The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

The bartender’s head was eggplant shaped, broad at the jaw but smaller and shining around his crown. It rotated slightly as he shifted his smallish eyes toward us, his bulk remaining aligned with the mounted TV.

“My associate and I could use a cold drink on this hot day. A pair of scotch on the rocks, if you will.” Arnaud scanned the top shelf of liquor bottles before stopping and pointing at a dusty bottle with a red label. “That one will do. And make them doubles, my good friend.”

The bartender screwed up his eyes as though trying to decide whether Arnaud was toying with him. When the vampire set a pair of fifty-dollar bills on the scratched bar, the bartender must have decided he didn’t care. Heaving himself from his languid lean, he plodded over to the bottle Arnaud had indicated and began pouring our drinks.

“Not the quickest study,” Arnaud said to me as he climbed onto a stool, not bothering to lower his voice. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You said ten minutes,” I reminded him as I took the neighboring stool.

“Let’s see…” Arnaud checked his slender wristwatch. “Yes, perfect timing.”

As the bartender set our drinks in front of us, Arnaud pushed one of the fifties forward. “This will cover our beverages as well as a generous gratuity—despite that you only poured one shot apiece and then attempted to disguise the deception with common tap water.”

The bartender’s face clenched. “You calling me a cheat?”

“This…” Arnaud tapped the second fifty, ignoring the bartender’s show of aggression. “…will be for additional services provided.”

The bartender’s gaze fell to the bill. “What services?” he asked suspiciously.

Arnaud broke into sudden laughter. “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that, my strapping friend. No, we would just like to procure your television for a short while.”

The bartender’s head twisted to look up at the TV. On the screen, an outfielder fielded a fly ball. When the bartender turned back to us, his brow was a bed of confusion lines. He scratched his stubbly chin.

“He’d like to change the channel,” I said, acting as translator.

“The Mets are playing,” the bartender said, as if that settled the question.

“And playing delightedly, I have little doubt.” Arnaud checked his watch again. “However, we are interested in something for which time is of the utmost essence. And what we’re offering in exchange is more than sufficient compensation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Can’t do it,” he said. “Those guys at the end of the bar? The only reason they come here is for the games. They’d kill me.”

The smile on Arnaud’s face stiffened, and before I could anticipate his next words, he seized the bartender’s throat. “I assume you’re speaking figuratively in regards to your friends,” he said in a fierce whisper. “I, however, am not, so I advise you to listen carefully.”

The bartender gargled, his bald head already turning red.

“You are going to accept our payment,” Arnaud said, “and you are going to change the channel, or I will crush your windpipe and end your pathetic life right here. Do you understand?”

“Hey, c’mon,” I whispered, unlocking the sword inside my cane, ready to step to the man’s defense.

The bartender pawed toward Arnaud’s face, but a crunch of cartilage made him reconsider. He nodded desperately, his bulging eyes beginning to weep. In Arnaud’s eyes, I saw a hunger to kill. But in the next moment, his hand popped open, dropping the bartender on the bar.

“Jesus,” I breathed, notching my sword again. I peeked at the patrons. Their gazes hadn’t moved from the television.

“There, there, my friend,” Arnaud said, patting the bartender’s heaving back. “Take a moment to collect yourself—a glass of water, if you need it—then kindly change the channel to four. Oh, and the shotgun you’re reaching for is no longer beneath the bar. I removed it earlier in the event negotiations failed. I’m pleased we were able to arrive at a mutual understanding.”

Arnaud slid the other fifty forward. The bartender stopped groping under the bar. He pulled a dish towel from his sagging pants to wipe his face, eyeing the fifty as though it might bite him.

“Go on,” Arnaud said, “you’ve earned it.”

The bartender took the bill and shoved it into a pocket. Protests rose from the barflies as he reached up and changed the channel. The ballgame flipped to a young woman making an impassioned plea to a grim-faced man over the custody of their child.

“A soap opera?” I said.

Arnaud held up a finger. “A moment.”

Seconds later, the soap opera switched to a feed of Mayor Budge Lowder standing in front of a podium stacked with microphones.

“We interrupt this program for a special news conference,” an off-camera news anchor said. “The mayor is set to announce what he is calling a ‘brave, new initiative’ that could mean sweeping changes for the city of New York. We go live now to City Hall.”

As Budge wiped a cowlick of hair from his pudgy face and adjusted his round glasses, my thoughts cast back to the showdown at his mansion. Vega and I battling the mayor’s wife and her werewolf brethren; Budge shooting me; me shooting his wife; Vega negotiating our release by blackmailing Budge and Penny with information we discovered during our investigation.

As it turned out, we hadn’t had to worry about Penny. The shot that had ruptured her aorta had plunged her into a coma, where she still remained. All summer long, Budge had been keeping the public abreast of her condition. It seemed to have had an effect, stalling his falling poll numbers despite the multitude of problems besieging his crumbling metropolis.

I guessed sympathy still held sway.

“How’s everyone doing?” Budge asked from the podium. “Good, good. As always, I’ll start with an update on my beloved wife, after whom so many of you have been asking and offering your well wishes. At last count, we’ve been sent enough plants and flowers to turn Central Park into a profitable nursery.” He chuckled with the crowd of reporters, then paused