The black Model-T sat in on the side of the road in the small town in Eastern California, looking sleek and out-of-place compared to the farming trucks and tractors driving across the town. Prae sat in the driver's seat, looking down at the snub-nosed .38 revolver in his hand. A towel was laying in the passenger's seat, ready for him if he needed to clean.

The small restaurant was nestled between two small Mom-and-Pop operations, with a gas station on the corner. It was early afternoon, and the work crowd had yet to arrive for dinner, not that it was food that they came for. Prae stepped out of the car, quietly tucking the revolver in his coat pocket, and walked inside.

A beautiful bombshell of a waitress stood at the counter, ready to greet guests as they arrived. She saw Prae, and gave him a smile.

Here to see Ricky? She asked. There was a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Prae nodded, but said nothing. The waitress led him into the kitchen, down a hallway, and into a lavishly-decorated office with a door to the alleyway. There were no windows.

The keg-bellied restaurant owner was on the telephone. When he saw the waitress, he hushed her angrily, focusing on an account list in front of him. His mustache quivered with every word as he yelled and cursed into the telephone.

God dammit, Bill, you were my accountant! You were making enough money, why did you have to fuck me like this? What do you think the LA guys will... His eyes found Prae's, and he paled. Shit. I'll call you back.

Accountant trouble, Rick? Prae asked, his finger sliding along the revolver's cylinder absently. He hoped that Ricky noticed the movement, and guessed what it meant.

Yeah, the asshole ran off with a sack of money, I can't even afford to make my overhead this month. Ricky's voice quivered with every word, beads of cold sweat starting to drip down his shiny forehead.

Prae sighed. I don't like it when my associates don't pay me. It's the fast track to my bad side.

Your bad side? You've always seemed friendly to me, sir. The man was stalling, trying to come up with an answer. Prae gave him one, drawing his revolver and, in one smooth motion, planting a bullet through the speaker on the telephone. The waitress screamed; the telephone clattered to the floor with a clang.

Everyone has a bad side, Rick. Prae said, his voice dripping with menace. But I'm willing to make a deal with you.

A deal? Ricky asked. He knew someone would end up dead over it, and just hoped he wouldn't have to pull the trigger. What kind of deal?

All the...stock you have. I'm planning on hosting a party soon and, well...you know how expensive a dram can be, don't you? Give me every bottle and barrel in your warehouse, and I'll cover your debt. But not a second sooner. Deal?

The man took in a big sigh of relief, knowing the immediate danger was over. I don't have a truck big enough, sir. But I'd be willing to cater your party, to make up the difference.

Done. See, that wasn't so hard, was it?