"Explain, Visconti."
"Aw, come on, now," Ace doesn't look away from the gentleman behind the bar, watching him fetch for the bottle of cognac that has been passed around and poured into the glass of many a patrons his evening. With the way the boy holds the bottle, it seems light - Ace wouldn't be surprised if it's near empty. A shame. "Picking fights in the middle of the night isn't very nice of you, Harv."
Harvey MacAllan leans in close, his cigar laden breath rolling over Ace's neck like the billow of mist on a dreary spring day. Still, Ace doesn't betray his posture - he keeps the grin of the night on his face when he tips a nod to the bartender, pulling his third glass of the rum and coke towards him. The boy looks, nervous, and shuffles to the other end of the bar. Smart kid. Can't be much older than twenty three, but he knows when to dip from bad looking customers.
Ace takes a long sip. It tastes like a forgotten night on Bourbon Street. The decor might be less than divine, and the company even worse; but there's more than enough words to go around with the way it burns his throat. Harvey MacAllan doesn't move.
"I'm done playing nice with you, Visconti," Harvey MacAllan threatens again, this time pounding a fist on the wood of the bar. Oh, he means business now. "Three weeks you've been blowin' off Jacob, and Pierce, and now me - you either gonna explain what your deal is, or there's gonna be more than words."
"More than words?" Ace looks at the way his glass glimmers in the light of Miami's lesser bars. "Whatever else could there be to say that can't be settled like gentlemen, Harv?"
"Call me that again and you'll be pickin' your teeth outta your shit."
"You're laying the threats on a little thick, you know. There won't be much of me left if I'm to be chopped up to itty bitty Ace pieces."
Ace finally looks at Harvey MacAllan - the man is quite tall, and the way he lumbers over Ace in the mosquito buzzed light makes him look worse than he smells. The cigars are strong, and so is the alcohol, but Ace can hear every steady syllable in his debt collector's words, and that's what makes it exciting.
What kind of gun did he get into the place with? If there was a couple less people to his left that might get hit with the wrong kind of collateral, Ace might test the threat a little more. Gamble the odds, up the ante.
"How about this," Ace marks his words by gathering up the glass and pressing it to Harvey MacAllan's burly chest, stuffed into a dress shirt that doesn't want to be on his thick body. "You give me another week and a half-"
Harvey MacAllan puts his hand on Ace's throat. There are five men around them, and there are five men who grab his would-be assailant and pull him back and off the smooth talking timebomb of a man. Ace's smirk (a part of him that never leaves, just like rings, wallets and cards) flashes that broken canine.
"-and I leave you with what I've got tonight. Plus your Uber home. I assume Jacob's pinching pennies on gas, right?" Ace pats Harvey MacAllan's shoulder. "I don't blame him, five dollars for a gallon? But, come on, it's your best pal."
The men settle Harvey MacAllan back against a bar stool. Ace has been creating space between them with every breath, stepping back like a snake in the limelight. The fury on Harvey MacAllan's face is indescribable. Luckily for Ace, he gets that a lot.
Ace slides his wallet down the length of the bar.
"Keep it. Just a spare of mine."
He turns, and with the last of his bills, drops a handful of paper and coin in from of the nervous bartender with - everyone's guessed it - a smirk.
In about an hour, a young woman will realize she doesn't have her wallet. In less than five minutes, Ace Visconti will be driving back to Orlando in the back of a taxi.