathing a high pitched whistle through his nose, then a hand came up and waved his sons down. Gabe lifted the bottle off his face and put it down carefully before reseating himself. Reynolds rubbed at the indentation on his face, his eyes now glittering with resentment and caution.

Gabe looked ostentatiously at his watch. “I have a spa appointment with my faggoty friends in twenty minutes, so can you stow your pride and get on with it?” he said frankly. “If you’re lucky, I won’t tell my boss that you laced my beer.”

Reynolds eyes widened then. The shoe had finally dropped.

Gabe grinned.