Bryant sat in the van in a
dark corner at the back of the lot while Crispin paced by the rear entrance to
the restaurant, waiting for it to close. They’d watched the place for the last
two nights and knew the habits of the waiter they were after, the one who had
given them such awful service and then had stood there with a scowl on his face
while Bryant had pointedly paid the bill, in cash, and not given him a tip. It
wasn’t the first time they’d dealt with the man and his dreadful attitude, but
it was going to be the last.
The only reason Crispin
wasn’t in the van with him was because Bryant hadn’t been able to take any more
of his brother’s angst. So he had suggested he wait by the door for the waiter
and then lure him back to the van.
At one point earlier in the
evening he’d been ready to abort tonight’s game but his father had refused to
allow him to do that.
“Crispin needs it,” Gerard
had said. “His tension level is through the roof, and much sooner that normal.
The game should help alleviate some if not most of it. If it doesn’t,” he’d
paused, taking another sip of wine. “If it doesn’t then we do something about
that boy. Something fatal that looks like an accident. That way, after Crispin
has grieved, which he will do, he’ll return to being the brother and son we
both know and love.”
“He’d better,” Bryant had
growled while agreeing with his father. “I don’t want to end up in jail or
worse because he can’t concentrate on what we’re doing.”
“I’m not afraid that he’ll
loose his concentration while the game is being played out, he needs it; it’s
in his blood just as it’s in yours. Between times however…” Gerard had shaken
his head. “If he looses his control and says or does something---that is
what worries me most. Especially if he does, somehow, get the boy back in his
life. Because then he’ll find it difficult if not impossible to keep our
secret.”
“So we get rid of Mr
Tyler before that can happen.”
Gerard had nodded slowly in
agreement.
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