“Gentlemen, please sit.”

There was the traditional shaking of the hands as three people sat down in a café. A waiter walked up to them to offer them drinks.

“A Rhum and Coke for me.”

“A glass of whiskey.”

“Coffee, three milk, two sugars. Plate of toast as well, white bread with butter.”

The waiter scribbled their orders then walked off. The other two men looked at the man who had ordered the toast.

“I skipped breakfast for this meeting, let a man eat.”

Shortly after, the waiter came back with the drinks and the plate of buttered toast.

“So why did you call us out here? I’m a busy man.” The man with the whiskey asked in a thick New Yorker accent.

“My thoughts exactly.” The man with coffee added after taking a bite of toast. He had a thick Italian accent, a typical mobster. “The boss won’t be too happy if he sees this meeting was for not. Don’t screw with us, pal.”

The man raised his hands, palms outstretched with a smile on his face. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please have some trust in me. I wouldn’t call you two down here unless I had something to offer. I know your bosses are busy people and trust me, I rather stay alive.”

The two mobsters looked at each, nodded then back at the man. “Alright, we’ll listen to your… offer. If we don’t enjoy it, a bullet is going right between your eyes. You got that?” the New Yorker explained.

The man nodded, ignoring the sweat sliding down the back of his neck. He listened forward, lowering his voice so nobody in the café would hear.

“Listen, one of my guys got captured trying to infiltrate a Mexican drug cartel. We were fed intel that we’d have a clear pathway into the cartel, he was caught almost immediately. He’s my better field operative, and I need him back. I know your boss has ties to a high ranking member of that cartel, I just want him to pull some strings so my man can walk back, alive.”

The mobsters laughed and Italian mobster spoke up.

“It’s funny, seeing a cop coming to us for help. You planning on going dirty, amico?”

“If it means getting my man back, yes.”

“So what’s in it for us pal?”

The man took the briefcase that was beside him and slid it across the table. The New Yorker opened the briefcase and both mobsters peered inside. One of them gave off a low whistle. The New Yorker closed the briefcase.

“That’s a lot of money pal. Ya must be pretty desperate to get your man back.”

“I’m not letting him die. Along with the money, you’ll be given immunity as long as I’m in charge.” The man said.

The mobsters looked at each other once again and nodded. The Italian extended his hand and shook the man’s hand.

“Very well. The boss will take you up on your offer. He’ll talk to his contact. Your man will be delivered to you.”

The three men finished their drinks and shook hands once again. They all paid their individual tabs and exited the café. Shots fired on the outside, followed by the screeching of tires as a car sped away. Once officers arrived at the scene, a single man slumped against the wall, blood streaks on the wall. His body was riddled with bullets.